Dressed up, But can they take me anywhere?
In the sixties, people generally dressed up more. Any meal outside the house (even diners) meant suit and tie for dad, dress for mom. There were many times I was embarrassed in public by being overdressed.
Case in Point: the county’s first Sears opens a half-hour away. We’re dressing up. Voting? Everyone’s going formal. Shopping for furniture or cars? Go to visit aunts for holidays? Gotta look good!
I was schlepped off to a chain-store called Robert Hall Suits for my cute little outfit, complete with clip-on tie. Robert Hall frequently partnered with Kinney Shoes next door, so that’s the next stop. Which of course meant that I had to learn to tie my own shoes; boys’ shoes were laced (no exceptions). Every failure or undone knot meant screaming from daddy, or if we were in public, a scowl and a whispered threat of disembowelment when we got home.
Earlier, I mentioned that we had a drive-in ‘fast food’ place not far from home. This was quickly followed by a second not far away (I think it was called ‘Topp’s’), which specialized in these newfangled french fries that were long and thin, like string. These became favorites of mine, because you didn’t have to dress up, and, more importantly, both had soft serve ice cream.
But daddy was always out for attending one of his members-only restaurants, to be seen and recognized as a big shot. One day, I’m playing with toys and I hear Frankenstein feet on the stairs–not good. He never came up–the kid comes to you, not vice versa. His grin is like an ape–even at around age eight, I know this is something really bad. Just the sight of me always makes his eyebrows slant in anger, not smile.
He has an offer!–I can pick where we go to eat. We either go to the fancy restaurant and from there get soft serve ice cream, or we stay home and eat hot dogs. It was an easy decision–the suit didn’t fit right (coat must be buttoned at all times), and the shoes were too tight (remember, I was born with skeletal issues in one foot). I choose hot dogs. I can always get ice cream, ‘cuz dad is addicted.
The smile vanishes, replaced by a sneer of fury. “Get Dressed, we’re going out” My door slams. Trip to the restaurant means nasty comments and put downs to back-seat me. The meal is conducted in silence, you could almost see his steak broiling from his aura of anger. He probably stiffed the waitress. And of course, no ice cream, which just makes him even nastier. Back home, same old scene–he screams, I cry, then I go to bed.
But………I learned a good lesson. His smile truly meant horror or Biblical plagues were coming. My mother later commented that she could see me physically recoil when my father smiled.
Next time: Part Two–Mom gets cut down to size