I’ve just rummaged through my socks drawer to find something suitable for a warm Spring day. There are a couple pair of fleece socks that are hard to get on, thick fluffy orlon socks that will only fit with hiking boots or sneakers, thin short socks that I can’t remember how I came to buy, several pair of knee socks that, when worn under slacks always create static electricity so that whenever I walk, the slacks cling to my legs, and some low socks that cover just my feet.

Stuffed into the back of the drawer is a package with a ten pair of nylon panty hose, left from a dozen that I bought just before I retired nine years ago. The drawer is so full that I can barely open it but I still can’t find anything to wear.

These thoughts of socks reminded me of the years when our boys were growing up. The Sox Box, a cardboard carton sat on the dryer where all the socks got dumped as they came out of the dryer. I began by trying to match up pairs for their bureau drawers but by the time there were routinely two or three dozen unmatched socks, I gave it up.

In an attempt at organization I started buying each boy a different color but otherwise they were all the same. Black for Matt, navy for Doug, brown for Jason, and green for Aaron. It was their morning ritual to paw through the box looking for a pair.

Laura, our only daughter’s socks were more interesting and colorful. By middle school she had solved the missing sock dilemma by never wearing matching socks, even if she found them. Her friends soon followed suit. I thought of her last week when seven year old Cecelia arrived wearing mismatched socks. Another trend setter perhaps.