Sunday morning a young lady came downstairs into the dining room, and the Baron jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair to seat her at the table.
“Oh, Daddy, stop it!” she protested.
“Pardon me, have we been introduced?”
This Marx Brothers situation came about only because our daughters, like all daughters in the world, have begun to look like guides for a backpack trip through the Rockies.
When they appear in dresses, hose, and shoes it is a cause celebre.
When I was in high school I nearly died of panic because I had to wear oxfords that tied because there “good for my feet”. Now the kids go around bare-footed or in the ugliest possible tied oxfords that make their grandmothers beam in a kind of stupefied disbelief.
Our 14-year-old has just been fitted for her first pair of “Granny” glasses, which make her look just like -- a granny. I keep waiting for her to offer me one of her recipes.
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Diane in her original, and very cool!, granny glasses, usually wearing embroidered jeans and toting an embroidered Army surplus canvas bag. |
Her major concern these days is the proper placement of all the appliques on her jeans: the peace symbol, the U.S. flag, the white butterfly, the “Right On” symbol. When she goes off to school in the morning she looks just like a Peter Max commercial. When her Superman t-shirt arrives in the mail everything will be complete, I suppose.
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We loved pop artist Peter Max! |
I can remember when owning a cashmere sweater meant the difference between acceptance and oblivion. Nowadays it’s someone’s World War II fatigue jacket complete with rips and stains, that spells total success.
Still being an innocent parent, and not yet cured of the Polly Flinders smocked dress syndrome, I wanted to take the girls shopping for new school clothes at the beginning of the year. Thy were delighted?
We went and this is what we bought:
6 yards decorative tape
2 pairs of jeans
1 bottle of bleach (for aging the jeans)
4 boyswear tee-shirts.
So what are you complaining about, asked the Baron, beaming as he contemplated the sales slips.
“What if they ran away?” I sobbed.
“Whaddayuh mean, what if they ran away?”
“How would the description sound?
Blue jeans, long hair, tennis shoes, no makeup, wide belt, old Army jacket, it could fit a thousand kids!”
“You forgot the braces,” added the Baron glumly.
“Yeah,” he went on. “I can remember buying velvet ribbons for their pigtails Now they want to know if I’ve got any old ammunition boxes from the Army. You don’t suppose they’re planning to do any drastic, do you?”
“No,” I sighed. “They just want someplace to keep their air pollution samples.”
“I dunno,” sighed the Baron. “You give them everything. Fresh orange juice, swimming lessons, wheat germ, a subscription to American Girl. And they all turn out looking like a reunion of the 1929 Harvard lacrosse team.
I nodded. Just then there appeared on the horizon a lovely creation in long wavy curls, wearing a pastel robe and smelling of lavender. She sailed gently past us like a spring zephyr, and headed for the fresh orange juice in the refrigerator. We beamed. She floated.
“When Josh comes by,” she smiled, “tell him I’ll be a few minutes late.” We smiled some more, just to keep the whole thing running.
Josh appeared like a young god, smelling of after-shave lotion and lots of soap. His curls were nicely tidied and his tee-shirt was wrinkleless. We began to behave like lunatic parents, beaming and smiling at every car that went down the street.
She finally appeared in her “Cape Cod Mess” sweatshirt, the bleached jeans all the appliques, and pig-tails and they were off in a cloud of dust on his 10-speed bike.
“Oh shut-up!” I said to the Baron.
“I didn’t say a thing!” he laughed.
October 10, 1971
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