COLUMN: Tales from the Gravel Ridge – What’s not to like about darning socks?

There is something astonishingly fulfilling in making a garment or sock last much longer than might appear possible, or even necessary. Given that stores abound with merchandise sufficient to meet the needs of most of us, it might well be asked why anyone would waste precious time repairing old socks.

Some years ago I watched our young daughter busily darning her heavy wool socks. I was mildly amused, but also pleased by what I saw. It has been a long time since people routinely darned socks. Regrettably, our present age, with its tendency to throw things away, hasn’t encouraged the art of making things last.

I personally derive much enjoyment from repairing whatever comes to hand. I must admit though, seeing Elizabeth darn her socks was a bit of a stretch even for me. The worn area was so large, I would have thought it was time to throw the sock away. However, Elizabeth particularly liked these socks, and didn’t want to part with them, and like her parents, she hates to see anything go to waste.

I have no doubt that one generation passes on its skills, and in a sense, thereby its values, to the next. For me the lessons learned during my early childhood on our small Rosengard farm, continue to shape my thinking. Indeed, I am learning to cherish these lessons more and more as time goes by.

When it came to darning, my mother was an expert. Given our poverty, and the size of our family, she had to be. I can still remember the wooden “lasts”, similar to those used for shoe repairs, which she had for the purpose of darning. One was quite rough-hewn and very old, no doubt made long before I was born. I wonder where it came from, who shaped it, and how it came to be in our home. Unfortunately I never thought to ask. There was another one, made by my father, I think. It was smooth and considerably bulkier. Both were meant to be slipped inside a worn sock in order to make a firm working area on which the darning could be effectively carried out.

As I think of these darning tools of long ago, I am reminded of winter evenings in our little house on the gravel ridge. I can see my mother sitting near the stove, with her work in her lap, the kerosene lamp not far away. Around her sit her little ones, expectantly waiting for a story. They are quite oblivious to the phenomenal pressures their parents bear, trying to eke out an existence on our small farm.

In due course, the story will be told, but first my mother must get herself organized. The sock that will be mended on this occasion, is deftly slipped over the last, and then securely tied so that the worn area will remain in place on the firm smooth surface. My mother threads a length of wool into a large darning needle, and then she is ready to begin the task at hand. Carefully she knots the yarn, and then eases the sharp instrument through the open torn spot into an area that’s still whole. Here she brings the needle through to the surface and then begins the process of making row upon row of long, single, vertical strands. When the entire worn area has been thus covered, she begins weaving the needle in a horizontal pattern, alternating between the vertical strands. Eventually the sock is once more darned, ready to be worn. In the meantime, the story too has been told.

More than likely the story was one about our mother’s childhood or youth in Schoeneberg, Ukraine. And so, although I never knew my grandmother, nor most of my mother’s family, I have a sense of belonging to those people. That perception would have been entirely lost to me, but for those stories, that were, in a sense, woven into the socks being darned.