Two Socks Wandering the Streets

Two Socks Wandering the Streets

Or the case of the two black socks wandering the blocks.  For the past couple of weeks, I have been doing a random sock study which was imposed upon me by chance.  First, I saw a lost black sock laying on the pavement of one of the streets where I walked.  As I rounded the corner, down the sidewalk to the next block, its mate was sitting in the grass looking just as lost as the first one. They are nice socks, thick black with fuzzy tops which embrace the ankles.  I left the first one I saw resting quietly on the damp road, the thought coming to my mind that a child had lost their sock by taking it off to run barefoot in the grass but looking at the sock it seems to better fit an adult’s foot.  When I walked the next block, I found the mate waiting, gathering moisture from the air.  Two identical socks, lost without an owner living in the street. How lonesome must they be without each other to keep themselves company in the hours passing in the day and night.  

I am reminded of Robert Frost’s poem,” The Road Not Taken”, when I think of these two socks.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,”

My uncared for black socks are certainly diverged from one another.  I think about picking them up, putting them in the wash and wearing them whenever the mood suits me but they remain on the street waiting, continually getting damp, perhaps partially drying to be picked up by a wandering dog as it walks or runs down the street before moving to a different spot on a different block.  I can see a dog owner, telling a beloved pet to drop it, adding the moisture of a slobbery tongue and mouth to the dew of the night.

I am easily amused, my mother-in-law has commented on it numerous times.  I have a quirky sense of humor and the oddest things just seem to set me off until the man, my husband has to remind me when I am convulsing with laughter. ”Don’t hurt yourself”. This is probably why I find the socks migrating around on the streets so interesting and amusing.  I find myself looking around the corner willing the little bits of fabric to be somewhat along my path.

My mind races when I walk, sometimes with philosophical questions other times with mundane thoughts about a new recipe for dinner.  The man is resigned to beans.  I cook them nearly every week, he is lucky that I haven’t thought of the socks as road kill and bought them home to put them in the kettle for flavor.   Hard to digest? Probably. I know his limitations and someone else’s dirty socks is high on the list. 

I could write a short story about the mysterious socks.  See how they have metamorphosed from lost to mysterious? Hero or heroine? Night or day? Future or past or a blend of each?

The dogs were definitely on her scent and closing, stumbling to her knees, she drew off one of her socks to throw it several feet away.  It landed with an audible thud.  Not surprising with the amount of water that was in it.   Looking with what light was left in the sky, she jumped from where she had been several feet away to a large rain puddle wishing the whole time that she had a creek to walk in or at least more rain to wash all traces of her passing.  She continued her hopping from puddle to puddle leaving the one black sock sitting alone on the pavement.  Finding that the other sock was not helping she stopped pulled it off with frozen fingers and threw as far from her as she could.  She would miss them, the fuzziness, the warmth and just the comfort of having dry socks, she would miss them.  She continued hopping and stepping into the rain puddles without a backward glance.  The baying of dogs hovered in the air.

In all probability, the black fuzzy socks fell out of someone’s backpack on their way home from school.  Unless they were attached to the socks, I doubt that they were missed.  Except in the laundry where all socks disappear.  Mysteries, each day is a mystery to me.  Actually, more like miracles.  I am constantly amazed at me, just me.  I go to sleep, I wake up, I eat and do things.  Amazing.  The black socks on the street are not amazing.  They are just two socks wandering the streets but then I am just wandering the streets as well and I still can’t read the signs for I don’t know where I am going.  But it will be amazing.

French Toast without Syrup

French Toast without Syrup

I am sixty-four years old.  I shouldn’t be surprised but it has given me a reason to examine my lifestyle. I have had hopes to have myself in the state akin to the carnations still in bloom on my dining room table after these three weeks--long lasting, still looking good with some flexibility in my stems.

I am doing my stretching more frequently.  The other day I was greeted by my toes much quicker than previous tries. My knuckles resting on the floor I concentrated on holding the position while straightening my legs. I am working on holding the posture longer each time that I attempted it.  So far I have not passed out for which I am thankful as I sometimes stop in the hallway at work on my breaks and work on my stretching.  I would be very embarrassed for a co-worker to find me laying down on the job.  That is why I don’t do the exercises in the hallway by the defibrillator which sits in its box on the wall.  Yep, it would be very embarrassing to explain to everyone that it was a case of head rush and not a heart attack.

The man, my husband has stopped making cookies.  He loves cookies, I love cookies.  Cookies are my sugar downfall.  Before I thought about giving up most of the sugar in my life, I would mention to the man that I would like some cookies.   I would eagerly await the finished product which was generally peanut butter or his fabulous chocolate chip cookies and eat about six or eight fresh out of the oven.  It has been over a month since we have had freshly baked cookies in our house.  I have even told my favorite cookie vendor at the local Farmers’ Market that I have given them up though I still pick up a loaf of his honey wheat bread now and then.  We all have our vices.  The sugar (honey) in this case is still there but it is a lot less than the cookies that I love. 

Among the changes is just keeping up with the regular habits that I have.  I am a walker, I love to walk. I am particularly fond of heading out the door in the early morning in order to catch the birds chattering, trilling, and whistling their various calls through the air.  Often, I work on my affirmations while traipsing around and around the little track at the grade school close to my house. Because I walk so early I walk close to home just in case the hot cup of tea I drank is ready to come out.  One can never tell.

My husband and I have a wonderful relationship, I cook, I do the banking, handling the money from the pennies to the dollars, pay bills, organize vacations (lodging, air travel and whatever else is needed). Meanwhile, he cleans.  Just yesterday, he was busy in the kitchen, loading his dishwasher, sweeping and rubbing down the floor with his cleaning rag.  Me? I was busy sitting at the table.  I was reading and staying out of his way.  That is my main job.  I get out of the house while he vacuums, sometimes I am in the kitchen to help him by bringing him more dishes that he might have overlooked.  But for the most part, I make myself scarce. 

The other day, he mentioned that some clothes that I had taken off of the wooden clothes rack were still in the living room.  I giggled with some embarrassment, guilt and let him know that I would deal with them later.  Now for later, I removed a few strays from the wooden rack, threw the rest of the partially folded clothes into the wicket basket and headed for the bedroom.  I smoothed out the bed a little more and dumped the clothes onto the bed with a promise to myself to put them away.  Promises often go awry.

Bedtime. As I was in the bathroom, brushing and flossing my teeth, my husband put his head in the door and said, “Some clothing monster has thrown up on your bed.”

Ah, I knew in the back of the clutter which is my brain that I had forgotten something.  The man had gone into the bedroom to fetch the book we are reading to discover clothes covering the bed.  “Oops,” I replied.  Sighing he left, book in hand.

With the silence hovering outside the bathroom, I knew that he was patiently folding t-shirts, matching socks, and carefully putting it all in the dresser drawer.  Often, I wonder if he just suffers in silence, how much he minds taking care of his little wife who often doesn’t worry about getting the laundry put away, doesn’t bother to sweep the floor, and has no idea how to run the vacuum cleaner. 

I wonder about my self-worth as I really don’t seem to do much about the house.  Oh, but let’s not forget that I work a forty hour week sometimes coming home totally exhausted and thankful for all of the cooking that I or my husband did on the weekend. It is how we survive.

So I am not going to worry the things I don’t do.  I do thank the man for all that he does for me, for us and our life together. Having been together for nearly thirty-six years, my husband is good at reading my mind.  I was busy walking outside, leaving the house before he was awake on a Sunday morning. I came home to freshly made French toast.  I had thought about the toast while walking, wishing I had mentioned how nice it would be to have some with our fresh bread and fresh farm eggs.  But in the back of my mind I thought how is that going to work, no sugar, remember.  No lovely strawberry jam, blueberry or blackberry just to name a few of my favorites. However, I found out that French toast without syrup was glorious with the fresh bread.

Sometimes we just need to find the sweetness in life despite what we have given up.