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

The streetlights were flickering on when the taxi pulled up to my curb.

Mr. Henderson, my neighbor from across the street, was standing by his mailbox, his heavy winter coat zipped to his chin.

He looked over as I closed the taxi door.

“Martha,” he called out, his voice carrying through the crisp evening air. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine, Harold,” I said,continue reading …