It's a COLD Saturday morning and I'm lamenting the fact that Wendy ate my slippers last winter. Every morning I crawl out of my warm bed into my cold room to get Sophie and pull on my bathrobe, cursing my cold, cold feet. We snuggle on the couch, each of us with our morning habits (her bottle of milk, my steaming cup of coffee and milk) and watch the morning news. Eventually she goes off to explore and I find, somewhere, deep inside, the ability to walk to my room to find a pair of socks. I invariably choose the ones that lie on the floor next to my bed; the ones I took off just before snuggling in for the night. Those socks are colorful, imperfect, and so, so joyful; I am now the proud owner of 3 pairs of handmade socks.
The first I got a year or two ago and they were made by Ruby Waltner, the organist in my church, the neighbor of my parents, and my mom's knitting mentor. The second I finished a week or two ago and, while I really screwed up the toe, are warm and lovely. The third came in a yellow and red envelop last week from my mom and they're dilectable in their heft. I fear that the frequency in which I wear them will result in my walking right out the bottoms of them sooner than their lives deserve.
I finished a much too big pair for Sophie last night and I'm excited for her to have similar moments of sock comfort and love.
I guarantee that come spring I will have another post of how much I love bare feet, dirty and calloused, rough, "hippie feet" as I lovingly know them. But for now, you get my cold-I-love-fall-sock-post.
(and Katie, thanks for providing a soundtrack for this post! What a muse!)