I could tell, as soon as I felt the wrapping, what it was. It was always the same. Didn't it matter that I never wore them? That we lived in the South? That no self-respecting 12 year old would be caught dead with socks on, ever? Aunt Tilly never wore socks, said her toes needed to breathe. Ma always wears sandals or open toes, cause that's what my Da likes. Why then, oh why do I always have to get socks for Christmas? I think it bothers me most, now that I know Santa isn't real, that the people who raise me have so little imagination about what I might like for Christmas. I still have the ones from last year in the store wrapper. Truth be known, all the socks in my drawer were new. Ma rolled them up in tight balls. My sister, Sandy, and I would have sock wars in the house on account that socks didn't break anything and more importantly, we live in the South. No snow. So we put on winter coats, hats and mittens, mittens mostly for the handicap, and pretend to have snowball fights. Scoring is by number of direct hits or by socks remaining after one of us runs out. Not likely. Sandy got new socks too. But hers were girly, knee-high and pastel. It actually made sorting them out between bouts much easier, mine were all white tube socks, no seam. It wasn't a wonder to me till later, when you're twelve, its just a nuisance.
While we didn't want to seem rude, we each thanked our parents for yet another Christmas offering, and respectfully smiled when my Da told us there were children in the world that didn't have socks. Only, if he knew that, then why didn't he know that kids in the South didn't wear socks? Consequently, Sandy and I would retreat outside to conjure another sock game for the holiday. My Da liked to listen to sports on the radio and sometimes our games would correspond to the particular season. Christmas was football. One of us would be the Galloping Ghost and then we'd trade off, scoring touch downs and passing a doubled ball of four socks as our pigskin. Summer was baseball, which we could play inside if we used a whiffle bat, which actually was perfect. Ma's big Persian rug in the living room was our diamond and the adjoining dining room was the outfield. Pillows for plates and mittens for gloves. I would pretend to be Babe Ruth and point my homer toward the kitchen door at the far side of the dining room. Then, in our house, Spring meant golf.
Golf was never pretended in our house. It held a reverence over all other sports because Da claimed that our ancestors, the Scots, had invented the game. My Da caught me once golfing in my room with his prized putter and the requisite pair of socks. I took a couple to the back of my legs for the infraction. Every Spring, Da would dust of his clubs and shine up the heads till they looked like high price door knobs in some swanky speakeasy. There was one club in Da's set that never needed any polishing cause it had a fancy leather cover that protected it from the elements, his putter. Da said his clubs were a bequest to him after his Da had died. They were never to be molested and if I was lucky enough to be touched by the fates with the skills for golf, they would be passed down the line to me. So far, I had shown no particular aptitude for the sport, by his reckoning. I looked forward to the time when I got to tee up with my Da. In the mean, I confined myself to sock sports. Golf was suppose to be a family affair and we'd all go to the country club for a round. That meant Ma and Da would play eighteen while I washed balls in the grounds shack and Sandy baby sat Melaura Michelson, the three year old daughter of the other couple in their foursome. During club tourneys, they were known as the 'fearsome foursome'.
It was on just one of these ball washing days that a kernel of an idea started to form in my head. It was raining and all the golfers were in the 19th hole swigging gin and tonics. Sandy and I stole an empty bottle of gin one time from the kitchen trash. We each took a lick off the cap and decided all the grown ups were drinking Pine-Sol. All of the golf bags had been abandoned to line the wall of the grounds shack. Da's leather covered club was the only one with a special cover. This seemed odd and spoke volumes about my Da, but at the same time, a thought occurred to me. Why didn't they all have special covers? I got paid a penny for every two balls I washed. Mr. Macalhany, the grounds keeper, said that was generous. I thought it was practically slave labor until I saw one of the diapers Sandy had to change. I wondered what some one could get for a first rate club cover? As this thought festered in my head, I started to imagine club after club, covered with stark, white tube socks.
I started figuring in my head, how many clubs in a bag. Twelve, mostly. The exact number as in a fresh package of socks, six pair. First, there were three woods: a driver, number 3 and a 5. Then came the long irons numbered 1-4, then the short irons, 5-7. Most of the bags had a pitching wedge or if they were honest with themselves, a sand wedge. All that was left was the putter. The putter was a personal thing and the most valued club in the bunch. The putter was the covered one in Da's bag. Now, a fine set of Scottish clubs had different names altogether but still amassed twelve clubs, be it a brassie, spoon, baffy, cleek, jijjer or mashie. All were for striking the ball. I ran to the nursery and told Sandy I was going home for something and to cover for me. She was a good sister that way, willing to spin a yarn for me. By the time I got home, I was soaked to the bone. I toweled off, grabbed a package of socks, and went right back out into the rain. I made it back in record time and did the deed.
I went back to the ball washer to continue my fortune of pennies and to wait for the ensuing revelation. Da's saddle leather golf bag looked like a single candle aglow and topped with a brighter than white cotton flame. I was just finishing up with my third bucket of balls when I heard the conversations and laughter of the golfers, coming to retrieve their bags. Da was leading the group, a tumbler still in his hand. Everyone loved my Da's stories, especially when he was drinking because his brogue got real thick and he would be very animated. Stories seemed to spin out of him on the golf course, very different than at home where he was very patient and reserved. They all walked into the shack and halted behind Da as his story was cut off in mid-sentence by the sight of his bag. They all stood there for what seemed minutes. Da separated himself from the group and walked over to me. His face was expressionless, which started to give me second thought about just how brilliant I had been. He looked at me, brought his hand up to smooth my wet hair and said, "Brilliant." A smile creased his face and the rest of the group started clapping and fawning over his bag. I think Ma was embarrassed but always went the way Da did so she gave me a smile too.
Over the course of the next week, Sandy and I socked all the bags in Da's golfing posse. Sandy, socked all the women's bags with her pastel pretties. Saturday came around and we went to the country club as usual. As all the group got ready to tee up, I made my way to the grounds shack. Mr. Macalhany was waiting for me at the ball washer. He hadn't paid me for the previous week. He gave me a hand full of quarters and told me to go to the club house golf shop and buy a pair of socks. I looked at him quizzically but said, "Yes sir," and did what I was told. Feeling a little miffed at having to spend hard earned money on socks, I was determined to show my disdain. I stomped into the golf shop and bought the gaudiest pair of socks I had seen in my life. They were chartreuse with periwinkle polka-dots. That would teach him.
When I got back to the grounds shack, Da was waiting for me with Mr. Macalhany. Oops. I sheepishly handed the socks to my Da. He and Mr. Macalhany looked at each other and then back at me. Da's normally stern face melted into a puddle of laughter. Mr. Macalhany said, "Good show," and handed me a pair of brand new golfing spikes, my size. Da handed me back the socks and said, "Put them on." I did as he asked. When I pulled the last lace tight, I stood up and pulled my pant legs up to see the spectacle. From the shins down, I was the poster boy for Golfing Magazine. As I was deciding whether to laugh or cry, Da brought a small golfing bag from behind his back. As socks had always been the extent of my gift experience, birthdays only garnering a trip to the soda shop for a malted or Sunday, I was struck dumb with awe. The gesture was overwhelming and I didn't know what to do or say. Da smoothed my hair and said, "Go tee up, young man." The new shoes made me walk like a duck but I added a little bounce to make it seem natural. It was the first time in my life that made feel like a grown up. I was riding so high on my new found adulthood, I hadn't noticed the change in Da's bag. All the white tops were minus the old leather cover. In fact, the real oddity was a mismatched steal headed putter.
As a young boy, I hadn't realized the magnitude of the change. Later, after my Da had died and the clubs came to me, Ma said that he had been so moved by my gesture with the socks he had sold his prized putter to out fit me. I looked at the mismatched set of old clubs and thought if they had been good enough for my Da, They were good enough. I recently read that a Royal Dornoch set of clubs went for $85,000 at auction. Funny, mine were priceless.
Merry Christmas.
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