Columnist’s Note: My Grandmother Wickliffe dispensed wit and wisdom along with love, to her other grandchildren, and me over the years. She died when I was a young man, but she was such an influence in my life, that I can close my eyes, and see her, as if she were here yesterday. I think these three stories of my “Texture Memories” should ring a bell with anyone that knew someone like my grandmother, who would never pass up the opportunity to check the quality of what her grandchildren was wearing, by feeling the material.
This is the first “Texture Memory,” with the others running over the next two weeks.
Texture Memories
I was born here in Sedalia in 1938, and grew up in the ( at least for kids) uncomplicated ’40s and ’50s. I feel lucky to have been young at that point in time, and I have wonderful memories of those carefree days of youth-unlike most whose memories are tied to events, or people many of mine are marked by the clothes I wore as a boy and young man. I call them “Texture Memories.” A phrase inspired by my Grandmother Wickliffe, who had a habit of feeling the children of the family’s clothes by rubbing the material between her thumb and forefinger. She said the texture of the material told her if it was good quality, and since she made a lot of the things her other grandchildren I wore in what I now think of as my flour sack period; I guess she knew something about texture.
I believe there was texture to my life back then too, and I still feel it when I remember the clothes I wore, as if the memories were part of their fabric. Those feelings are strongest when I think about the old Hopalong Cassidy sweater, and Army Surplus pants, of my school days, and the cherished set of Gabardine Blues I wore as a young sailor.
I can still feel the warmth of that “Hoppy” sweater I wore day after day until mom would have to practically pull it off of me to wash, and I can feel the weight of those Army Surplus fatigues with the large bulging pockets that held all the things necessary to get a young boy through the day.
Those Gabardine blues hold my more grown-up memories, with their thigh hugging tightness, and swishing bell bottoms that would wrap around my ankles as I walked. They made me feel like that guy on the Navy recruiting poster (only shorter).
My grandmother said good texture in the material meant the clothes would last a long time. I guess that goes for memories too. I wrote three stories about those favorite clothes that had both great texture, and memories. I hope you like them.
That Hoppy sweater
The amazing thing is that I didn’t get a permanent rash from that sweater. It did itch sometimes, but not enough to discourage me from wearing it day after day. I think mom would have gladly burned it, but it was a gift from my grandmother Wickliffe. I wore that old sweater to school, to church, and even to bed if I could. I loved it, and was sure it was what attracted my very first girlfriend.
I was in grade school at Washington School when a black haired girl, who was at least a head taller than I was, passed me a note that said from now on I was her boyfriend, and that I shouldn’t talk to other girls. At that point in my life to say I was shy was like saying Mount Everest was a hill. I could brag to the boys with the best of them, and lie as good as any young boy about my knowledge of girls, but put one in front of me, and I became a stammering idiot. So it was that before I could work up the courage to approach the black haired girl a week had passed, and another note was delivered saying it was Paul she really liked. I was sad, but also relieved, that now it was Paul’s turn to sweat. The worst part was the P.S. she added, it said “You have mustard on your Hoppy Sweater.” Hopalong Cassidy was a lot more important to me than girls, I told myself as I scraped the mustard off Hoppy and went on with my life. Paul lost out to Larry a week later, and that made me feel a little better.
I wish I could say the Hoppy Sweater was in my closet, moth-proofed and safe, but I’m afraid It was a casualty of a wringer washer incident. I was always a little suspicious, as was my grandmother. Mom never seemed that sorry. The rest of grade school is a blur to me, although I do remember Paul and I always seemed to like the same girls for some reason, but since we were both shorter then, most of them, neither one of us had much luck with them. The next memory is about some army surplus pants that were popular with kids in the ’50s.