A Boyhood Remembrance - June 2010

Before I was sentenced to twelve years of forced labor at this modern invention called "school," I had a couple of years of toddler freedom to explore the vast wonders of my small world. A particularly magical place was my father's closet. A costume gallery of shirts, pants, coats, ties, and suits of 1950s and '60s vintage, it was an invitation to drama. This was around 1967, luckily - before the pastel leisure suits arrived. (You have to be a certain age to have that cringing laugh.)
    I remember the adventure like it was yesterday. First, drag a chair into the bathroom and place it in front of the sink. Stand on it, reach for the can of Gillette, and lather the face. Breathe deep that minty smell. Then grab the razor, and enact the stately rite I'd so closely studied my father perform each morning: long down strokes on the cheeks, careful upstrokes under the chin and jaw, short strokes on the "mustache," careful dabs under the nostrils while pulling down the upper lip - crane close to the mirror for those corners. Careful, careful - there.
    Rinse face, towel it, and give one last look to the mirror. Approve it with a nod. Put a couple of dabs of toilet paper on the imaginary nicks to absorb the imaginary blood. Grab the Vitalis, slick back the hair, nod gravely into the mirror one last time. Step down, drag chair back to dining room, and move on to dress.
    The shirt is easy to button, and the tie, tied with my own special knot, a thing of pride (no adult is there to tell me I'm wrong). The pants I skip, since the shirt drags the floor. I'm impatient, anyway, for the peak moment of this drama: putting on my father's shoes.
    Wingtips. I didn't know they were called that then, but I knew I loved them. Those cobbled perforations on toe and sides, the sturdy leather. The choice of black or brown made, the peak moment comes: stepping into those shoes.
    They're big, but so am I. Four and a half, going on five. I can pull it off.
    I step into them, turn, and march into the kitchen to announce to my mother that I am ready for breakfast. The smile that breaks out on her face when she turns from the oven to respond? I take that for approval. I eat my breakfast in dignity, the man of the house. Mom clears the dishes - she's a product of the American '50s - and off I go to whatever adventure next awaits: hanging out on the roof, exploring the woods behind the house, or inspecting the latest litter.