The completed socks enjoy the view on vacation.
The completed socks take time to smell the flowers.
Hey, says Sock #1, this picture makes me look fat.
Yeah, says Sock #2; how come she didn't bring along the sock blockers?
Yeah, says Sock #1, just because SHE is running around in the same pair of jeans with no makeup on for days on end doesn't mean she should let US go.
Yeah, says Sock #2, we have appearances to keep up. Besides, how can the people appreciate that we are symmetrical and our patterns start on our respective insteps if she doesn't take a proper picture?
Yeah, says Sock #1, or see that YOU have a little hole where the stitches come together in the short-row heel.
NO WAY, says Sock #2, that's YOU. Besides, what about that slightly raised half-row on the reverse side of your sole where she forgot to knit to the end of one of your stripes and ended up with an extra half-row of twice-slipped stitches?
LA LA LA LA, says Sock #1, I CAN'T HEAR YOU. AND BESIDES YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE THAT FROM THE OUTSIDE, SO THERE.
Hey, Socks, I say, look at the great quote I just found about what the local knitters around here used to do to THEIR socks!
“Stockings were knitted by the farmers and their families for their own use. Those made from local wool were worn every day, but 'holiday stockings' were made of worsted. The heels of the stockings were apt to be worn thin by the rough clogs so the heels were smeared with melted tar then dipped in turf ashes which when mixed in with the wool became hard yet flexible enough to resist friction.”
Marie Hartley and Joan Ingilby, The Old Hand-Knitters of the Dales. Yorkshire: The Dalesman Publishing Company, Ltd., 1969 (first printed 1951)
Melted tar and ashes to make you nice and strong! I say. What do you think about that, Socks?
NO NO NO NO, say the socks both together, and head off with a new unity of purpose to enjoy the rest of their vacation.
Starting by climbing a tree.
