by Mark Patterson
- My late father, an advanced master of back-handed compliments- liked to remark (after consuming his fill, and then some) that my mother was “quite a cook,” but the resultant kitchen mess-congealed pots, spilled ingredients, foot bits all over the floor-rendered the whole culinary experience a zero sum game, at best. He should have married June Cleaver. And maybe dressed like Ward.Ever present strand of pearls adorning her graceful, aquiline neck (Leave it To Beaver would be years into syndication before I began to notice that neck) expensive ear rings in place while gliding around in that ridiculous evening dress, America’s mythical mom served up sumptuous meals without an open can or dirty spatula in sight. Setting aside his newspaper, June’s wise and virtuous spouse revealed attire suitable to a man who could “woo” that sort of woman. Ward’s tasteful cardigan, white shirt and tie completed perfectly the picture of a serene, upper-middle class couple that never could have existed. But that’s beside the point. These people were w-i-n-n-e-r-s, and they dressed like it.So, what did my dad expect in his cheap checkered double- knit slacks and discordant “nehru” shirt (a late-60’s trend copied from Johhny Carson, that infallible barometer of our country’s changing tastes) ? My late father, God rest him and GOD , how I loved him, was a fashion victim (I’ve come to find that’s hereditary). And his look projected that. Right down to the one-armed readers he put on when nowhere near one of his Mafia exposes, even after the tape fell off and the right-side dangled almost down to his cheek. He thought those gave off a studious vibe.We all don “uniforms” that state who we are, or who we want to be. Or what tribe we belong to. Or what job we work-or wish we got paid to do. Taking honors for best costume in a walk (or gallop, as it were), have got to be the faux- western breed derisively referred to as “Calcutta Cowboys.” Long-sleeved white shirts, tight, neatly-pressed jeans, and the occasional Stetson identify these George Strait knockoffs, who may never have moseyed west of Toledo, but miraculously effect a convincing Texas drawl. Accoutrements can sometimes count more than clothing when striving for a particular look, especially those actually needed at work. Although I’m skeptical about that part when it comes to keys-the visible ones always dangled conspicuously from a belt. Just how many doors, compartments, and cash drawers can one person be expected to keep tabs on? These carriers of many keys-male or female-generally wear spiffy golf-shirts (when sans company-logo, I think it means that’s the owner, or boss of an establishment) and I’m pretty sure that the more keys they jangle-the more important they are, or want to look, at least. Sometimes emulation, even more than profession or personal taste, influences what we strap on-or would love to. Take my son, Shane, a fierce non-conformist whose obsession with horror-movies has resulted in a standing Christmas request for an ancient tubeteika (yes, I can actually spell that-knowledge sadly gained from long hours surfing the net for one), the hat worn by mysterious german actor Max Shreck as titular blood-sucker in that legendary pre-talkie, Nosferatu. So far, his mom and I can’t find one large enough for his expansive melon (that’s hereditary, too, I guess), but Shane implores us to keep trying and swears he will sport it proudly about town. Remaining faintly hopeful for grandkids, we do tactfully hint that garish, 19th century headwear-and Euro, at that-might do little to bolster a thus far ineffective game with the ladies. To that, our 30-year-old mildly autistic offspring retorts (and not without merit) that he doesn’t desire any gal who doesn’t desire him for who he is. Or who he dresses up like, I guess. Good luck with that, son, in a three-pointed paisley hat towering an additional half a foot above your 6’2 frame.He’d be better off in standard, modern-day “everyman” attire-muted hoodie, tastefully tattered, low-profile ballcap (John Deere would work best), slightly droopy, washed -out jeans and, of course, construction boots. Chicks seem to dig that whole message. And the hoodie proves versatile. I wear them myself. Every s-i-n-g-l-e day of my life. Mainly to hide unsightly bulk (that folks surely realize still flops around in there), but also to (sometimes) skip a post-workout shower with dinner at a Robinson Twp chain restaurant on the agenda (only the best for me and mine). My faded hoodies eat sweat and, I think, look presentable in public. Plus, hoodies do plenty to ward off winter cold, while remaining less-hot-than-you-think during the dog days. Ok, full disclosure: some brands can cause fainting when the sun really swelters (been there, done that, on a recent hike through those steep, labyrinthine Chester backstreets). But can I speak frankly and bring it right home here? Any hoodie not procured from the clothing rack of a grocery store effectively obscures those dreaded man boobs. And boy, there must be a LOT of unwanted lumps out there-judging, at least, from how many folks (regardless of gender) continue to wear them all summer long.Not that the thermometer enters much into modern thinking when choosing a wardrobe for the day. We’ve all witnessed (presumably) sane adults strolling in from the far reaches of a Walmart parking lot wearing just tees, cargos, or soccer mom shorts, even as bitter winds roar and frostbite comes into play. And they don’t even scurry, in fact stopping to talk and hail acquaintances during their frigid trek toward wide selection and lousy produce. I recall misplacing my coat in grammar school. I felt like a leper rushing home those six blocks one January. My shame did not go unobserved as the next day our teacher, Mrs. Smith, I think, grilled me like an inquisitor as to whether I had worn a “wrap” to begin with the previous morning, the discernable inference of parental neglect hanging in the musty classroom air. Fast -forward some 50 years, and her students might have worn mesh tops and nylon gym-shorts to winter classes-with no aspersions at all cast on poor mom and dad.By high school, I never forgot my coat, and I wore it right in class, a big, poofy, white parka that I fancied as straight from Aspen, but more likely made me look like the Michelin Man. In my case, a cartoonish tire spokesman who wanted no part of introductory algebra. That’s what the coat was for-to signal rebellious apathy, an avowed kinship with other members of the outer-wear brigade, some of whom, I would readily wager, now reside as guests of the state. We can safely assume they don’t work as mathematicians.Shawshank stripes aside, what about clothing of another stripe- pajama stripes, commonly seen in public for the last few years? I can’t for the life of me figure a way to characterize them as some statement or “uniform,” and thus reflective of a group, lifestyle, or even mindset. Well, maybe a mindset. The mentality of comfort? Quick confession: I wore them, myself, once, to smack around pickleballs at the Bradie’s Run indoor rec center near Beaver. Big (even for me), billowing, fuzzy ones, navy blue (that conservative color probably saved me from quizzical looks) and all jazzed-up with little white anchors (the perfect sleepwear, I suppose, for morbidly obese persons with an abiding love of the sea). Nobody seemed to notice, and man, they felt comfortable. I wore them on a dare and might commit that fashion sin again sometime. Except that trend seems to have dissipated (not so much for ample ladies possessing in-your-face-swag). Or has it?Here’s a prediction on the next twist that Hancock County fashion might take: Watch for a friendly, 280 lb redhead dressed up like an undead European count. Please say hi to him. And introduce yourselves, ladies.
Mark Patterson
