Jessi Putnam

“Fraying Red Threads”

Once I had a Winnie the Pooh Bear sweatshirt. It belonged to my Gramma. She gave it to me one summer as I was about to leave for my first overnight at camp. It was a navy blue crew neck with a rectangular picture on Pooh on the front. The picture was enormous, and on my small scrawny body it seemed to consume my entire chest. Pooh Bear was that particularly annoying type of photo appliqué that feels kind of rubbery, you know, the kind thats just a bit sticky all the time and you cant leave it in the dryer too long or it will melt. It was the kind of sweatshirt people would make fun of you for wearing at that age. It was the kind of sweatshirt that most kids would stuff in their overnight bag, leave it there, and then lie the next day and say that they wore it. But that night as I lay in my sleeping bag scared and homesick with sleep a distant possibility, that sweatshirt got me through. The cabin smelled terrible and I couldn’t seem to block out the noise or the lights or my fears. So I covered my face with Winnie the Pooh and buried myself deep into its folds. The sweatshirt smelled like lavender and mountain breeze laundry detergent…the sweatshirt smelled like my Gramma.

I kept Winnie for a while after that, but eventually a big hole grew at the elbow, and I grew too big as well. I went without a Gramma scented protection shield for some time. But my senior year of high school, the imminent threat of leaving for college was upon me, and I wanted a new Winnie for my older self. My Gramma took me to huge wooden chest in one of the spare bedrooms at her house. She opened the lid and the smell came wafting out. The lavender and mountain breeze detergent that always reminds me of her but because of allergies I could never wash my own clothes in. I peered into the chest at all the possibilities and she told me to pick one.

And there is was. I picked up the neatly folded bright red sweater and fell in love. It was a perfect fit, which is odd because I am over a foot taller then my Gramma. It was thick and baggy, falling loosely around my arms and torso. And it was soft with years of washing and wear and warm with more then fabric but also with memories. It has big metal buttons printed with snowflakes, and when you take the sweater out of the dryer you run the risk of searing your hand a bit on them. But the buttons are getting a little loose with age. They are holding on to their fraying red threads for dear life. I live in constant fear of the day I put on my sweater and a button has gone missing. But for some reason, despite the how long this sweater has been around, the extra button is still sewn to a seam along the bottom, so my fears are alleviated for the time being. According to the tag that is only hanging on by a few threads, the sweater is from a store called Northern Reflections. There are two loons embroidered on the top of the tag and the print is mostly in french. It reads “Farbique au Canada” with a small Canadian flag along side the text. Another tag lists out my sweaters washing instructions…”machine wash cool do not bleach tumble dry.” And below that is my sweaters contents…”70% cotton 25% acrylic 5% other fibre.

But none of that really matter to me, my sweater is made up of so much more. woven into its cable knits is my Gramma; the memories, love, and of course the smell. Sometimes I will just  hide my face in the sweater, absorbing its smell, its softness on my skin, and the nostalgia that rushes upon me every time I wear it. Like Pooh bear the first time I wore my red sweater did not go over very well with other kids. “Nice Gramma sweater” was the sarcastic remark of admittedly not one of my most favorite people in school. But it didn’t matter, I love that sweater. I love its sagging red fabric and fraying threads, its worn spots where years of elbows have leaned and its dangerously loose buttons. I love the smell of lavender and mountain breeze and I love wrapping it around me and feeling safe and at home. Now I fondly call it my “Gramma Sweater” and I plan on letting it keep me safe for a very long time.