Do you know what my favorite word in the English language is? “Sweater.” Yep. Love it. Why? Well, first of all, the word is functional. I mean, look at it: Sweater. The name literally means what it does: it makes one sweat. Especially if one lives in Phoenix or South America or St. George, and one is wearing two or three of them at once. (Which also might make one “O.C.D.” Or possibly a “Cat Lady.”) American English is mahvelous that way.

British English–well that’s something else altogether. I mean, it’s a wonderful mode of expression. And generally it charms my socks off with words like: “crisps” instead of chips, “sweets” instead of candy, “nappies” instead of diapers, “trainers” instead of sneakers, and “Jude Law” instead of Adam Sandler. But sweaters? An entirely different matter. In British-English they are called “Jumpers.” Which I totally don’t get. Functionally, this only makes sense if  Brits have sweaters that are so tight they have to jump around to get their arms and head through them. 

But I massively digress.

”Sweater”-this blog’s preferred label for the garment-is also a highly evocative word. When you say it (go on, say it: sweater. ssswwweeeaaattteeerrr) does not your mind instantly fill with images of yore? (Yore past, I mean. Yore memories.) Of such sweatery things as: a brisk wind scratching through black branches, russet apples churned into spicy sauce, mountains with powdered sugar snow sifting onto their peaks, trees limned with sliver frost dropping leaves like so many hankies. And especially those times you forget your wool cardi on the way out the door and a wicked cold nor’easter grabs you by the armpits and you think fondly, wistfully of your beloved sweater. Which you left sitting on your freaking trainers in the pantry next to the crisps, where you were sneaking sweets when you should have been eating something healthy like a courgette.

Sigh.

Sweaters are, plain and simply, cozy. And reminiscent of those times of year we celebrate with lots of family and lots of food and lots of fires in fireplaces. Safe from the howling wind, rain, and snow without. A time when I would imagine their original owners, the little bald sheep shivering in their barns, resent us the most. Because they had them first. (Which, by the way, who in the world figured out that , “Hey! If I cut all this fluffy stuff off this little bleating sheep here, then twist it and pull it a lot, it will bind together in a thread–after, of course, somehow getting rid of all the lanolin in it and carding it and doing other weavery sheepy stuff like that–Then I can invent a loom upon which to weave it into something! Or stick it on needles, tangle them up, and make something to wear! Dude! Sweaters!”)

So really, sheep should be my favorite word in the English language. Thanks for the memories, Sheep! Someone ought to make you a nice horse blanket to keep you warm.

Janiel Miller is a wife/mom/writer/friend/singer/chauffeur/chef/connoisseur-of-movies/eater-of-chocolate/partaker-of-hormones/actress-when-I-can-find-time/learner-from-life who lives in American Fork. You can follow Janiel via Twitter, Facebook or her personal blog, janielmiller.com. She posts for The Citizen on Tuesdays and Fridays.