Tuesday, 29 May 2007
The Apparel Oft Proclaims
By Pete Sampson of The Caregiving Blog
In 1975, my wife Marge and I moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma. We were native Mainers then in our 20’s. In Oklahoma, we found ourselves transported to another world, and we tried to share every discovery with our friends and family back in Maine. We talked at lot about the heat because Oklahoma’s summer heat is unimaginable to Mainers.
The next summer my Mom and Dad, then in their early 60’s, decided to visit us. They were going to fly, but they were not seasoned travelers. Despite everything I said about the heat, Dad remained convinced that air travel required him to wear a jacket and tie. To make matters worse, every bit of clothing he owned was made of double-knit polyester.
Mom and Dad flew to Tulsa in August, and Marge and I met them at the airport. In the terminal, we saw that Dad was wearing his polyester shirt, polyester necktie, brand new polyester slacks and polyester sport coat. He was Polyester Man, head to toe, with a heavy suitcase in each hand.
“You said it would be hot,” he said to me, “this isn’t so bad.” He was grinning, but there were beads of sweat on his forehead. It was probably about 80 degrees in the terminal.
“Dad,” I tried to explain, “you flew out here on an air conditioned plane. Then you walked down an air conditioned jetway. Now we’re in the air conditioned terminal. The temperature outside is 107. You’ve never felt anything like it. At least let me carry the suitcases.”
He gave me a pained look. “I’ll carry the suitcases,” he said. I shrugged, and we headed for the terminal door that led to the parking garage. When the automatic doors opened and Dad started to step outside, the August sun gave him his first 107 degree Oklahoma “Howdy!” He stopped dead, not quite through the doorway, and he let out a muffled gasp. The suitcases fell from his hands. “Oh, my Jesus,” he croaked. He was suddenly unsteady on his feet.
I dragged the suitcases out of the doorway and we all moved back into the terminal. Then I went to get the car.
When we got to our house, Dad hurried upstairs to the guestroom. Mom was still downstairs when we heard him call to her. “Ruth, did you pack scissors?”
“What?” she asked. She wasn’t prepared for this, although she usually read him like a book.
I spoke to Dad from the bottom of the stairs. “There are scissors on the desk across the hall.”
“What’s he doing up there?” Mom asked, but she didn't have to wait long to find out.
In a few minutes Dad was back downstairs. He was barefoot and wearing one of his white tee shirts with his new slacks, the legs hacked off just above the knee. Mom was bug-eyed and speechless. He looked at her patiently. “You really have to wear shorts in this heat,”
he explained.
Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:14 AM | Permalink | Email this post
Comments
I grew up in Oklahoma City and I think the heat there was easier than the humidity of Houston where we lived for many years with our children. Everyone in Houston wore shorts. Everyone, everywhere.
I lived by the pool growing up.
Posted by: MotherPie on May 30, 2007 9:37:58 AM
I live in Central Texas, and I've been to many a summer outdoor wedding where the bride and groom glowed and perspired, respectively, and the guests wore tank tops and shorts.
Posted by: vero on May 30, 2007 10:29:55 AM
Your Dad is a most resourceful man. Neat story.
Posted by: Chancy on May 30, 2007 1:51:20 PM
