I blame Stan Musial & Dockers

When I was a kid I liked to visit my cousins. I hoped to get a glance at my boyhood idol,Cardinal baseball star Stan Musial, who lived across the street. Stan's playing career was coming to an end, but he owned a steak house nearby, and it was always my dream to go there for a birthday. Mom said it was too adult & put the nix to that plan.

Off field, Stan was a natty dresser, and would make the rounds of his place each evening, sign autographs, glad hand and keep the beer flowing always in a Cardinal red jacket and tie.

I remember an interview with "The Man" in the Sunday magazine of the daily paper around 1970. Stan who grew up in Pennsylvania coal county was asked about his attire. He never wore jeans, he said. Those were for working people. Men who worked in factories or in the fields. He was professional. Somehow that struck me as sound. Even in the late '60's and early '70's I'd only rarely wear blue jeans.

In those days Army surplus shops were plentiful and cheap. Military khaki's wore like iron, usually looked good. After my free work clothes from Uncle Sam wore out, I shopped surplus. Later Dockers, followed by, followed by, followed by Bill's. Frankly Scarlet, I am sick of wearing khaki's, chino's, brit tans.

This summer I am wearing pants that are lightweight, colorful and maybe fun. Linen, seersucker, poplin here I come. I officially swear off khaki's (with 1 exception) until fall. Casual Friday be damned.

Toad

spring is on its way

Bill's Khakis irregulars in the summer styles are beginning to hit EBAY. Spring can't be far behind.






Toad

Wanna share? There's room.

So as to not dishonor the men and women in uniform, I have worked mightily to forget my time in service. From start to finish it was a six year waste of time and resources. Periodically, I wake in the middle of the night with some mindless memory, but overall the less thought about the better.

My new shorts arrived yesterday, and sense memories of basic training came rushing back. I could see, smell and feel the day uniforms were handed out, as if they were current. The ordeal is pretty much as you would expect. A bunch of scared kids on one side of the counter, a bunch of uncaring drones on the other.




Once you got your uniforms the next stop was the tailor. At Lackland AFB in 19XX the tailor was a euphemism for a long row of Mexican women with sewing machines. The women knew their job, they took one look at you, and hemmed pants to fit with nary a ruler, or wasted second asking needless questions.

Five minutes later, your 5 pair of uniform trousers were returned, and mostly fit pretty well. Cost was $5.



I mentioned this because new military uniforms the world wide smell the same, and by definition fit no one. Rushing to open my package I pulled the largest pair of shorts I have ever encountered. The "cuff" is 16 inches wide.



The length is not much shorter than Capri's.



For illustration I overlaid my every day Bill's Khaki shorts with the new ones.




Toad

PS: For those who read Mrs. Blandings blog, Friday was her day, she wanted no comments. Well, Mrs. B. I'm a ways farther down the parent road than you, and I cried along with you. I still regularly mosey to the basement to look at the bears, dolls, and comic books. My children will wonder too why I kept them. Someday they'll find out on their own.