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

Canton Cemetery.

The gravel crunched under my boots as I walked toward the oak tree on the hill where Arthur was buried.

The air was sharp and smelled of pine needles and damp earth.

I stopped in front of the gray granite marker with Arthur’s name carved into the stone.

“Arthur,” I said, my voice sounding small in the open space. “I kept continue reading …