Together again, finallyCopyright 2009 Lydia Hinshaw
ORMOND BEACH, FL -- I hate losing things. And I rarely do.
Things of mine do go missing all the time, though. It's always a thrill when I find something I'd begun to believe was truly lost.
Saturday was a pretty exciting day around here because I found a sock that had been misplaced for nearly a month.
I had always believed that the sock had gone astray in some part of the laundry process, as socks often do. At odd moments over the past month, I'd searched all the usual places -- the slot-canyon between the washer and dryer, the trail from bedroom to garage, the undergrowth in the closet near the laundry baskets.
No luck. One expensive high-tech sock languished atop my dresser, pining for its mate.
I was beginning to suspect I might have lost the thing somewhere on our June trip to New England and Nova Scotia.
The socks were in the first load of laundry I did after we got home. I'd wondered if the errant one could have gotten trapped by static cling in some in some larger item that also took a spin in the dryer that day.
But either Prince Charming or I had worn most of those clothes over and over since then. Saturday morning, a lightbulb finally came on. I remembered my hiking pants, which I'd worn all the time on our trip, but not at all since we got back.
As soon as I took them out of the dryer, I'd hastily folded the pants and put them in the drawer with other hiking clothes that I rarely wear in Florida.
Sure enough, the errant sock was hiding inside one of the pant legs.
I wish I could share my delight with some of my young charges at the daycare center where I work, but they'd never understand.
Every day after I drive the kids back from their field trip and set them loose on the playground, I go up and down the bus picking up socks.
The five-to-11 generation regard socks as disposable items, no more valuable or important than the flimsy plastic drinking cups they also leave on the bus. The daycare center throws the socks away, since parents seem to take lost socks as part of the cost of rearing children.
I only wish my feet were smaller.
Things of mine do go missing all the time, though. It's always a thrill when I find something I'd begun to believe was truly lost.
Saturday was a pretty exciting day around here because I found a sock that had been misplaced for nearly a month.
I had always believed that the sock had gone astray in some part of the laundry process, as socks often do. At odd moments over the past month, I'd searched all the usual places -- the slot-canyon between the washer and dryer, the trail from bedroom to garage, the undergrowth in the closet near the laundry baskets.
No luck. One expensive high-tech sock languished atop my dresser, pining for its mate.
I was beginning to suspect I might have lost the thing somewhere on our June trip to New England and Nova Scotia.
The socks were in the first load of laundry I did after we got home. I'd wondered if the errant one could have gotten trapped by static cling in some in some larger item that also took a spin in the dryer that day.
But either Prince Charming or I had worn most of those clothes over and over since then. Saturday morning, a lightbulb finally came on. I remembered my hiking pants, which I'd worn all the time on our trip, but not at all since we got back.
As soon as I took them out of the dryer, I'd hastily folded the pants and put them in the drawer with other hiking clothes that I rarely wear in Florida.
Sure enough, the errant sock was hiding inside one of the pant legs.
I wish I could share my delight with some of my young charges at the daycare center where I work, but they'd never understand.
Every day after I drive the kids back from their field trip and set them loose on the playground, I go up and down the bus picking up socks.
The five-to-11 generation regard socks as disposable items, no more valuable or important than the flimsy plastic drinking cups they also leave on the bus. The daycare center throws the socks away, since parents seem to take lost socks as part of the cost of rearing children.
I only wish my feet were smaller.
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