Last year Carl asked me to knit him a pair of black socks.
"Plain black socks," he said. "Solid. Simple. So I can wear to work when it's cold."
Plain black socks, I grumped.
Plain black socks.
I cast on a pair in February. Plain black socks. With a little ribbing thrown in to keep me from dying of boredom. Nine stiches to an inch, 32 rows to an inch... plain black socks.
The socks got knited, millimeter by millimeter, in between a dozen other projects, until August was rolling to an end and it dawned on me that Carl's birthday is next week.
I'd better finish those darned black socks.
Finished them I did.
Not only that. I said to myself: Now that I knitted him a pair of plain black socks, how about a pair of plain brown socks to go with them?
Plain brown socks, eh? Not on your life.
The brown pair, on the other hand, was hand spun and hand-knitted. Took me six days.
Labor of love indeed. I must love the man.