“Socks”

One thing that will never appear on my to-do list is buy new socks. My sock drawer is a cornucopia of footwear, stuffed to the max. The little Peds— or sock turds as we call them—vie with the restrained Boston Library designer socks. The art collections flourish, led by a pair of Munch’s Scream, a set of Lucy Giving 5-cent Advice, and Van Gogh sunflowers. Upon my mom’s passing, I inherited some lovely George Washington at Valley Forge anklets, recalling how she used to ride her horse over the fields when living next door in Audubon, Pennsylvania.

Speaking of Audubon, I have a fine set of thick, wood-duck-motif socks meant for hiking in boggy bird-rich areas, and a sole-warming heavyweight pair by Carhartt. My husband—ten years gone—is well remembered by multiple double wool thermals that have finally lost their funky aroma after repeated hot water washes. How he ever managed to sweat at the extremities with his clogged arteries and lousy circulation, I’ll never know. Meanwhile, a whole separate basket is dedicated to the bachelors: lone socks whose mates have mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again.

The punk era is well represented by camo tights inscribed “Bad Girls” up the thighs. And deep at the bottom, a seductive pair of smokey pantyhose beckons. No doubt last worn at the gala for the Cotton Exchange along with satin three-quarter length loves. And then there’s the Mondrian patterned SuppHose, the tight-fitting Trojans of kneehigh. The sock drawer has never failed me. Through sickness and health and stormy night, always another pair awaits, no matter how long the washing machine has been broken. G&S