Memories of JJ, 7 — Sartorial splendour


If you knew Dad, you knew he had his own sense of style. He wore moc­casins as much as he pos­si­bly could*. In the sum­mer­time, if he was­n’t wear­ing moc­casins, then he was bare­foot. (Well, maybe sandals.)

At work and at play, he’d wear blue jeans and a but­ton-up short-sleeve shirt. Lat­er, after I’d left home, he dis­cov­ered den­im shirts. There was always a pen or a mechan­i­cal pen­cil in the shirt pock­et, and usu­al­ly a tube of Certs. (Remem­ber Certs?)

The only time you’d see his legs was at the beach, in a bathing suit**. Oth­er­wise, like I said: jeans.

* I wore jeans and moc­casins at his funer­al. It just seemed right.

** Which reminds me of anoth­er fun time. We were camp­ing up at Blue Lakes. My sis­ters and I were swim­ming, and the water was cold. Like, my thumb­nails turned blue cold. Dad, from the shore, asked how the water was. “Fine,” we said, and he ran in. And then com­plained all the rest of the weekend—and for years lat­er, let me tell you—about his damn kids lying to him.

My dad passed away recent­ly. I hope you’ve enjoyed my lit­tle memo­ri­als to him. This is the last one in the series, but rest assured, I’ll prob­a­bly men­tion him again. Thanks for reading.

Posted in JJ.