New Age Radical

I did It.

No, not that. Of course I've done that and I have a house full of kids and a magic bottomless laundry hamper to show for it. And because of that when some one says "movement" or "sit in" my mind goes directly down the hall to the bathroom. I don't think of taking such issues to the street.

But this time, I found a whole new direction and I stood up and marched for the cause -- straight down to the boardwalk with the other women. Men were invited, of course, but none were brave enough to take part. We gathered ourselves and our spirits and right there on the beach in full view of any person passing by (and several dogs, of course) we did it.

Without reserve, we knit.

It was Worldwide Knit In Public Day!

Surely you have it marked boldly on your calendar. No? Never heard of it? Seriously.....?

Well, me neither, but as soon as I caught wind of it all I knew I had to take part. I had never been much of a radical. I had never before answered a "call", unless you count giving dirty looks to people that idle their cars needlessly outside the school. But when the Naked Sheep informed me now was the time to come out of the granny woollen closet and declare myself a secure stitcher, there was no question. I was unashamed and unabashed of this nearly lost skill, poo-pooed by modernity as a occupation of brittle blue haired types with pickles up their bums, luddites in high waisted underpants creating coarse mufflers and pointy mittens in hard milled acrylic. How many acryls had to be shorn to feed their ugly habits? I knit. Of course I knit! In cotton and wool and silk and hemp. I kept my babies and tea pots warm and cosy. I secured my future mother-in-law's approval and support with a pair of argyle gloves for my husband back in the day.

And for this day I took up not just two needles but four and knit a sock in the round in a circle of like minded knitters: independent, proud and forthright. Women who spoke their minds and who had a plan. As a paddle boarder slowly crossed the lake beyond us some one in the group was inspired. "Lets knit him a sail!" she cried.

This was not a cottage pass time were were participating in, this was a classic art renewed and redefined. This was no country bee, it was a heady be-in of wild and wooly urbanites who knew who they were and the difference between murino and alpaca and didn't care a darn (in fact they all knew how to darn!) if they were seen to know it. Right there. In public.

Fo a brief and shining moment, I was one of them.

Then my 15 year old joined me for lunch from her near by work place and kept calling me "Mummy". After that my husband totally blew my cover when he showed up with our four year old in tow and told me it was time to go because we had to get groceries.

I was busted right down to domestic dabbler. It was plain I not the able fibre artist I longed to be.

But next year..... I'll be ready. I've marked my calendar. World Wide Knit in Public Day 2010, here I come. I have just enough time to knit myself a mustache as a disguise.

Lets Go To The "EX"!

Ah! The "EX". The CNE. The Canadian National Exhibition. I love it.

The question is: why?

Its not nostalgia. Or the mid-way thrills. The shows, the Tiny Tom doughnuts, the barkers or the piglets in the petting zoo, though the appeal of those snotty sweeties is difficult to deny.

Its the same thing every year, renewed and refreshed in some way. We hug the llama, pet the yak, cuddle the piggies then on to the rides. Merry-go-round and round and round and round. The flying bees the swirling swings. The pirate ship that rocks and the submarine that loops not only above water but above ground. I like the ferris wheel. My little ones always like the Bouncy Whatever -- castle, tiger, train, slide, amoeba, peace conference. Fill it with air and chain a bored carney to each end and you've got yourself a hit with the under seven set. Were it not against the rules you could leave your kid in one all day.

I always play The Birthday Game once. I won once. Some hard packed teddy with a lecherous glare. I am sure I could fool the guy who guesses your age. No one believes I have a university aged child. Second year, actually. With my kindergartener in tow I am confident the guessers guestimate would fall far short of my real age of 46, and much closer to my mental age of seven and a half. Eleven on a good day. But I never play. I just don't have much use for a metre high Sponge Bob or some furry chapeau so garish it would be rejected by Cat in The Hat's flamboyant cousin.

When the heart is willing but the feet need a rest, the classic art of crowd watching is recommended. Ponder these ageless questions: why do people buy those enormous faux flowers painted in eye stinging colours and where are they going to put them in their homes? How is it that prim older white ladies wear matching white structured hair and white structured trousers and never have a spot on them? Is it because they have worn polyester so long it has been assimilated into their physiology? Why do men always wear sweat stained ball caps that appear to shrink their skulls? Who issues that uniform to the oversized-plus-plus female smokers so they all look alike? You know, the stretch pants, lop sided t-shirt, cigarette permanently stained with virulent purple lipstick and hair slicked and stretched back so tight into a cheerie-o sized bun or a limp skimpy pony tail that it distorts the facial features. Why do they all dress the same?

Rejuvinated and probably perplexed now, one must clear one's mind with a visit the fire station, the cows and better living centre. How else can you see a genuine Sham-Wow or Slap Chop in action? How else would you know your meagre existence could be improved with the minor addition of an everlasting nail file?

Visit the adult mid-way and observe the idiots spinning themselves free of several IQ points. See them wobble off the Zipper or the Fire Ball or the or the Grey Matter Jelly Maker and spew up everything since lunch a week last Tuesday, then amble on for another go at self destruction through unbalanced terror. S'fun. To watch.

We end the night generally ten to twelve hours after opening, knackered to the core. By the bitter end I am jogging from ferrris wheel to merry-go-round with a child affixed to my back and the hazy gaze of a long distance runner while my husband feeds me energy bites (ok, wine gums) without breaking my stride. Its painful, but it feel good. It feels traditional. It will be three days before I can walk without wincing, just as long before I can straighten up again. But even as I leave, I look forward to next year.

I love the EX. I just don't know why.