Mohair Sweaters and First Flakes
- Elizabeth Ricketson
- 1 hour ago
- 3 min read
By Elizabeth Ricketson:
An uninspired foliage season has passed. Leaves were influenced by the severe
drought that had impacted Central Vermont for several months. Browned and fragile,
easily they dropped from the trees at the mere suggestion of a breeze. The colors, while
dulled, were magical still.
A hard frost. Thirty-two degrees this Sunday morning with November gray skies
overhead. Stick season in full view. The secrets of the forest floor and its inhabitants
now exposed.
The spine of the Green Mountains is dusted white. Elevation coated in sparkles and
purity. Killington Resort making snow with a boost from Mother Nature. Preparation for
ski season is fully underway.
Logging down the street fills the cold still air with clanking and banging that feels closer
to my house than just a half-mile away. From the road it appears like the lion’s share of
trees has been removed but, in fact, a careful process is in play. So I am told. Catering
to the health of the Sugar Maples in preparation for a late winter/early spring sugaring
operation. Vermont is never idle.
The first flakes to fall always evoke an emotional response for me. I suspect it stems
from happy childhood memories: Building snow forts with my brother. Skating on our
backyard pond. Sliding down the hills of my childhood home on a metal flying saucer.
My mom pulling me on a sled in striking 50s fashions while she donned a classic red
lipstick looking more like Jackie Kennedy than an at-home mom in rural Rehoboth, MA.
She was beautiful no matter the where or what.
As I dressed for an early walk this morning, I went over to my tapestry-covered hope
chest. Cedar lined, it houses my oldest and most cherished collection of sweaters. The
tapestry a bit worn. As am I. Knicks and dings telling the story of numerous family
moves throughout New England and a transatlantic expat adventure in the late 90s.
Opening the heavy lid of my antiquated chest, I plucked out a rosy pink mohair
cardigan. The large buttons bounced against the wooden frame, clicking in protest at my
haste. Bursting with several mohair sweaters, I selected the color that suited me today.
The soft, playful fibers immediately offered a tactile comfort. Neatly they are folded,
ready to be employed during the winter season ahead.
Considered vintage now but bought new at Betsy’s in Wellesley, MA, a small boutique
long-since closed known for its carefully selected unique merchandise. The owner
once worked with a group of women knitters located in Maine offering beautiful
handknit sweaters to Betsy’s clientele. The collection of sweaters was remarkable, and
special orders were also available. What I would give to relive some of those shopping
moments. To get lost in beautiful fibers, colors, and textures. One was more special than
the other. The employees of Betsy’s became friends and wearable art a forever love.
Pink mohair. The sounds of heat rising in the early morn. Coffee more fragrant as the
day begins. The chill in the air has settled over the rolling hills for a long stay. Christmas
candy on display in local stores. Christmas movies headlining Netflix. The season has
shifted from leaves underfoot to thoughts of the holidays, measurable snow, and the
sound of plows scraping along the pavement. Hiking boots to Bogs. Down coats and
Skida hats. White exterior festive lights will soon dance and glow warmly along my
remote road as the skies darken early.
“A year in Vermont, according to an old saw, is nine months of winter
followed by three months of very poor sledding.”
— attributed to Bill Bryson (travel writer)
A graduate of Providence College with a BA in English, Elizabeth Ricketson has always had a love of literature and the fine arts. In the 1990s, she studied figure drawing at the Rhode Island School of Design, spending years dedicated to understanding human form, movement, and anatomy. Elizabeth’s essays focus on life experiences and life in Vermont. Essays available for consideration.
Website: elizabethricketson.net
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