Friday night in winter, when Libby and the rain came. Four tripped north in accord. Then, through the gloom, a sign, 66, red on white, beckoning to halt our flight. The Hurricane could wait. As could our pending date with the Go-Kart boys and an appointment to engage in a bit of planet making. A simple Yoo-hoo, jerky stop to juice the car while the rain came. When, there at the register, on a rack sandwiched in among the snacks, gleaming, these legendary frames. Gold-rim, blue-lens, Roger-By-God-McGuinn, rectangular, stuck-in-the-Sixties angular, Benjamin-Franklin-was-my-granny glasses. It HAD to be the glasses that made the difference that winter night when Libby and the rain came. It might have been the boots, but it wasn’t. Black, snakeskin, pointy-toe, one silver spur slipped on behind the right. Perhaps it was the pants, but it wasn’t. Midnight, well-worn denim, row of conchos laced up either side. Possibly the pendant? But it wasn’t. Arrowhead of solid gold on chunky chain, mid-chest height. I am here to tell you, water children. I am here to testify, that it was those glasses. Magic glasses, bonafide, that made me irresistible to women in the heart of The Hurricane that winter Friday night when Libby and the rain came.