"Fiddlesticks," Lis mumbled as she stared at the small hole in the woolen sock she held between her arthritic hands while she slowly turned toward her nearby sewing basket that held her oft used wooden darning egg. "How could Claude have ripped a hole so quickly in the heel of his brand new socks that his Aunt Gussie made for him? Sometimes I wish I had a daughter to help me do the mending. Oh well, it isn't a very big hole, and there is still daylight so I can see what I am doing."
She parted the cotton lace curtains to let in some more light and then moved to her ornate high-backed wood rocker by the Philco floor radio console so she could better hear the Yankees playing. "Strike one," the announcer shouted as Lis began weaving the yarn from one edge of the hole to the other.