Ode to old socks

Friday, Nov. 13, 2015

You would not give them a second glance, this tweedy pair of socks. They reach just above the ankles and are knit from cotton thread. In the sole of one is a hole the size of a fifty-cent piece; the same area on the other is starting to fray as well.

Still, I cannot bring myself to throw them out. They are the first pair of socks I ever knitted. I learned to turn the heel and to fasten off with the Kitchener stitch from a woman I met in Idaho. I interviewed her because she was an American Sign Language interpreter, and when I found out that she also was a knitter, I mentioned that I had always wanted to knit socks, and she offered to teach me. 

The socks were a little too heavy for everyday wear, but paired with thin nylons they were perfect for hiking; I also used them for slippers on cold mornings. I have since made about half a dozen other pairs of socks whose fancy patterns display my knitting prowess, but if I had to dispose of them I would not mourn their loss as I do this tweedy pair created in a simple stockinette stitch. 

I know the holes make these socks useless. I should discard the pair, but holding them in my hands I thought of Idaho for the first time in years, and somehow that reminded me of all the recent changes in my life. I have had to say goodbye to Archbishop John C. Wester, who by example encouraged me to make religion more a part of my life than just attending Mass on Sundays; and to Dominican Father Carl Schlichte, who was very patient with all my questions, not to mention my complaints, about this faith we profess, and who provided either an encouraging word or a [metaphorical] kick in the pants, depending on what was called for in a particular situation; and also to a friend whose company I enjoyed, but with whom I rarely got together because I didn’t make time and I guess I figured she’d always be around. 

The selfish part of me points out that it’s not fair that the three of them moved away within a few weeks of each other. I wasn’t ready for them to go; I could have learned so much more from them, enjoyed so much more time in their company.  It’s been four months since they left Salt Lake City, but I’m still reluctant to part with them. 

I know that change is a part of life. As I was praying about this, the verse from Ecclesiastes came to mind: “To everything there is a season.” November is a season of death, although the feasts of All Souls and All Saints remind us to hope for future life. In the months to come I suspect that other spiritual mentors will come along who will help me just as Archbishop Wester and Fr. Carl did, and other people whom I will call friend. I can look at this philosophically, in that those who have guided me now have moved forward on their own paths, and this makes room in my life for others. 

However, those new people haven’t revealed themselves yet, so I am left with the holes the departures of my three old friends have left in my life that thus far I am neither able to mend nor move beyond. 

And so for now the tweedy socks will stay in my drawer. As footwear they are useless, but oh, how priceless are the memories they stir!