My father collected t-shirts. As a
bachelor he paid, by the pound, to have his shirts laundered and folded. Piles
of his shirts, evenly folded, were left where he set them down. Later, when he
married, his shirts took over a room. The room had wide wooden bookcases on
which he stacked his hundreds of t-shirts. Although he practiced law and worked
in a bank building, his daily outfit was built around the t-shirt.
Looking through his collection was
like traveling around the world with him, from venue to venue to hear the music
he loved: Bob Dylan, The Grateful Dead, Bonnie Raitt, Michelle Shocked, John
Prine, Ani DiFranco, Lyle Lovett…The colors and patterns suggested what those
who knew him knew: he could pull off just about any style. The sizes ranged
from medium to XXL, revealing their age and his sentimentality. The collection
included one for each year I taught and he judged at my school’s science fair,
dozens of Grateful Dead shirts, at least one for every show he attended, and so
many favorites. There was the homemade Jazz Fest shirt which summed up the
festival experience, “Peace, Love and Port-O-Lets” and the “3 Seasons in
Louisiana: Oyster Season, Crab Season and Shrimp Season” which paid tribute to
his love of that special place. There were the shirts made for him and
traditions he started, “Thursday Night Dinner’s Motley Crew” and “Twisted
Billy’s Tours.” There were the bicycle shirts, the Mudd Volleyball shirts, and
the tie-dyes.
When he died last summer his wife
and I wondered what to do with all the shirts. We couldn’t just take them to
Goodwill or keep a whole room full of them. Together we decided to give them
away. At his Celebration of Life ceremony we set up a table, piled high with
all of his t-shirts. We asked everyone to take a t-shirt. Some people dug for
favorites, others struggled to pick just one and walked away with small piles,
while others took from the top, satisfied just to have something he wore. I believe every one of the hundreds of
people that came to that service left with a t-shirt.
I have seen his t-shirts on
children as pajamas, women as dresses, and dolls fashioned in his image. Most
friends and family members wear theirs in tribute and treasure it in private.
Picking out one of the shirts I kept from a drawer, I feel instantly connected.
Slipping these shirts over my head is the closest I feel to getting one of his
hugs.
