Sasquatch Socks

After I moved to the Pacific Northwest, my Dad had many questions. He was never one for travel, but he did haphazard research and he thought he knew the place. More likely, he would find the oddest thing about a local and obsess about it. He was never one who likes to talk on the phone, and he would simply deflect and ask me, “HAVE YOU FOUND SASQUATCH?”

I would answer something just as odd and this would be close, “Yes Dad we found him and he is living in our third bedroom.” The habits of familiar conversation are a quirky entity.

A few years ago I bought him what I thought was the most perfect gift. I found a pair of Sasquatch socks and gave them to him on his birthday. He gushed in his form of appreciation. That one thing I kind of miss about our father was witnessing how set he was in his time-honored traditions. While he as alive, I never saw my Dad wear these socks. Then again we have never seen our Dad in shorts. He wore long pants ever day of the year.

After he passed we went through the quizzical ritual of gathering his belongings.   It was an odd assortment of Hip Boots, Golf Balls and television remotes. The furniture had faint cigarette mustiness. I will not even talk about cleaning out the enigmatic scientific project he was working on in the refrigerator. At the end of reflection, I noticed the Sasquatch socks, in their original packaging, sitting innocently next to his bed.

What was I thinking? My Dad wore the same type of socks every single day. Yes the type of socks my grandmother bought for him. He liked those socks. He would not be comfortable in SAWSQUATCH socks.

I gave those socks to him years ago. But there they sat in a drawer next to his bed.

I took those socks with me, put them in my luggage and flew them back to Oregon.

I am wearing them as I type this.