F ishel and Faivish Friedman couldn’t restrain themselves from jumping up and down and giving each other high fives. They were flying to Miami with their parents that very afternoon, to visit their grandmother.

Mrs. Friedman had sent them upstairs to do their packing (and for her to get some peace and quiet at last).

“Now remember, boys. One suitcase each, and pack sensibly. Think about what you’ll need for a two-week holiday,” she instructed them.

Fishel and Faivish raced upstairs, each vying to get to the top first. In the end they arrived neck and neck, and burst into their bedroom together.

Fishel hoisted his empty suitcase onto his bed and started stuffing it with pants and shirts. “Done! Now for socks. Ten pairs should be enough.”

“Ha! I’m packing 12 pairs. That’s even better,” crowed Faivish, quickly digging out a couple of extra pairs, riddled with holes, which should have long been consigned to the garbage.

Fishel ignored him. “I’ll take a couple of sweaters,” he murmured. “I know it’s hot in Miami, but you never know, there might be a hurricane or something. It pays to be prepared.”

“I’m taking a winter coat. A sweater won’t be much use in a hurricane,” Faivish said, trying to outdo his brother.

“Well, I’m taking my rain boots. I mean, we’ll be by the sea. There could be flooding.”

“Fat lot of good rain boots will be if there’s flooding. I’m taking this enormous bean bag. It’ll serve as a sandbag.”

The pile on each bed quickly overflowed the sides of the suitcases, and grew higher and higher. When Mrs. Friedman came upstairs to check if the boys had finished packing, she nearly fainted.

“Whatever in the world is going on?” she said while gasping. “We’re going to Florida, not Alaska. Besides, they’ll never let us on the plane with all this luggage.”

She wiped her brow.

“Daddy wants to leave in a few minutes. He’s heard there’s construction on the way, so he’s decided to leave early. But, dear me! How will we ever be ready on time?”

The troublesome pair eyed the great big tottering piles on their beds.

“Got it! Let’s call Jolly Solly,” announced Fishel suddenly, snapping his fingers.

“I was just going to say that,” replied Faivish, not to be outdone.

As poor Mrs. Friedman wrung her hands, the boys decided they’d better get on with making arrangements.

“Suitcases downstairs in five minutes,” hollered Mr. Friedman from downstairs. Mrs. Friedman fanned herself weakly with a stray sock, as she visualized the plane leaving without them. (Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 672)