I keep an old jacket down the basement for winter poultry chores. In the pocket are a pair of gloves need for filling the duck-and-goose swimming pool and replenishing the birds' drinking water buckets through the coldest Michigan months.

Early in January, I hurried outside on a typically frigid day. Just before reaching for the metal latch to the poultry pen, I stuck my hands inside the pockets of my jacket only to find that the gloves were missing. I had used them that very morning and couldn't figure out where they had gone.

"Linda," I asked my wife later after searching in vain for them throughout the basement. "You didn't happen to see the gloves I keep with that old grey jacket downstairs?"

"I needed them," she told me, directing me to the front yard where I quickly discovered where my personal comfort rates in comparison to other considerations.


There were my gloves.