It was a problem. Gym socks. Knee socks. Hiking socks. Fuzzy winter socks. Socks more normally called stockings. Blue, pink, white, black, nude, brown, and striped socks. Hand knit. Silk. Cotton. Socks.
Simply. Too. Many. Socks. The bureau drawer was a stew of tangled toes.
Then, one cold spring day in the not too distant past, a miracle. A solution. We trolled through the estate sale remnants of a family’s life in Tonawanda, New York. The memories of nearly a century were laid on tables, stacked on shelves, piled in heaps for eager crowds to paw through. For a WideEyed person it is an overwhelming experience to witness a lifetime of personal items. Sad. Interesting. Somehow the stuff was too infused by another’s life for me to form a connection.
The WideEyedSpouse and I fought the crowds and made it from the attics and into the basement. And there it was: abandoned among basement junk, shoved against a brick wall, hung around with faux fur vests for sale. It squatted on its turned legs with the remnants of an old, tired dignity. The chifferobe. Sock-home.
We wrestled the Starr Furniture Company c. 1920 mahogany veneer and cedar chifferobe through a basement door no wider, no taller than the chifferobe itself. Daylight did it no favors. It was dull and awful. Decades of mildew, basement filth, and the recent scars from faux vest hangers befouled it. It stank of basement. From its open doors wafted stale perfume from another generation. It fit in the mighty Pathfinder as though it had been constructed specifically so that I could get it home.
We bathed it in a 10% vinegar solution. We rubbed crusted gunk and wax away with Life O’Wood. Old English healed the hanger scars. Minwax Paste Finishing Wax fed the wood and made it glow, just a little.
Chifferobe. Sock-home. Welcome to the WideEyedHousehold.