John Edmondson
The following doesn't merit a new version of that old television series, "Unsolved Mysteries," but it kept me scratching my head for days on end.
It all began a few weeks ago when my wife, Betty, directed my attention to the bedroom carpet, its cushiony softness as apparent that morning as the day it was installed last summer.
But sprinkled across its surface were tiny black flecks of ... I wasn't sure what. I was running late for school, so I promised Betty that I'd get the Dust Buster out as soon as I got home.
When I went back upstairs later that day, armed with the Dust Buster, the source of the black flecks seemed obvious — potting soil from the plants in the bedroom. Our three cats chase sunbeams as they dance across a wall, or even a flowerpot.
Max, who fancies himself a big-game hunter, got in a dust-up in the pot that holds the palm, and scattered soil all over the rug.
But when I moved the Dust Buster across the rug, it left many of the flecks behind. Wet potting soil, I figured. But no, upon further inspection, the flecks were some kind of fabric, and had embedded themselves deep into the carpet. I got out the masking-tape-on-a-roll contraption and picked up every last black particle.
The next morning, I woke up to even more flecks than before, some tiny and some not so tiny. I picked up one of the larger ones and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger. It was smooth and oh, so soft — just like the new socks I'd bought a few days earlier.
I buy new socks about as often as I buy new underwear, because if you're a guy, both of those items last darn near forever. The holes have to be numerous and wide to deem them unwearable.
So, using my formidable powers of deduction, I surmised that the specks were nothing more than new-sock fuzz. I should have listened to my mother 36 years ago when, before sending me off to college, she told me to always wash new clothes before wearing them. Over the years, I've found fuzz in a variety of unmentionable places.
I threw my five pairs of brand-new, unworn socks into the washer with the rest of my laundry. Problem solved, or so I thought.
For the next several mornings, I awoke to more sock fuzz than ever before. I needed to add another component to my shower-shave-brush-teeth morning ritual — get out the masking tape thingy and roll it across the floor.
As the days dragged on, I feared my new socks were slowly disintegrating. How much fuzz could five pairs of socks produce? And why did the fuzz prefer the bedroom carpet, and not the filter in the dryer, that collected cat hair, quarters and old hall passes?
Then one night, as I sat on the edge of the bed, I pulled off a sock so that it ended up inside out in my hand. Little balls of sock fuzz floated gently to the ground.
In a flash, I suddenly remembered what my mother added about the importance of pre-washing new clothes: Turn them inside out.
I've since discovered this rule particularly applies to underwear as well.
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John Edmondson is a teacher in Hampstead. His column appears every other week in the Derry News.
