“Big storm comin,” I say.

“Don’t git yer hopes up, Pa,” says the wife.

“We’re behind ya, Pop,” say the kids. “Whatever may happen.”

“It’s our last hope,” I say. “The contracts are due this week. I’ve gotta deliver or we’re through.”

“Yer a farmer,” says the wife. “It’s between you and God. I’m praying for ya.”

“We’re praying for ya,” say the kids.

“This drought… this darned drought…,” I say, looking out the window.

Then the storm hit. God Almighty answered our prayers.

I went out to warm up the tractor for the harvest.

Canada’s snow-cone companies were saved.



The science behind eating snow.

Posted for Friday Fictioneers.
Photo: Dale Rogerson

my socks

When I buy a pair of socks, I mark one left and one right. Either new sock could be a left or a right before I mark them! It’s like they are being born when I open the package and then I tell them which is male and which is female. I always say it out loud while I am marking. Once marked, they are male or female for life unless I decide to change the markings.

I have different feelings about left and right socks. Every so often I will put a left sock on my right foot. Once a year or so I will put a right sock on my left foot. I always mention this at confession but my priest never offers an opinion. I cannot see his socks; his cassock hangs too low.

When I was a teenager and then in my early twenties, I would have trouble finding a matching left and right pair in my sock drawers. If I found two that matched in color, they would both be right or both be left. I missed more trains that way, searching.

After the fire, when I needed all new socks, I bought only one brand (Vulvue), one type (wool, over-the-calf, ribbed), and one color (brown). I keep the lefts in one set of drawers and the rights in another set on the other side of the room. I wash lefts and rights separately. I use fewer drawers for the lefts because I like to squeeze them in together. The rights get more room but sometimes I will ball two of them up, one inside the other. Once I balled up three. I haven’t told my priest about this.

When I was thirty, I hurt my right foot and had to wear a cast. By the time it came off, the left socks were more worn than the rights. I had to get rid of all of them and start over. I packed them in a mini-fridge delivery box and put them down next to a homeless person at the station. I told him that one of the socks had a ten-dollar bill in it, so that he would not throw them all away. It was really only one dollar but I wasn’t sure that would provide sufficient motivation for him.

I have some fuzzy warm cotton socks for cold nights in bed. I keep these on a shelf in my closet, in a box I call “the harem.”

I notice socks on others. Most seem unhappy.




“Where are you going?”

“I’m going out to have another quick look for that bird.”

“It’s getting late and cooling off. Put on your black sweatshirt. I don’t want you catching a chill.”

“Yes, Dear.”

“Pull your hood up. Cover that bald head.”

“Where are my binoculars?”

“Here. It’s a little misty. Keep them in the sweatshirt’s front pocket, not around your neck. You can pull them out fast if you need to. And don’t get run over.”


“Sir, will you step over to the car please?”

“What is it, Officer?”

“Sir, do you live around here?”

“I do. Is there a problem?”

“You’re dressed in dark clothing with your hood up. The light’s failing. Makes you hard to see, and you’re moving slowly and a little erratically while you stare into the neighborhood’s front yards.”

“I can explain that. Let me just show you…”

“Sir, take your hand out of the pocket. We know what’s in there. We know what you’re up to.”

“No, let me explain…”

“No need. You’re the fourth person we’ve stopped. Look for the bird but please pay attention to the foot and bike traffic on the sidewalk. Safety first.”


For the Daily Prompt.