I often get a new book or two or three for Christmas each year. Books are great gifts, “in my book.” Socks are also a great gift, in my “you can’t have too many socks” philosophy of life. This past Christmas, I received two small books of poetry. I don’t remember receiving socks.

But I do remember buying four pair of socks a week or two ago on a half-price sale. This was after having taken a couple of dozen pair to the thrift store.

When my wife saw me holding socks in the store, I simply answered her non-verbal, quizzical look with the reply, “I’m running low.” She understands that my “low” is many people’s “overflow” when it comes to socks. And she accepts that. She, herself, likes a good pair of Nordic socks as well as anyone.

So, books and socks. These months after Christmas and before Spring is the season for settling into a snug and warm spot with a good book while wearing good socks.

There’s only so much time you can spend outside in the sub-freezing temperatures. That is, unless you’re a dedicated outdoorsy, love the winter, get into the snow and ice type of person.

Many years ago, Norm Fullenbach, was the publisher of “The Richfield Reaper” (1946 – 1977). He wrote a popular, unique column for the weekly newspaper called “Reaper-Cussions” or sometimes “The Reaper Rat Race.”

He was known as “The Rat.” That was because much of the column material dealt with “ratting out” people, by name, relative to embarrassing things that happened around town. When people got the paper, that was often the first thing they read.

The reason I bring him up here and now, is that I’m remembering him making fun of snowmobilers – speaking of outdoorsy, winter lovers.

Norm wrote that if he wanted to have the same fun that snowmobilers were having, he’d drive in his car on a snowy road with the windows down. And, he’d arrange for a pickup truck to drive alongside him. And, someone could throw a bucket of snow through the window on him every minute or so. That’s what he thought of snowmobiling.

Anyway, back to books and socks. My daughter gave me the poetry books for Christmas. One of them is a collection of poems by the famous American poet, Robert Frost.

On my recent, late night walks with Archer, the wonder Sheltie, I’ve been attempting to memorize the poem, “The Road Not Taken.” It’s quite short, but not easy to commit to memory (for me) because of the irregular arrangement of words, which I guess we’d call syntax.

The poem seems to be a parable for life and has deeper meaning than I thought at first. More about parables in moment.

I’m remembering now a couple of books that I received for Christmas some years ago — “Jane Austen’s Little Advice Book” and “The Book of Totally Useless Information.”

It may or may not surprise you to know that out of the many books I’ve received over the years, one of the books which I was highly drawn to was the “useless information” one. I wonder what that says about me. Let’s not explore that now.

From that book, I learned about the history of kilts. I also learned why the score of zero in tennis is called “love.” (“Love” is a distortion of the French word oeuf, which means egg – as in goose egg. Most of us are familiar with zero sometimes being referred to as a goose egg in sports.)

Here’s a couple of bits of advice from the Jane Austen advice book. 1) On why surprise parties never work: “Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.” 2) On the Necessity of Complaining: “Those who do not complain are never pitied.”

Let me get back to parables now. Yes, I know this column is probably reminding you of the movie, which I never saw, titled “Everything Everywhere All at Once.” Some experts call this writing style “Stream of Consciousness.” I call it rambling.

Some years ago, my sister-in-law, who passed away a year and a half ago, told me the story of an experience which she called a parable. This experience was evidently a significant event that she was attempting to draw meaning from.

Here’s the short version. Judi and her grandson were working under a tree. They were suddenly aware that they were invading the personal space of a hummingbird nest. The father and mother hummingbird showed their unhappiness that their privacy and security was being compromised.

Some days later, it seemed that the birds had gone and the nest was seemingly abandoned. The grandson was sent up the tree to cut the small branch off, so the nest could be used – presumably, for a decoration. Lo and behold, when the branch was handed down, there were a couple of withered, ugly, seemingly dead birdies in the nest. But they weren’t dead. When touched, they opened their mouths and were expecting dinner.

For lack of a better idea, the little branch was duct taped back up in the tree. The outcome was good. The baby birds ultimately lived.

So at the end of the story, I wanted to know what the moral or lesson was – since it was advertised as a “parable.” Judi said she didn’t know. She wanted me to tell her.

Here are some of the possible lessons to be learned that I came up with: 1) Be careful when you deal with the withered, ugly, and seemingly dead; 2) Duct tape is, in fact, all it’s cracked up to be; 3) If hummingbirds want their nests to be part of an arts and crafts project, they will build them on top of your mailbox 4) Good deeds aren’t always punished 5) Count your chickens and hummingbirds after they’ve hatched — and before you saw any limbs off.

If you have any unsolved parables in your life, feel free to send them to me. As you can see, I have rare interpretive powers.

In the meantime, find a book and a pair of comfortable socks. Spring, and the outdoor work that comes with it, will be here before you know it. — Merrill

Newsletter