Hubbo recently came back from a three-week training in the states, sans moi (I do not handle jet lag well anymore) and aside from the offering of Dunkin Donuts coffee (I got the shakes just holding the dang bag), I was presented with this:
The Dead Sock.
Formerly Koigu PPPM
First pair of socks made for Hubbo.
I'm guessing the non-knitter would think coming home with a sock like this would make the person who knit this (me) mad. Quite the opposite; it makes me happy. He loved these socks to death. He took them everywhere. Wore them all the time.
For me, as a knitter, I don't spend hours making something so someone can put it in a drawer. If you do that, you can be sure the next time I am over at your house I will find where you're hiding it and take it back--you'll never notice it's gone anyway (you'll just think you forgot what drawer you put it in). The best compliment a knitter can get is a hole in the sock. A dead sock, a dead blanket ravaged with holes, a scarf with tattered ends after repeated wear. If you love something that much that you come back to me with it and it's in tatters, I'll make you more till the end of time (and I won't snoop in your drawers).