Both man and child have a right to socks that work right. Ada would go through the stack of whatever size socks went with what ever size shoe I was now in possession of and make believe that I was picking out my very own expensive colorful stripped socks.

I believe three pair was the number in mind. However, things would change at the last minute and Ada would manage to remember something else she would need and if we bought the stripped expensive socks she couldn't get whatever it was that she had remembered that she needed to get, and besides that, the three pair of brown socks, which didn't cost as much, would actually allow more wear since if a hole wore in the heel of one you could match it with another and "mate up".

Wonderful idea! Right Laurel?" "What do you think?"

"We'll take these three Madam-Won't we Laurel?" followed by "And don't you argue with me Laurel Hardy"-both names used always indicated that it was a good idea not to open my mouth.

In this sort of tight situation I could usually divert things by either pulling something from my nose or would reach around to give the seat of my britches a tug, a vigorous ass scratch and a dig-I think I had worms quite often because I sure needed to scratch a lot.

This would call for another one of Ada's famous unconstrained colloquial sayings which would make me aware that she was gon'na knock me into the middle of next week-but she never did-in fact Ada never struck me with anything except a switch until that day I already told you about when she smacked me in the kisser and again when I was sixteen when she gave me a right cross to the chin which I greatly deserved and maybe I'll tell you about if I have time.

The verbal torment would last all the way from the sock counter to the street and then drift off to some other universal collection of facts totally out of cognition to an eight year old and I always thanked God there were no hedges or trees downtown Little Rock.

I have to say that Ada never carried a grudge or even looked back. Justice was swift. Once punishment was meted out, the incident never came up again.

Okay, what about socks? It wasn't actually the socks-it was the God Damned rubber elastic that the silly bastards put in the socks.

 Didn't these rotten, irrelevant, fictitious, affected, misbegotten excuses for "sock engineers" even think about or have any consideration for us poor obsessive compulsives in need of socks which would not slide down from our skinny little legs and be swallowed by our shoes?

I like socks with strength of their own which will stay up on my legs where I put them. No sock should be allowed to be manufactured or sold which doesn't reach to the knee. Now that just seems intelligent to me. European men and golfers still wear socks which barely reach the malleoli and I really get anxious when I see such things happening to people. I have this incessant urge to remind these poor devils that their shoe has eaten their sock. Occasionally I feel the urge to actually pull them up for others.

In 1940, after three washings-or less-the rubber-elastic would fail and the sock would become this rather substantial size tube which forever fell into a heap awaiting its inevitable fate. That is to be eaten by the shoe.

This condition was absolutely intolerable to me and I was totally occupied with devising a method for overcoming this horrible punishment positioned on me by the "Sock God".

I'm not exactly sure just when I first understood this dreadful discomfort which came from this "sock condition" but I do remember having to stop and end about every fourth or fifth step to pull my socks up to the proper position. This maneuver impeded progress and required setting aside any books or parcels each time.

The solution to my problem finally came to me during one of my many unsanctioned walks downtown after school. Unknown at the time of inception, the solution did come with a price.

 The method I devised was, I thought, a clever way of taking about five steps and abruptly halting my steps, balancing on my left leg then curling my right foot behind the back of my left ankle just at the Achilles area and hoisting the wayward sock up to its proper location. I could then take five more steps and perform a like maneuver with my left foot. I perfected this to the point that only slight hesitation was required and could make, what seemed to me, almost normal progress.

However, others had now discovered my "little problem".

I believe the first suggestion, of something gone wrong, came with my being removed from my seat in the second row of the classroom and nudged toward the back of the room in a coaxing fashion-much as one would a Labrador Pup when newspaper training. First thoughts through my mind were that she-she being the teacher-had probably detected me playing with myself-later high school terminology tagged this as "pocket pool"-and boy was I gon'na get hell from Ada if they could track her down to our present address. Ada had chided me about this practice of late but the reprimand went unheeded.

I probably needed to "sock attend" at least once during the trip to the last seat in the row and was then asked if there was anything she-she being the teacher-could get for me.

Well, when she said that, I figured she hadn't seen me playing with myself after all and maybe she just thought I didn't feel well. I felt fine. In fact, I was already beginning to enjoy myself because I was real close to a window and could probably do anything I wanted to do clear in the back. Remember, I could already blow a bubble from my eye, multiple spit bubbles from my puckered lips and had almost perfected the first three bars of "Stars and Stripes Forever" passing gas.

Only a few minutes passed before "Billy Goat Gruff"-this was our name for the school principal-came into the classroom.

He had a whispered conference with the teacher during which time many glances projected toward me with the appropriate and timely head bob gestures required for a high current discussion such as this one.

I got'ta tell you, by now, I just didn't know what could be going on so I raised my hand number one, cause I was about to pee in my pants and Jesus, how the hell would I explain that, since I couldn't explain anything else because I didn't know anything else and scared just isn't-I wanted to say ain't but Ada never allowed me to say that word-the proper word. I believe sheer panic would be very appropriate.

 My mind raced over the past week of illicit actions trying to reconstruct all of the things I had been involved in and I knew I was screwed up like "Ned in the Third Reader".

Finally the two of them approached me with very kind smiles on their faces and seemed to want to comfort me. Well I told them that the main thing I needed right then was to "go make a tinkle" which was Ada's polite way of telling someone you had to urinate-we, Magnis and I, also weren't allowed to use the "common" term "piss"-and that if not allowed very soon, was "sure as bears can't fly" gon'na tinkle all over the floor.

They thought that that would be fine and why didn't I do it right away which is exactly what I did.

When I came out of the restroom-we didn't call it a bath room because you certainly didn't take a bath in one of those rooms-well, you certainly couldn't rest in one either-"Billy Goat Gruff" asked me how long I thought I had been having this "little problem" and since I didn't know I was having any "little problems" I said I didn't really know which certainly couldn't qualify as a lie.

They seemed relieved about this time and assured me that they would do all they could to help me through this thing and were certainly glad that I had a Mother and family who cared so much and were seeing to my needs.

Well I thanked them for caring and at the same time wondered if Ada was even gon'na let me live after she found out what ever it was that I had-or did-or got into this time.

During recess I became a pariah but I managed to "overhear the under talk" and gathered that everyone thought I had something really bad and maybe I wouldn't even live through the day.

I certainly didn't know what the hell seizures were but I did recognize what fits were because one of Miss Laura's friends from church used to have them and foamed at the mouth and peed in his pants and I certainly qualified with having peed in my pants but I never ever foamed at the mouth except when I blew my spit bubbles. "Oh Jump'in Jesus"-that was one of Uncle Louie's favorite expressions-what am I gon'na do.

After Ada kills me Miss Laura will probably do it again and she never ever even laid a hand on me except to hug me.

When we returned from recess the teacher let me know that if I ever felt a real bad one coming on that I should be sure and let her know so she could make sure I didn't swallow my tongue. I told her that I would be grateful for that and spent the rest of the morning in the back of the classroom playing with myself, blowing spit bubbles and trying to swallow my tongue . . .