Knitting History

One of the reasons I no longer (well, rarely) walk around with headphones in is because I like to be open to interact with the people around me. [If I have my headphones in, it is likely because (a) I’m listening to a really good program on cbc radio or (b) I don’t want to talk to anyone so leave me alone.]

Last Thursday was one of those days when I was glad I had the headphones out. I’ve been knitting regularly for about 8 months – my Oma tried to show me how to knit when I was eight or nine but it didn’t stick. I actually gave up after about two inches of a scarf for my teddy bear. I re-learnt 17 years later when a long Pacific crossing from Japan to Hawaii forced me to learn a hobby or go crazy from boredom and cabin fever.

All of that is to say that knitting doesn’t seem unusual to me. I knit. A number of my friends knit. Sometimes we all get together and knit together. However, sometimes I discover that I am more unusual than I had thought.

Last Thursday I was sitting, and knitting, at Swartz Bay, waiting to board the 11am to Tsawwassen when an elderly gentleman sat down next to me. With a thick European accent he commented on my knitting. He was so happy to see me knitting, he said, leaning towards me with joy in his face.

It has been a long time since I have seen a young woman knitting.

I immediately thought back to Oma and her generation. So many of them knit and made clothes for their entire families. It must have been a common practice. I could see the elderly gentleman being transported back in time to his youth at this memory.

He then asked me when I had learnt. I explained that I had only seriously been knitting for less than a year, but that my Oma had first taught me when I was a child. At the mention of “Oma” he perked up once again.

Oma… you are from where? My family is from The Netherlands, near The Hague. Ah, Holland. I am from North Friesland, near the Danish border.

With that, he launched into a story of his activity during the Second World War. It was an interesting conversation: part recollections, part justifications, and part desire to pass on his story to another generation. He told me of sailing through the North Sea, watching out for Allied ships. He told of occupying the Netherlands but bringing food to the young families starving in the villages he and the army (he never actually said it was the German army) occupied. He spoke of his fear of being shot at by resistance groups and later Allied forces as they liberated the countryside… he didn’t like the word “liberated” as he felt he and his companions had looked after the villages in their charge. As he told his story, I continued to knit.

This exchange was perhaps the first I’ve had with a soldier who was on “the other side” during the war. It could have been the young family of my Oma, Opa, Aunt, and Uncle that he was bringing food to while he occupied their village, though I know it wasn’t. This gentleman, probably in his 80’s, shared with me, a complete stranger, some of his challenges during a troubling time. It was like he wanted me to know that those we so often think of as the enemy are not evil: there is humanity on both sides of every conflict.

Then the gates opened and the masses surged onto the ferry. I didn’t see him again but am thankful for the conversation that knitting opened up – to hear a part of his history and his story.

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Home Sweet Home

I’ve made it back to Victoria and it took a record 6 hours.  I probably could have flown across the country in that time period.  

I got to the ferry in Vancouver with time to spare for the 1200 sailing.  However the ferry for said sailing was not there, was not there, was not there.  Finally, I went to find out what was going on just as they made an announcement that our ferry was arriving in the next five minutes.  I turned just in time to see it leaving Berth 1 and maneuvering over to Berth 5, narrowly missing an incoming ferry…  Good start.

Once on board, they made an announcement about high winds preventing them from getting there in time blah blah blah.  I went and talked to the Chief Steward and found out the real reason was a faulty Berth 4 resulting in needing to be at Berth 1 which doesn’t have a connecting ramp and when they went to move to Berth 5, a faulty starboard engine was discovered.  Slightly dodgy.  
We arrived in Victoria nearly an hour late resulting in me missing the express bus to downtown.  Milk run it was.  I finally arrived home, two bus routes later, around 4:30pm, nearly six hours after leaving.  Go-olly.
Welcome home.