Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Not my father's socks
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.
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2 comments:
My mother was horrified to discover that what once was a rather inexpensive hobby, was now rather costly. And I can't get her to wear hand knit socks.
I have never told my father how much sock yarn costs. I can't imagine what his reaction would be. Horrified might be a pretty accurate descriptor, though!
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