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As my dad got older, he decided that his black dress socks were terribly uncomfortable, and therefore chose to wear his white diabetic sport sock with everything. Mind you, they made black ones, but Daddy would not be swayed. He also had the remarkable habit of buying his pants, especially his jeans, too short. My father was a fine man, a good husband and a wonderful father, but a fashion maven he was not, with his pants tucked under his gut and his white socks gleaming in the sunlight.
When he died, Mom sent me and my hubby to the house to pick up his burial outfit, which he had designated as his brown suit with a tie and shirt of my choosing. We were also told to bring socks only, no shoes. I picked up one of the white pair. Mom asked me why I had gotten them when his brown socks would have looked better. I told her that if he was alive, he would have refused to have worn them. Why should I put them on him now, especially if nobody else was going to see them? She agreed with me, and we buried him in those white socks, darn it.
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