Feel my Sock

"Feel my sock," said my sister. I reached out my index finger as Molly held a pair of clean, cuffed gym socks for me to rub. They were nice. "Now try these," Molly continued as she pulled another pair from behind her back. I was not convinced at first, but soon the comparison made me realize the second pair felt more like course 60-grit sandpaper and the first pair just felt like soft sand. Molly threw both pairs onto her pile of socks on the rocking chair, which is now dubbed Sock Mountain. Our sister-in-law gave Molly the socks as a gift, so maybe she'll get to take Molly's sock test sometime (and tell Molly where she bought them). I just hope Molly doesn't get rid of her old socks. I bet they'd come in handy when building a pinewood derby car or picnic table.

Molly and I both visited my parents this weekend. Mom and Dad's farm is about 75 miles south of St. Louis, which makes for a perfect weekend retreat. Their house rests in the middle of a meadow of tall grass, and is heavily guarded by cows. The quietness and lack of connectivity (my cell phone doesn't work, and there isn't high-speed internet) assures for long days of eating Mom's wonderful cooking (today she made a fritatta, wild boar, and oatmeal cookies!!!), lounging, eating, eating, and chatting about important things like Molly's gym socks.