• Last modified 885 days ago (Jan. 20, 2022)


Another Day in the Country

Staying warm and cozy?

© Another Day in the Country

Single socks. Today’s count on top of my washing machine, is 12 single socks trying to find a mate — although, it seems to me, they aren’t trying very hard.

We all know how it happens. A sock drops between the washer and drier and may stay in isolation for months. Another sock hides under the bed and never even makes it to the laundry room. Several faithful foot coverings get tangled up with a fitted sheet, and you know how troublesome those are to fold and how easy it is for a white sock to hide away in the tuck of a white sheet until spring, when the flannel sheets are put away.

Flannel sheets are a tribe of their own, attracting socks with their promise of constant companionship — sticking to you through thick and thin. Pillow cases are even worse.

The other day, I found a sock hidden in the leg of my skinny jeans. It had been there for months in the closet because I don’t wear those jeans as much in cold weather.

So, I’m folding clothes and end up with 12 single socks. I’m sure a couple of their mates stayed behind in California, when I was there over Christmas, just to confound my daughter.

They are little foot socks anyway. They get more use in California than here in winter, so I don’t begrudge them staying. I might just stick the strays in an envelope and send them to my daughter, or better yet stick them in the rag drawer to use for dusting. Serves them right.

I think I’m going to institute my own for single socks in one of those gift bags that can hang on a knob.

We’ll just throw them all in there — the toe socks, the anklets, the knee socks, and wool socks, and every once in a while, like maybe when the seasons change and I’m rearranging the closet, go through the bag and see whether there are any matches. What are the chances?

On the weekend, we celebrated my sister’s birthday early with our friends we call “the girls.”

When Michaela brought out a birthday cake rimmed with crayon-style candles, we just sat enjoying the little flickering flames, basking in the warmth of friendship for a minute or two.

Then, Jess said, “Why don’t we each take a turn picking up a candle and making a wish, out loud, then blow it out.”

We all thought that was a great idea.

The birthday girl wished for a “continued strong and healthy body.”

Phyl wished for good health, too.

I wished for an “adventure” in the coming year.

Michaela wished for “us all to be gathered around my table again after 10 years have passed.”

We kept going around the table until all the candles were out.

Jess and I talked about the ritual as we drove home and decided it should become our “new normal” beyond the time of COVID, when we don’t want to blow on other folk’s food.

It was lovely to hear the wishes, like blessings, sprouting up around the table.

Speaking of singles and mismatched socks, one of my single friends recently told me that she’d found a friend on one of those dating websites.

She’d tried it years ago without a good outcome and had given up. You know how it goes when we reach a certain age and it seems to be more trouble than it’s worth — and there are risks involved. So we just content ourselves with our single-sock friends — ski socks, athletic socks, cotton socks, and toe socks getting together every once in a while to have lunch or come over to play games on a Sunday afternoon.

But for some reason — actually very good reasons, come to think of it; she’s still young in my book — she decided to try that electronic match-making business again.

No use languishing in the metaphorical bag of single socks when there could be a match out there hiding somewhere in plain sight. And, over the holidays, she discovered a match.

“I decided to be more specific this time,” she said. “I wanted to make sure that the person I was meeting was really on my wavelength.”

In other words, she — who in the sock world would be considered a hand-knitted, very colorful, knee-high, imported sock — would not settle for a match with one of those flimsy gray synthetic socks that lose their shape and shrink when they’re washed.

”Good for you,” I said, “When do we get to meet him?”

I just finished the laundry and I’m going through my pile of unmatched socks again. I found a match for a couple of socks and put them away in my tidy, Japanese-style, highly organized sock drawer, which would make anybody proud to be in such good and diversified company on another day in the country.

Last modified Jan. 20, 2022