As you can imagine, money was tight in our family of eight. Us boys were growing fast and our furnaces needed constant stoking. Eating out was a rare treat.
When I was about nine, we went to a restaurant in Clinton. This was a special treat as we typically only ate out when we were travelling and picnicking wasn't available. Mom and Dad had to pinch pennies where they could. To be eating out just a short drive from home was rare.
We were allowed to choose what we wanted from the menu but we had been taught to be cost conscious. I ordered grilled cheese with fries. My older brothers, Mark and Rob laughed at me and described what they were going to order, meat and potatoes with veggies. They made me angry because they were indicating that I was stupid to spend money on grilled cheese when, for a dollar or so more, I could have what they were having...a real meal.
I didn't care, I liked grilled cheese, still do, and with the fries, it would be enough. They were talking like they were big shots, all mature and everything. When did they decide it was time to act like grown-ups? I certainly didn't get the memo. Still haven't for that matter.
Eating out was never the same for me after that. I became more conscious of what I might order, measuring the value of what I was getting for the money being laid out. Maybe I did get the memo after all. Anyway, I liked my sandwich just fine and I wouldn't have liked the peas they were served.
While we were eating, a young man came into the restaurant and sat at the soda counter. Mark, Rob and I elbowed each other and pointed because the man had long hair, well past his shoulders and was wearing jeans and a denim jacket. We knew Dad's feelings about hippies and expected him to tell this guy to get a haircut.
Every week or so, we would take turns sitting on a wooden stool that Dad had built, while he trimmed our hair in a distinctly military style. Up over the ears, off the collar and the neck closely trimmed. I hated it but at least it wasn't a brush-cut. Those were dreaded in our circle of friends and generally indicated someone had done something pretty bad and got their head buzzed as punishment.
Some of our friends were allowed to grow their hair longer and Dad had no reservations about telling them they looked like girls and were slovenly. We waited for him to unleash on the young man at the soda counter.
Instead, Dad looked the fellow up and down and said, "His hair is clean and neat, his clothes are clean and tidy, he looks quite presentable."
I thought my face was going to slide off my skull. We were never allowed to have long hair and we never got jeans, and here was Dad saying nice things about this guy who had everything we wanted but were not allowed to have.
Had Dad gone mad? Had some morsel of his dinner lodged somewhere in his psyche that would be a proponent of change? Was there a chance I was going to be allowed something that would help me be a cool kid? Maybe Dad was ready to relax his standards for us at home?
Nope, still had my short hair, never got jeans for years yet, but I had seen a part of my father I had never seen before. I knew at some point in the future things like this were going to change. We were well into our Kingston posting before I got my first pair of jeans and I only got those because I bought them for myself.
Still, I understand what my parents were trying to instill in us. Dad describing why he could accept that young man's presentation gave me hints about what I would need to do if I wanted to change attitudes about my own behaviours. Maybe I did a lot more growing up that day than I realized.
What were your parents views on the fashion and style trends that you wanted? How did your parents show you they were actually pretty smart?
If you enjoyed this post, share it with your friends so they can enjoy it too. If you write me, I will respond. If you follow me on either my blog site or on my Facebook page, you will get notified of each new post.
See all Terry’s B.R.A.T. posts at www.beingabrat.com
Follow me on Facebook at: fb.me/BeingABrat
My personal website: www.terrygroves.com
Write me at beingabrat.com@gmail.com