After a fashion

While I’ve never been what you might call a fashionista, I’ve gone through a number of looks in my life. The closest I ever got to best-dressed in the Guelph neighbourhood where I grew up was when I was three. On Sundays I wore short pants, a jacket and a hat called a peanut scoop. In fact, my mother thought I looked so good she took me to a photographer. The result was a smiling face with elbows and hands artistically twisted as if I were tied up.
Clothing also brought me trouble as a lad. A bunch of us gathered at dusk one winter to throw snowballs at passing cars. When we broke a window, the driver jammed on the brakes, jumped out, and started chasing us. We scattered. I was the only one he caught because I was wearing a red coat, an easy target.
In Grade Eight, where you reigned over the rest of the school, I wore the cool guy’s uniform: unbuttoned shirt hanging out over a t-shirt and jeans with the pant bottoms turned up. Twice.
By high school I had wised up and figured I needed some guidance, so frequented Reuben’s menswear in downtown Guelph. A green corduroy jacket was the prize. Run by a father and son, the son would rent out his tuxedo. The one time I needed a tuxedo, his size was wrong for me. I ordered one from Toronto which came and was returned by bus package express.
My most favourite outfit, at least the one that brought about the best outcome, was a pair of coveralls complete with rubber boots that I wore one summer when I worked on the bottle line at the Royal Dairy. My marks in Grade 13 had not been good enough for the university I wanted to attend. As I clomped home in that attire one day, I decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life working in a job like that. I repeated Grade 13 and was accepted at Western on scholarship.
Despite my Scottish origin, I never wore a kilt. The closest I came to something as noticeable was in Ottawa when I worked for Robert Stanfield. I have a photo of a dozen members from Stanfield’s personal staff and party headquarters with everyone in sombre suits. I stand out in a black-and-white checked sports jacket that looks like the seat covers of a 1957 Chev.
These days my clothes are not so jarring. Wouldn’t want anyone jumping out of a car to chase after me because of what I’m wearing.