My father was a black sock man. I remember once, as a child, looking in his sock drawer (yes, I was a nosy little child) and seeing all his black socks. There might have been one pair of dark brown but I bet those were a mistake. It was a drawer filled with neatly rolled black socks.
I doubt my father shopped for his own socks as he was never much of a shopper. He would give us kids money to go out and shop for our mom on her birthday and Christmas. His gift suggestions were almost always the same—for her birthday (which was in July) “Get her a nice colorful beach towel” and for Christmas “Get her a gift certificate at Belk’s or J.C. Penny.” He would often send us out at Valentine’s Day for a heart shaped box of Millionaires, my mom’s favorite candy. He just wasn’t a shopper (which is something I have inherited from him in full force).
I think my mother and possibly my grandmother might have been the ones who gifted him with his collection of black socks. Black socks were probably a habit that began with his many years in the military. I never saw him wear any color socks except black.
Except for one day each year.
On Christmas Day he always wore a pair of bright red socks. I don’t think he wore them on Christmas Eve, only on Christmas Day. He usually topped it off with his red sweater but the red socks were always a must-wear for Christmas morning. He never commented on the red socks and we generally didn’t comment on them either—but there they were. My father’s subtle little way of celebrating Christmas.
After my father died and I was helping my mother sort through his clothes, there they were: that one pair of bright red socks. I could feel myself starting to cry as I asked my mother if I could have those red socks. I think she was puzzled as to why I would want them but she said, “Of course.”
I had no idea that those socks were as soft as they were. It was like they were angora or cashmere or something of that sort, though it is far more likely they were just a super soft acrylic as we were not an angora/cashmere sort of family.
I loved holding those socks, remembering my father and his little Christmas Day celebration.
Since I became the caretaker of those red socks, I wear them myself on Christmas Day. It is a way of remembering not just my Dad but my whole family. Both my parents are deceased now, as is my sweet brother (who, as a rabid NC State fan, would have loved that my Dad wore red socks, if only for that one day each year).
My children have their own families now and neither live close enough to make a Christmas celebration together easy. Plus as an Episcopal priest, it was rather impossible to travel during that time of year as I was always working. Now that we are retired Tom and I have settled into enjoying a very low-key Christmas. We delight in touching base with our families via phone conversations. We do send cards and gifts to the grandchildren but neither of us really go out and Christmas shop. My biggest celebration is wearing the red socks.
I only wear them on Christmas Day. Even when I was serving as a priest, I wore those red socks on Christmas Day. This past week, I took those socks out of my drawer and laid them on the top of my dresser, getting them ready.
I think those red socks mean more to me than they probably ever meant to my father. But that is okay. I love the memory of him they bring, as well as the many other Christmas memories with family and friends that they untuck from my heart.
My hope is there might be something—a pair of red socks, an ornament on your tree, a special dish you will prepare for Christmas Day—a small something that reminds you of how much you are loved and of the people you have been blessed to love and be loved by in years past. Merry Christmas!
Sweet story and a good memory. No one mentioned that once a year event. It just happened. I wonder who would like those red socks when you no longer wear them?
Wonderful story. Its always the little things.