The first two of the three started out innocently enough. On our honeymoon in Nova Scotia, my husband and I spotted a dark gray house covered with bright orange trim. It was the color of a traffic cone, and as I was working on a pair of neon lime green socks for C at the time, it should have come as no surprise when the orange caught his eye. What was surprising was the next thing out of his mouth: “Could you knit me socks like that? With gray and orange stripes?”
I could. And after he’d picked out screamingly bright orange and heathery gray sock yarn at one of the many yarn stores we stopped in over those two weeks, I did. Orange cuff, orange and gray striped legs, and orange heels and feet and toes. I finished them happily and he wore them happily. Until the dog came along.
Our dog seems to have a fondness for handknit socks. I guess it means that he has good taste, but I wish I didn’t mean it quite so literally.
I was not best pleased. First up was finishing that pair of socks for my dad. I had plenty of yarn, and more needles in the same size (though not my favorite ones), and he’d only ruined the cuff and the first few rows of the leg, so not a lot of time was eaten up. Second sock finished in time for blocking and wrapping and giving.
So I set my sights on that orange sock. Before you ask, I did try to pick up stitches around the foot so I could rip back and just re-knit the toe with new yarn. But those socks had been through the wash too many times by then, and it simply wasn’t happening. Luckily for the dog, I had more of both yarns I needed – in fact, I had more than enough for a whole new sock!
And a whole new sock is what I did. It was actually really interesting to see the difference a year and a half can make. When I first made the orange socks, I’d understood the way most socks are formed well enough to just cast on the right number of stitches and work my way through, though I had no idea where I came up with the heel I did. But there was no thought given to the way the ribbing on the leg would line up with the heel and instep, so that dead sock had looked all lopsided. I fixed it this time around, dividing the ribbing in a symmetrical way, and knitting a heel that fits slightly better.
And there it was. The third sock of the pair. And here is C, happy that his favorite pair of blindingly bright socks are back in action and on his feet. And here is one definition of love: knitting the same sock three times to make someone smile.