One year , I was seven, my dad gave me a pair of woolen Norwegian ski socks. It was my first lesson in being polite.
Those socks were not what I wanted or even needed. Dad was pleased with them. He picked them out. That was good enough.
Every year for Christmas I used to get a pair of socks from our wonderful neighbors. We knew how poor they were and how they struggled to eke a living out of a 40 cow dairy. The father had been a Marine in the Pacific during WWII; he was always happy and smiling. I was happy just knowing a tough old bird like Morris liked me enough to give me anything.