baton pass
“I’m passing on the baton,” my sister said, holding out the tiny little socks as she arrived at Mykolas’ “quarters.”
I smiled.
Once again, in my hands were HER fluffy, miniature first socks.
The same socks that now would snugly hold the feet of the sixth child in our family.
Warming not just with their sweet tradition of being passed along, but with the story of how they came to be.
When I was a teenager, our family decided to move from our city apartment to a house in the countryside.
After long searches and considerations, our family plan “worked out.”
With great curiosity and wide-eyed wonder, my sister and I were taken to see our new home.
The little house wasn’t fancy.
But the belief that we could make it cozy outweighed the slightly uninspiring view.
In the yard, we were greeted by a lively, barking dog.
“This is Liksa,” the homeowners introduced.
“You’ll want her… or put her to sleep?” they added casually.
We were moving into an apartment, so we couldn’t take a kennel dog with us.
My childish eyes went wide.
“Put her to sleep?”
“Dead???” my still-very-childlike mind exploded with questions.
A dog is not a product.
Not a “bonus” you take or leave when buying something.
No one put Liksa to sleep.
We didn’t even let such a thought go further than far.
As if in gratitude for the right to live, she became our friend.
For me, a kid “from the apartment”—to have a dog…
And not just any dog, but a fairly big one—was a huge joy.
I walked her across the meadows.
And when my parents weren’t watching, I’d invite her to my room.
So when my own children later looked at me with big eyes saying, “We want a puppy,” my childhood memories stirred, remembering how much I had wanted one.
Liksa was of West Siberian lineage.
Peaceful.
Beautiful.
Smart.
When it was her “feeding time,” we’d take brushes, groom her, and collect her fur.
Then, with great love and using an old spinning wheel, my grandmother—now sitting on her cloud—spun the wool.
And those beloved hands knitted baby socks.
The first to “try them on,” 13 years ago, was my sister’s firstborn, Fausta.
Back then—Lucija.
Then the baton passed to my Dominykas.
Then—Patricija.
Then it returned to my sister’s family to warmly cover Jono’s little feet.
And now—it has come back to us again—for MYKOLAS.
In this way, my very first dog, whom we “inherited” and saved from suddenly becoming unwanted, warmed the FEET OF ALL OUR FAMILY CHILDREN.
My sister and I have probably finished the “baton race.”
I smile at the thought tucked in my mind: maybe one day it will be picked up by the feet of our grandchildren?
And it will become a beautiful “relay” story.
For the next generation…
V.
