Why I Don't Buy Clothes

I have never been known for my sartorial aplomb, unless you count the several years as a graduate student when I shopped for clothes at an army surplus store and wore exclusively used khaki slacks and flannel shirts; the look was described by one of my English major comrades as “tubercular lumber jack.” My reasons for clothing myself come essentially from necessity: (1) warmth (it’s uncomfortable under about 80 degrees to be bare naked, and deadly under about 30, wind chill or no); and (2) law (society tends to frown upon public display of skin, particularly by someone in his 60s, with gray hair and not in especially good shape; I have six-pack abs, but they are formed by consuming actual six packs, not resembling them). I have a wool jacket (a gift) that’s 30+ years old that I still wear. I buy two pairs of jeans every two years, and because they usually last at least three years before becoming fishing or gardening garb, I always have a rotation of four to six pair to make it through a week or two. I’ve owned two suits in my life, both bought from occasion (funeral and wedding), the second because the first no longer fit around my six-pack abs. I have underwear with holes, and I don’t worry about what the emergency attendants will think if I get in an accident because they should be thinking about a lot more important things in that moment.

Today, back in my Kansas home, I found myself in something of a need — well, truth be told, more of a desire — to buy a sweatshirt (from the University of Kansas, my double alma mater) and a t-shirt (from Pittsburg State University, “Home of the Gorillas,” as far as I can determine, the only college in the country with a simian as a mascot, a distinction I find appealing). I’d been directed to a store that purportedly carried sports apparel from all area sports teams (the “area” ranging apparently from Green Bay and Chicago to the north, Dallas and New Orleans to the south, Boston and New York to the east, and Los Angeles and San Francisco to the west), and I must admit I was impressed when I entered the crowded racks of crowded t-shirts, sweatshirts, jackets, and countless number of other sports affiliated accoutrement. (I wonder how a store that featured schools’ academic paraphernalia — chemistry Bunsen burners, music stands, math algorithms, literature metaphors — would do? No I don’t.) I wound my way through the store, and was successful in finding both a KU sweatshirt (easy, given there were scores of options) and a PSU t-shirt (a bit more limited, given only two options). Pleased with my accomplishment, I headed to the cash register, placed my purchases on the counter, and pulled out my credit card. The clerk scanned the items and announced the total — $75 ($39.95 for the sweatshirt, $29.95 for the t-shirt, the tax rounding it off to a neat $75). What?! $75 for a sweatshirt and a t-shirt? I didn’t say that. I remained calm, as if this were a regular transaction for me, not wanting to betray my naiveté when it comes to all matters of clothing purchase, signed the receipt, grabbed my plastic bag of precious shirts, and reciprocated the clerk’s order to “Have a nice day!” I already am.

Enhanced Interrogation

I’m currently reading Berlin at War, by Roger Moorhouse, an engaging description of life for ordinary Germans during WWII. Today I was reading Chapter 11, “The Watchers and the Watched,” about the Gestapo, when I came across this sentence: “In . . . cases where the investigating officers believed vital information was being withheld, they could employ the euphemistically titled Verschärfte Vernehmung — ‘enhanced interrogation’” (234) Yes, the Bush/Cheney administration not only adopted the techniques of torture from the Nazis, they lifted their inspirations’ euphemism for the practices as well. How very thoughtful.

I'm Willy Loman

I began reading, probably for at least the 20^th time (I teach it in my drama class), Death of a Salesman today, when this stage direction jumped out: “WILLY is sixty now . . . .” Jumped out? No, jumped out, grabbed me by the neck, beat me over the head with a tire iron, shoved me to the floor, stomped on my chest, shoved me into a trash compactor, and set my battered and squashed carcass ablaze until there was nothing but ashes to scatter in the bitter wind. This was the first time I’d read the play since I myself turned 60. I certainly don’t recall that particular direction in previous readings. No doubt I’d simply glossed over it, substituting “old man” for the specific age. That’s who Willy Loman was, an old man, “very tired, very confused.” Well, I guess that’s me too, now. Somewhat ironically, Death of a Salesman opened on Broadway February 10, 1949, three days before I was born. Lee J. Cobb played Willy in that production — he was 38 at the time. So was 38 the new 60? Or 60 the new 38? And what’s the new 60 now? Maybe it’s just 60. Or maybe it’s just “old man.” Somebody get me my walker . . . and you kids get off my lawn!

Ellie's Non Sequiturs

Our granddaughter is making progress in her communication, though there are still bumps in the road of comprehension:

Daddy: "I feel like crud."

Ellie: "I feel like strawberries!"

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Daddy: "Ellie, do you want to take the dogs for a walk?"

Ellie: "No, I have to flush the toilet."

Though it’s always possible that I’m the one still having comprehension problems. . . .

Becoming My Father

I have now reached the age where I’ve become my father. Or at least I increasingly find myself doing or saying things in exactly the way he would do or say things. And too often they are things done or said that I would fault him for doing or saying.

Today, after perhaps the eighth or tenth time, I caught myself standing at our front door, just staring out. No particular reason — no passing fire truck, no children playing, no dogs pissing on our bushes — just staring out. In his retirement, my father would do this much of his days. I was away at college, but when I’d come home, we would often both be in the house together (my mother would be at work). It seemed that every time I passed through the living room, he would be standing by the front door, looking out at nothing I could see was worth looking out for. I don’t think I ever said anything to him about it, but I still can see him standing there, a sentinel for a neighborhood with nothing happening.

Now, some thirty years later, here I am, retired, standing sentinel for my neighborhood, with equal lack of reason. But I may be beginning to come to an appreciation of my father’s vigilance. As I spend most of most of my days alone at home, juggling reading, the radio, TV, the Internet, writing (all satisfying pursuits), there is an inexorable pull from the outside — a desire for something to interrupt the routine, to capture attention, to just be different. Even a dog pissing on the bushes would be a start.

Carpet of Leaves

Carpet of leaves on a hiking trail in Forestville State Park, Southeast Minnesota. Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch

Fall Foliage On the Upper Mississippi

The fall foliage is about a week past peak color on the upper Mississippi, but the drive up state highway 35 from Prairie du Chien to LaCrosse on the Wisconsin side is still gorgeous. The sumac is a brilliant red, and there are still flashes of vivid yellow maples, particularly on the hills in the small towns. The oaks look to have just started to change, though perhaps only to a dull brown, so the bluffs are muted, etched occasionally by the vertical white lines of birch. A few yellow and orange and rust leaves cling to branches, though recent winds have stripped many trees bare to near-bare. But the expanse of river, framed by the bluffs, and covered by a bright blue autumn sky, with the occasional surprise of a lingering splash of color, makes us slow down and take our time. Is there anywhere we would rather be that would make us rush through here?

Boy Scouts

Way back in the early 1960s I was a Boy Scout for two or three years. Our troop was sponsored, as most troops were, and for all I know still are, by a church, in our case a conservative Christian church that would today be called fundamentalist. I learned all the basic tenants of scouting — “Be prepared,” “Do a good turn daily,” “On my honor I will do my duty to God and my country and obey the Scout Law . . . ,” “A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind . . . ”— and learned to tie knots and learned to build a campfire and learned to administer basic first aid (including snake bites), and by the end of my tenure had accumulated enough merit badges to reach the penultimate rank of Life, stopping short of Eagle only because most of my friends in the troop were a year older than I was and had quit and because it was too much work.

But most of my memories of scouting are of delinquency, especially while out camping. There was the relatively mild “snipe hunts” (first year as a duped bagger, the next year as one doing the duping), sanctioned by our leaders. And one day when some of us snuck off to skinny dip in a stream, only to emerge with leeches clinging to our bodies. And one middle of the night, after curfew, when another few of us took several flares from the truck, walked a couple of miles down the road, stuck the flares in the ground and lit them, and then after walking about half a mile back toward camp, looked around and realized we’d set the grass by the road on fire, raced back and stomped it out. (Red Howell, our scout leader, was waiting for us when we returned and said, “Don’t tell anybody anything about this.”)

But the highlight of my scouting days was a week-long national Jamboree in Colorado. One afternoon we (no leaders present) organized nude races down a hillside meadow, the theory being that our nudity would cut wind resistance. (That I would much later learn of the closeted gays in our troop didn’t really cause me concern.) And then there was the afternoon when we were on an overnight camping trip with mules carrying most of our gear, and Basil (forget his last name) decided it would be fun to jack off one of the mules. And he did.

As I said, this was a Christian scout troop.

Toasted Skin Syndrome

As if we don’t have enough to worry about, what with terrorists targeting maybe the Eiffel Tower or possibly Buckingham Palace or perhaps the Brandenburg Gate, alarm comes today from the Associated Press that a new threat is at the ramparts — “toasted skin syndrome.” Apparently, “people” (and I have to put that term in quotes) are using their laptop computers for hours at a time directly on their bare laps, resulting in TSS. One “12-year-old boy developed a sponge-patterned skin discoloration on his left thigh after playing computer games a few hours every day for several months.” He felt the heat on his thigh, but didn’t act to do anything about it, either too consumed in the concentration of play to take notice of the “sponge-patterned skin discoloration,” or perhaps just figured that pain was a special multi-dimensional feature of the games. But don’t dismiss the problem as confined to 12-year-old idiot boys. A Virginia law student has been treated for “mottled discoloration on her leg.” The case baffled her physician until she found out the student had been propping her 125-degree laptop on her bare legs for six hours a day. Let’s hope that’s recorded on her transcript, if not factored in her bar exam. We don’t need spontaneous combustion or seared flesh in the courtroom. The good news (buried, of course, in the AP story) is that there have only been ten reported cases of laptop injuries in the last six years, fewer than the injuries incurred by lap dancing. But still, it’s comforting that the press is keeping our well-being at the forefront. I can’t imagine the embarrassment of reading on my death certificate: “Cause of Death: Toasted Skin Syndrome.”

Fall Arrives

The leaves change to yellow, gold, and crimson, fall and swirl in the wind. Gloves and sweats are pulled out for the morning walk. The corn and beans are in mid-harvest. Winter squash and root vegetables show up in our CSA share, and the crowds at the Farmer’s Market thin. Piles of pumpkins and shocks of corn guard the grocery entrance. Windows and doors are closed, and the furnace comes on overnight. There’s a frost advisory for tomorrow morning. Whatever remains in the garden must be harvested or given up for the season. The fish in the pond cling to the depth, near as they can be to whatever warmth in the earth remains. We pull the quilt up from the end of the bed, firmly over our shoulders.