I did a big sock-washing day last week, and, as is always the case when I’m washing my hand-knit socks, I felt myself taking a wee trip down memory lane.
You see, when I’m laying the socks on my drying rack, I make sure to put pairs together so the putting-away of the socks is quicker. I kind of shake out each sock and carefully lay it over the rack, and then I match pairs up. This causes me to spend a bit of time with each individual sock, and, because that’s all I’m doing, my mind is focused on those socks.
Oftentimes, I remember where I was when I was making a sock, or when I gifted one to Stefan, or when I got the yarn. It’s a sweet byproduct of having so many things that were made by my own hands: because each one took quite a while to make, there are definite memories wrapped in each one. A road-trip here, a specific show I was watching there, a long afternoon cook-out with friends here. One of the unforseen consequences of being an obsessive sock knittter: not only does each sock warm my feet and make me happy to wear, they also carry with them the memories of what I was doing as I made them.
This craft of ours sure does gift us with a lot of good shit, doesn’t it?