You could listen to me reading my story here or you could read it below. Do you have a place like Mouats?
In search of socks
We found a store that has things. You know the kind of things you need, and some you don’t know what they are, and things you wish you will need one day- when you own a boat, or decide to learn how to go fishing or buy those badminton kits again like you did, when the girls were young. I say again because they would break and so you had to look to see if you could buy one racket. You couldn’t. Unless you were buying a serious, one for professional play or for an adult which they weren’t, and you would not use, and if you did decide to take up badminton, well, you wouldn’t, so it’s not a thing. But perhaps one day you will have grandchildren and you will want to get something fun to set up for when they come to visit, whether every day or once a year.
We came here to find wool socks. You know the kind. You expect them to be itchy and are relieved if they are not. These ones are rough, but soft, if you know what I mean. And while it almost wouldn’t matter how much they cost, when your feet are so cold and wet after stepping too deep in the grass as the water seeped down the landscape toward the ocean below on your sunrise photoshoot. But it was all worth it, and you wouldn’t change an instant because of the sky you got to witness from the tip of this island -on this weekend away from your life at home. $14.99. Perfect. On the way to the cashier to pay for the socks, and this bright orange covered lined notebook, which I am using to write this to you – oh, and the blank one that felt right and not thick, but fell open nicely. Perhaps I will use it for writing or to make word maps, or to practice my drawing. My way of drawing perspective in life is usually with words, spoken or written – I feel as though I “should” really work on drawing.
We passed back through the art supplies section and the same temptation. There are wooden shapes: three dimensional trees, people, eggs made of wood. When I pick up an egg, it is heavy, and very smooth with the woodgrain as its only decoration. You could paint them with intricate designs. You could write words on them about rebirth or words of Lent, that I imagine would have significance to Christians who celebrate Easter.
You could draw signs of new beginnings, of meadows with new growth and little chicks and bunnies. Or small goats just learning how to gain the hang of using their spindly, wobbly legs beneath them in the hours after birth. Only last week I watched this in a video posted by a farmer from this island. They look bewildered. Although it feels somehow inevitable, and while moving to watch this natural struggle, perhaps, comforting, since you can guess at knowing the ending, that is, if all goes to plan. Which we also know in life isn’t a given.
In clear plastic containers, each marked in black print with yellow highlighter was the special number and price. You take the brown paper bags and write the code and number of items on the bag. Just like you were buying seeds from the feed store, or bulk foods from the shop down the street where you grew up. So we write CR9X2,2.49 and 2- CR 11×2.79. I couldn’t resist- those two people figures will probably go on my mantle at Christmas – the eggs will be part of my little spring display – I can’t see myself painting them – they are just so beautiful as they are. I always get excited to imagine how to use items like this in a workshop. The possibilities are indeed endless.
As I turn around in that aisle, at eye level or maybe slightly above, is some very fun wool – it’s sock wool. It’s from Italy, although it has a Canadian flag and English written on the cuff. Since it seems, I knit socks now. I give myself permission to get excited about how very soft this feels. How the colours will ease into one another in a magical gradient, only to be fully understood, and seen when they are “knit up “. We each choose the colourway that speaks to us.
We pass, without temptation, the white mugs that say in black typewriter font: Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is gonna be OK. Bob, XO. I love that someone made this mug and others saw the potential to mass produce it in a factory. It is the kind of humour that I find funny when I read it out loud in my head , like license plate jokes, clever, but with the restriction of letters usually cryptic. Or the signs on the sides of roads, when you are forced to read the poem quickly. And the joke lands a moment later.
I have had the pleasure of choosing four wooden pieces in a bag, looked at all the beads and wire and little clasps, small tools for beading. You see when I was young, much younger than today XO John and Paul (now there’s a mug idea) I used to come to this building and just downstairs was a bead shop. We were given two quarters that’s 50 cents. You could buy two plastic white beads with roses, blue or pink, “painted “on them , those were the biggest. Or you could buy way more of the medium ones for five cents or 10 cents each or you could get a package of the tiny glass beads for all your money. These were the decisions. You already had the fishing line on which to string them. And you were reminded that we would be back next weekend.
On an unseasonably warm sunny day in February on Salt Spring Island, I left the old shop and in my reusable cotton bag my daughter gave me at Christmas were $85 socks. They came with four wooden objects, two skeins of Canadian wool originally from Italy, two notebooks and a story, warm feelings of discovery, and the novelty that I craved. Topped with a little nostalgia, and the potential for creative moments writing and perhaps drawing, pondering, with warm dry feet.
Mouats Hardware on Salt Spring Island
February 2024
By Lise-Lotte Loomer