MISMATCHED SOCKS

Nina and Charlie Portfors

Bending over in a fold during our yoga session, I got a good look at my socks and noticed that they were mismatched – one gray, the other tan. Naturally, this meant I had a pair exactly like them in the drawer. So as not to make the same mistake twice, I took the mismatched pair out of the drawer and laid it on the dresser. Then I promptly washed the pair I was wearing and corrected the problem. (I’m fastidious about some things.)

Mismatched socks reminded me of my Grandfather Portfors. He was color blind, so dark blue, brown, and maroon all looked black to him. In order to match his socks, he would lay them on the tea cart in his kitchen, which was directly under the light. Then he could tell them apart – maybe. He would ask Mother to doublecheck.

Grandpa owned the Ford garage in our town, and I would say his one and only extravagance was his car – always a Lincoln. Mother told me that once when his new Lincoln was delivered, he seemed reserved in his reaction. “What’s the matter, Pop,” she asked.

“Well, doggonit,” he said, “I didn’t want a black car.”

“Pop, it’s not black. It’s maroon,” Mother replied. And she said he was quite happy knowing it wasn’t black, even though he saw it as black.

But I think he did prefer white cars. His last two Lincolns were white. The very last one was a 1956, and he drove it for ten years or so until he quit driving altogether. KW

[Note the white car on the left -- undoubtedly Grandpa's Lincoln.]