Baby, Remember My Name

I have an auto knitter. It’s a hand-cranked, designed-during-the-industrial-revolution sock-knitting machine. By machine, I don’t mean something with a plug that does all the work for you. I mean a heavy cast-iron thing with gears and screws and needles and a carriage. You sit and crank, carefully counting rows, create a heel, crank some more, and create a toe. It takes all of an hour to make a pair of socks, once you factor in picking up dropped stitches and grafting the toe. These were my go-to gift for several years. After our move to the homestead, the pieces got divided amongst boxes, the needles stored somewhere safe. The place I chose was so safe that I’ve been unable to find them. So, the Autoknitter is sitting idle, patiently awaiting my return.
All the socks I made on it have worn through at the ball of the foot, but I haven’t had the heart to just throw them out. I don’t want to waste the time and yarn I used just because the toes have worn through. So I kept them in a pile for years.

The other day I got a notion to cut the toes off. And I’m thrilled with the result! I like to be barefoot, but our wood floors are chilly in the winter. These little babies keep my ankles and legs warm, but give my toes freedom!

Plus, I feel like a dancer from Fame, all calloused feet and slouchy legwarmers. I’m gonna live forever!