Darn socks

We always hear how older generations knew how to avoid waste, often because of the Great Depression or the shortages caused by World War Two. To the extent that’s true, they taught what they knew to their children—often Baby Boomers—who, we are told, failed to teach their kids, and so on, leaving young(er) people today not knowing how to stretch food, to repair simple things, to grow food, and much more. Those impressions may or may not be true, at least generally, but I’m a Baby Boomer who was taught some of those apparently lost skills. Like darning socks.

When I was a young kid, I used to see my mother darning socks. With my dad working as a preacher and my mother a stay-at-home mother (as nearly all of my friends’ mothers were, too), she needed to make money go as far as possible. Eventually she taught me how to darn socks and how to sew a button on a shirt, things she would've thought would be useful for me. She never taught me to use a sewing machine, though, nor did she offer to do so, and I later wondered if it was because of gender roles of the time. I’ll never know, but I think that by teaching me to darn socks and sew a button onto a shirt, she have have merely responded to my curiosity (I watched her work and was fascinated).

In any case, knowing how to darn socks and sew buttons onto shirts was extremely useful over the years. I’ve been doing both for at least 55 years—though I started taking shortcuts with socks.

Her method was to take “darning thread”, which was like a rope of very lightweight threads, and weave a patch over the hole in the sock. This method was most useful for large hole, like on the heels. However, I eventually didn’t patch heels—I threw the sock away—because I could always feel the patch when I wore them, and it was uncomfortable. And, anyway, by the time the heel got a hole, it was usually too threadbare to bother darning.

A hole in the toe was always different, though, especially because it was often on a seam, and simple to simple stitch closed. I’ve darned socks this way since at least my university years, which means more than 45 years.

This suddenly became an important, priority task because in recent weeks sock after sock has developed a hole in the heel, and whenever that happened I threw the sock away. In this way, the situation became dire.

This sudden decline in my sock inventory began because several years ago—maybe eight to ten—I bought a LOT of socks at The Warehouse, New Zealand’s discount retailer that was originally modelled on Walmart. The thing about The Warehouse is that they have a particular product line for only a short time, as they constantly change suppliers to get products at ever cheaper prices, thereby increasing their profit margins. After being caught out several times (like with underwear), I finally learned to stock up on things in order for them to last for many years, because it was always certain that in a few months to a year the product I liked would be gone.

So, several years ago I bought pack after pack of socks at The Warehouse to replace the ones that were faded and worn out (nearly all had already been darned, sometimes more than once). Because I bought so many all at once, the socks are now wearing out all once, too. So, the sudden drop in my inventory of wearable socks is no surprise.

As it happens, I have socks with a small hole in the toe that I just never got around to darning (why take the time when I had so many in daily use?), but now I need them: This week, another sock gave me a hole in the heal I then had only four pairs left, and I had 6 and half pairs waiting to be darned. I completed the darning of socks yesterday. Back when I bought the stash of socks, I put aside a couple unopened packs (10 pairs), something I did to prepare for this very day. However, all of them will wear out, too, and I need to plan ahead.

I was recently at The Warehouse (they do have the best prices for ordinary socks…) and I looked at the packs of socks. Turns out, as usual, what they had was nothing like the ones I bought all those years ago (the current ones are made with thinner fabric, so they’ll wear out much faster). That’s the other reason I want to repair what I have: They’re better than what I can get now. At the same time, what The Warehouse now sells is nearly three times the price of the one I bought all those years ago: Back then, it cost me roughly $1.20 per pair, now it’s $3.

Which brings me to the moral of my story: We ought to have the right to repair anything we buy. Clearly I have the right to repair my socks or to sew a button on a shirt—no one would dispute that (though some have laughed at me and told me I should just throw out the socks and buy new ones), but there are plenty of things we buy that not only can we not not repair ourselves, it’s often impossible for anyone to repair them. That’s stupid and immoral.

Our landfills are clogged with things that can’t be repaired or easily recycled (another failing of manufacturers), and landfills have lots of such stuff, including large amounts of clothing and other textiles thrown into them. In the case of clothes, many people these days apparently don’t know how to repair them and feel they can’t justify the cost of taking them to someone who can when buying new is so cheap (price and quality…). So, into the rubbish it goes.

One of my core values is to live as sustainably as possible/practical, and I realise that sometimes it’s just not possible. I know that eventually my socks (etc.) will no longer be repairable. However, when I can, I repair things (including the humble socks) to delay the time when it has to be sent to landfill. If something can’t be repaired, I try to reuse it before throwing it away (for example, my cleaning rags are cut-up worn-out singlets). That’s better for the environment, obviously, but it also saves me a little money. Together, it’s a pretty good return on my investment of time and effort—for me. Others’ realities may be different.

I can’t repair everything, and I never could. Of course. But there are a lot of things I can fix, and all I need is a bit of time and little effort. It doesn’t save me huge piles money, of course, but, to me, living my values is worth far more than money.

Update: I had a late start today and had my shower after this post was published. When I went to put on socks, yet another one had a hole in the heel. I completed my darning just in time.