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FAIRBANKS -- It started the way so many of my obsessions do these days. Someone wrote about it on my wall. This wasn’t graffiti etched in metallic paint on the side of our house or a scrap of paper stuck to an office bulletin board. A friend wanted to tell me something, so she left me a note on my Facebook account.

For those of you not among the growing hordes of parents and baby boomers “friending” old classmates and looking up exes on the world’s largest social networking system — or those of you still in your adolescence who’ve reluctantly left the party now that all the old folks have crashed it — let me fill you in.

Facebook is an online site where you can create a page devoted to your posse, your profession or just talk about the things you like. It’s part resume and part blog. A hybrid of e-mail and holiday letters. It’s MySpace without the annoying background music and swirling graphics.

It’s a dorm room door where people can stop by and tell you they like your new haircut (thanks to a profile picture) or that the kids are growing up so fast (thanks to your photo albums) or that they cannot believe Alaska’s governor pardoned that turkey, only to complain in an interview about how “brutal” the campaign trail was while the rest of the flock got slaughtered in the background (thanks to an application that lets you post video and links to other websites).

I guess Palin’s crew of Outside public relations professionals have been laid off now that the governor’s back in Alaska. Unlike the weeks during the presidential election, though, this obsession had nothing to do with the former vice presidential candidate. A friend wrote to tell me about the Big Sock making a pass through Fairbanks as part of its world tour. She knew I liked to knit from my Facebook display, and she wanted to make sure I got a chance to see it.

I started knitting late last year because it just seemed like the right time. There are these moments when life sweeps you up in the latest trend, leaving you wondering how you ever lived without it, while simultaneously shaking your head at the absurdity of becoming another cliché, an almost-40, ex-boyfriend friending lady who knits socks.

It’s my obsession. I don’t go anywhere or do anything without dragging a set of double-pointed needles along with me. I’m not even the worst. Some of my friends spend their weekends combining two passions — hockey and knitting. (Or for their partners — it’s hockey and expensive cheap beer.) Their secret desire is to inspire a special addition to the camera that canvasses the crowd looking for couples kissing or kids crying. They call it the knitting cam.

So, I knit socks. Cabled socks, baby socks, socks made out of unwashable wool, socks made out of machine-safe blends. I don’t think I’ll be able to stop until every friend and acquaintance has a pair of wool stockings languishing in her dresser. Watch out Facebookers.

But the Big Sock is different. For one thing, it’s not fit for a human foot. How many knitters does it take to carry the big sock? At least five if you don’t want it to drag on the ground.

Reportedly the Big Sock was started a couple of years ago by a woman in the United Kingdom who designed it as a charity event for National Knitting Week, and it’s been growing ever since. Literally. The sock that visited Fairbanks last weekend was 76-inches long, weighing 50 pounds and sporting a 21-inch circumference.

Knitters from all over town stopped by yarn shops and bars to add a few stitches on the circular needles strung out along its diameter. They talked about their passion for knitting and felt a communion with people from different cultures and religions who felt the same way. Our connections go beyond our basic needs for food, shelter, clean air and water.

I never did get to see the big sock. Something even better happened to me instead. I went over to a friend’s house for an impromptu knitting night. We brought desserts and our bags of yarn. She provided a big pot of soup and some homemade bread. And for me, the obsessive sock knitter, she had a pair of hand knit socks more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen.

They’re warm and machine washable, just the right shades of blue and red weaved into a pattern that looks like stars peeking out of a wintry night. They’re soft and cozy, and I’m never taking them off. Now if I can only get her to join Facebook, I’ll leave her the nicest thank you note one of those walls has ever seen.

Theresa Bakker lives with her family in downtown Fairbanks, where she finds plenty of things to write about. Contact her at theresabakker@yahoo.com.