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.