During WWII, my father traveled by train to a military base in McAllen, Texas. The train passed through St. Louis, Missouri and stopped briefly at Union Station. While waiting, the soldiers received ditty bags from Red Cross volunteers. In the ditty bags, along with personal care items, was a pair of handknit Red Cross socks.
Hundreds, if not thousands of pairs of socks must have been knitted, each pair exactly like the last. I thought of this last night as I was experiencing Second Sock Syndrome, the siren song of other yarns and patterns calling me away from the current handpainted merino.
Many of those knitters are probably no longer living, but if any of them ever read this, I’d like to thank them for continuing to knit in spite of tired hands and boredom. Their work made a farm boy from Minnesota who’d never been more than 100 miles from home feel as though someone cared.