Norwegian Sweaters

       Those colors, nothing like them! When I was little I used to pray for a Norwegian Sweater. My mother was Norwegian, and I went to a church with a lot of Norwegians. They had a ladies club, appropriately called, The Norwegian ladies club. I am half Norwegian, always only wanting to claim that side of me, but to admit the truth, I am also part Scottish and English which makes me Norwegianplaid:) Now back to the story of my sweater, that ugly one, made just for me.
        My mother could knit and crochet and I asked year after year for a pretty sweater like the kind I saw men and women wear as a kid. They were in deep reds, shade of blues and white. Oh I loved them. When we had May 17th, That Norwegian parade day...well all you could see were thousands of beautiful Norwegian sweaters. They stood out like a brand new car.

         One year I noticed my mother sitting on the stoop with Lisa Ingebretson who married a friend of my brother. Lisa, although much younger became friends with my mother. They spoke Norwegian and Lisa's husband didn't know much so Lisa could confide in my mother and boy did she. My mother always told us later what was said. So Lisa and my mother sat on the stoop many nights in Brooklyn at our old Brownstone knitting and or crocheting. They had long needles and wool in bags. Yakking and yakking, knitting and knitting, they would sit for hours. So one night I noticed the sweater Lisa was making. I saw the red, navy blue and white contrasts peeking from her bag. I remember yelling, Lisa! Lisa! That's the kind I want. Lisa smiled. She was so sweet, with her small blue eyes and seemed to get thinner each time we saw her-and we knew why, and hoped for the day she'd become single again. But I hoped that of my mother too for very good reasons.
     Lisa, friend that she was said, well maybe your mother would make you one for Christmas. I know I jumped and asked her, would ya mom, huh? She acted like I was butting in, shushed me and said not now, later. Well later came a few weeks later and I asked her again. She said I'll think about it and I added, oh thank you but not gray, I hate gray. Red okay? With Blue in it, my favorite color...and she knew that I loved blue.
      Some time after that she and Lisa were at it again on the Brownstone stoop. Now my mother had a bag I didn't see before. I asked like kids do around Christmas-is that my sweater? It's not gray right, I hate gray. Lisa laughed and said I don't think your mother would make you a gray sweater, but yes she did just that.
Why? I never knew why. Christmas came and she handed me the bag telling me she didn't have time to wrap it up. I didn't care. I was so happy to finally get my sweater. Then as I slowly pulled it from the bag I knew disappointment was written all over my face. I was twenty-one and will never forget that Christmas.
       My mother said son-of a b.... you don't like it do you? I did my damnest  to make you that and that's the thanks I get. My face was red and warm as I answered, but I do like it, lying through my teeth. She knew and so did I as she said well I'll give it to someone else. I said again-no I like it, I really do. She finally did something for me and I wanted to keep it. When I thought it couldn't get worse she said try it on. Oh crap!
        I put it on and oh Lordy, it was the itchiest thing I ever wore and started scratching. Hands on her hips she asked, what the hell is wrong now and I answered just as fast, it's itchy. She cursed. I said I'll just put it in Woolite tomorrow to soften it. She cursed again, mumbled, I can't do nothing right, son of a b----ing kids. Wow and this was Christmas? So the following year I left home, moved in with my sister and left the sweater with her. Yes, my mother found it, showed me and said, so you really like it huh?
         A few years later I was married and had a son. Guess what my mother did. She made him a sweater-gray.
          I'm still looking:)