My father talks about handknit socks with a bit of a wince. Scratchy yarn, lumpy seams, ill-fitting and stretched out, these were socks of necessity. He was a child of the Great Depression and grew up at a time when you used things up, wore them out, and then found a new use for them before they were recycled into something else.
When my father watches me knitting socks today, he fingers the fine handpainted merino I use and shakes his head. These are not my father's socks.
2 comments:
You are quite a poet. I read your first post about three times because I thought it was great... tugs at my heart, it does. I'm glad you joined the Socks in The Cities KAL. See you there! Would you mind copying this post over there, I think we would all enjoy it!
Thanks!
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