Sorting the Sock Drawer—And Other Grief-Coping Methods

So many things to miss after a loved one dies. You miss what you had and what you could have had with him or her. You grieve for what that precious person went through. Everyone grieves differently, too.

Some days when I especially miss my dad, I call family or friends. Some days I cry by myself. Some days I walk wired for sound—praise music or classical comfort me most. Some days I walk fast, some slow. I always whistle back to cardinals now, the way Dad used to. Some days I journal prayers. Some days I sniffle into my husband’s shoulder. Sometimes I talk to my dad as if he were here and still whole. Yesterday, reading my father’s name in the In Memoriam column of his alumni magazine led to a sobbing meltdown, and I did all the above. Still sad today, I decide to sort my sock drawer. Mindless is my mantra.

The “A Time to Grieve” booklet my pastor sent me a few weeks after my father’s death includes many coping methods, including screaming. It does not mention sorting socks. This just feels like grief therapy today.

First I put the contents of the sock drawer on the bed to see what I’ve got.

·         Athletic footies with dog hair on them, which means I haven’t worn them in 2 years

·         Footies I bought in France because I forgot to pack some  

·         Footies now threadbare that I haven’t discarded because well, I bought them in France

·         Those annoying, thin, little footies that are supposed to enable you to wear summery dress shoes without nylons but in reality just bunch up after your third step and press into your arch until you want to scream

·         Christmas socks: black with green Christmas trees on them and a second pair that’s red with candy canes on them

·         Nylons. Seriously, nylons? LOL

·         Boot tights I bought in the grand hope that I’d find a nice winter skirt but I never did

·         Gardening socks, basically former thick white walking socks that I wore once in the garden and the dirt never came out in the wash, so they’re gray

·         Gardening footies, former tennis socks worn once in my gardening clogs, never to be white again

·         Diabetic socks. When I see them, I hear my mother-in-law’s shriek when I mentioned my husband and I both like to wear them because they give us ankle coverage without binding elastic; she assumed we both must now have diabetes.

·         Colored cotton ankle socks, which I don’t even recognize, it’s been so long since our weather was mild enough that I didn’t want warm wool socks

·         Myriad designs of SmartWool socks, my saving grace this long, bitter winter

·         Dad’s scratchy red wool ice-skating socks which I have no idea how I ended up with but they’re what he wore when he took us kids ice skating in the 1950s; for however many decades they’ve been in my sock drawer, I’ve treasured them. I used to wear them a lot before SmartWool arrived on the scene, so they now have a hole in one heel.

·         Purple socks made from bamboo that are so soft, I find comfort holding them to my cheeks

·         Last but not least, white cotton ankle socks whose cuffs sport metallic gold palm trees to match the shiny gold bow on the hat my aunt bought me in glitzy, glam Palm Springs but which I would be too embarrassed to wear here in the Midwest, unless of course, I were lunching with Liberace

From the organized piles spanning the bed, I grab groupings to restock the drawer. It’s satisfying to be reminded what’s there and to know I’ll be able to find the kind I need each day. Placing the wool socks toward the furthest reaches and the gardening and tennis and cotton socks within easiest reach feels hopeful. Spring might really come. I caress a cheek one last time with the silky-soft bamboo socks and lay them toward the front, then slide the drawer shut. I feel better.

Review of A Bell for Adano by John Hersey

Every so often I feel inadequate writing a review because I fear it cannot express my reverence for the book’s writing. Such is the case now. My words about John Hersey’s A Bell for Adano are a tinkling triangle compared with the deep, full, rich town bell Major Joppolo insisted on for Adano. Hersey’s 1944 novel well deserved the 1945 Pulitzer Prize. When I read this book for high school English in the late 1960s, I could not possibly have grasped its depth and wisdom. Almost 50 years, four major U.S. overseas conflicts, some foreign travel, and a more realistic understanding of human nature later, I can now appreciate Hersey’s story. And I am a different citizen because of this book. I only hope more Americans will read this novel today. Here’s why:

 

·         Although John Hersey’s A Bell for Adano takes place in World War II, it is more about human nature than about that war.

·         Although A Bell for Adano shows the general nature of wars, it is more about why the United States fights them.

·         Although A Bell for Adano is about ideologies underlying regimes, it is clear that of all the U.S. military personnel occupying Adano, only one man is a patriot for the right reasons.

·         Although that one man, Major Joppolo, exhibits daily justice, mercy, wisdom, and democratic government to Adano’s people, he is subject to U.S. military personnel who abuse authority and do not understand democracy.

To see the blossoming of Adano’s townspeople from cowering, bitter, closet-rebels under Fascism to welcoming, cooperative citizens under Major Joppolo’s loving and respectful administration of democracy filled me with joy to be American. To see Major Joppolo’s U.S. military colleagues take advantage of and even be cruel toward the Italian people whose town they occupied filled me with horror at our part in the arrogance the world sees in Americans.

Reading this novel did indeed produce mixed emotions. I also very much enjoyed the book and didn’t want it to end. Hersey created colorful characters and lively authentic dialog, which gave an intriguing pace and many funny moments. The book is full of little descriptive gems like “the man who still wears spurs even though he rides everywhere in an armored car.” Major Joppolo seems to have the wisdom of Solomon when solving townspeople’s myriad problems. I especially liked how he finds the source of runaway inflation and solves it. He has human weaknesses, of course, but Major Joppolo gives the reader a living example of how democracy is supposed to work.

Toward the beginning of his time as acting mayor of Adano, Major Joppolo gathers his team of administrators and tells in words what he tries to live out [page 45 in my edition]: “Adano has been a Fascist town. That is natural, because the country was Fascist, therefore the town was also. But now that the Americans have come, we are going to run the town as a democracy. Perhaps you do not know what a democracy is. I will tell you. Democracy is this: Democracy is that the men of the government are no longer the masters of the people. They are the servants of the people. … Therefore you are now the servants of the people of Adano. I too am their servant. When I go to buy bread, I shall take my place at the end of the line, and I will wait my turn. … Remember, you are servants now. You are servants of the people of Adano. And watch: This thing will make you happier than you have ever been in your lives.”

If only we could live this out …