All my black socks are rolled up in a plastic bag in a dresser drawer. Some are multi-colored with wild designs, some have more muted patterns.  And some are just plain black.  Usually I grab the pair on top, but when I reached further into the bag the other day, I unrolled a pair of black socks with an overall pattern of marching white guinea hens that hadn’t surfaced in years. 

I bought those guinea hen socks in Africa in 2000.  We were there with our kids to celebrate Peter’s seventieth birthday, not to mention to fulfill my safari dream.

The socks unleashed memories of the experience of a lifetime.  Like my paralyzing fear watching my son Seth, then thirty, bungee jump 111 meters into the Zambezi River from the bridge joining Zimbabwe to Zambia near Victoria Falls.  Or Peter’s and my successful short-sheeting of the kids’ beds in retaliation for them trying to scare us with their hippopotamus noises outside our open cabin late one night. Watching giraffes and elephants at water holes early in the morning.  Long family chats while watching beautiful sunsets.

Memories brought back by a pair of black socks with guinea hens.