Day 74: Panty Hose and Remembrance

I spent Remembrance Day with my grandfather, Major Wm. Douglas Schofield, a veteran of WWII. My dad says he's 94, but I thought he was more like 96. So we'll meet in the middle and call him 95. I made a photo album of my day with him. You can see it here. Click on the thumbnails for the full caption experience.

I've been conscious of spending time with Gramps lately. Partly because he is getting more frail, partly because he's the only family I've got here right now and partly because I've become conscious of how much I take the people in my life for granted. I'm sure it's human nature and everyone understands that everyone else is busy, but that doesn't quite cut it with me anymore. If I'm going to get conscious in one area of my life, I need to be conscious in all areas. It's like my friend Cathy says: How you do one thing is how you do everything.

So, I went to my grandfather's seniors residence for their Remembrance Day service. Only I've been having a breakthrough in my creative work, a burst of energy that is desperate to get out of my head and onto the page, so I was running late. I power-ironed some dress pants and a sweater, but having eaten nothing but raw fruit and veg for the past six weeks, the pants and sweater looked all baggy and bulky. Us raw food hippies are not beyond vanity and bulky simply wouldn't do.

I opted for my sure-fire, knock 'em dead Little Black Dress (LBD). Which I haven't worn in three years so it smelled a little musty, but musty trumps bulky and that's why God invented Febreeze and perfume.

Wearing a dress in winter means wearing tights. I have two pair: black, opaque, perfect for LBD. Only I'm not much of a dress-wearer and therefore not a hose-wearer either and last week I cut one pair into pieces for sprouting grains and beans in my kitchen. The left toe of my stockings is draining sprouts as I write. I'm thinking of straining nut milk with the right one this afternoon.

Sprouting and straining seemed like a practical use of hose to me. Until I discovered a hole in the crotch of my only wearable pair. It was a small hole and I supposed I should be happy that it wasn't in the middle of the leg with a great big run up the side. A person can handle a crotch hole.

Only when I pulled them up, there was a gentle tearing sound and my very manageable small hole suddenly became substantially larger. I considered putting a pair of underwear on over the tights to cover the hole. Or maybe bike shorts. But, again, the bulk. I was desperately late by that time anyhow, so I slipped on my heels and ran out the door.

Any time I moved, the hole got slightly bigger and by the time I'd climbed into and out of my car, run half a block and kissed Grandpa hello, I was sporting what amounted a pair of crotchless panty hose.

Veterans Day is a rather somber day and this was a rather somber event involving people who have probably never left the house with gaping crotch holes. I resolved to hide in the back and drape my coat over my knees for the entire morning. But alas. My grandfather is one of only three vets in the place. He was seated in a position of honour at the front, facing everyone else. They were all so thrilled that Famous Doug's granddaughter was there, they wanted me to sit beside him.

Despite my protests, Grandpa kindly offered to take the modesty-and-dignity-shield formerly known as my coat. I thanked him and sat down, focusing my gaze on the display of white crosses cut out of styrofoam and tugging at my skirt. I said a prayer involving bad vision for the people in the front row and squeezed my thighs together until they shook. For forty-five minutes. I got teary at one point and I'm not sure if it was from emotion or from feeling the burn. After the service, people lined up to shake my grandfather's hand. Many of them also wanted to meet me. They pressed their hands into mine, saying, 'It's lovely to meet you' and making all sorts of meaningful eye contact. The kind of eye contact that I'm trying not to think too hard about today.