Six Pairs of Thick Gray Socks Saved My White House on Elm Street

Dr. Albert, sixty-eight and wearing his usual tweed waistcoat, looked up from his desk when his receptionist ushered me straight back. He was rotating his black fountain pen between his fingers, a habit he always fell into when he was thinking hard.

“Martha,” he said, setting the pen down on a green blotter. “You look like you are marching to a meeting.continue reading …