(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Keith Partridge Never Shopped at Sears [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2023-10-14 It was 1971, after a few years in the Catholic school of my parents and grandparents, a move to a new neighborhood meant that in the Fall I would be set free to roam the wilds of public education. My parents were clear, this would only last a few years, then I would be sold off to the Jesuits; but I sensed a window. I understood little of the cultural and social upheavals taking place at the time, or of the break my parents were making with their tradition – what I did understand was that the starched white button-downs and stiff pleated khakis of parochial school were to be replaced by the one thing I desired above all; Levi’s! I mean, c’mon man, it was 1971 – if anything granted immediate coolness, it was the perfect pair of Levi’s bell-bottoms. All that summer I laid siege to my mother, insisting that we go wherever it was that you go to get your Levi’s. I had been told by more worldly pre-third graders that the break-in period was crucial. I was going to be the new kid anyway, walking in with uncool, stiff bellbottoms was an undue burden, I argued. But I was no match for my mother, her defenses were a doubled wall built upon her childhood depravations during the depression and the absolute scientific fact that I was overdue for a growth spurt. No one in our family had ever bought new school clothes less than a week before classes began. I consoled myself by closely studying the male fashion choices of The Partridge Family. Keith, not Danny. The day arrived and I rode, unrestrained, in the back of the Impala, my mother accelerated through corners to stop my annoying questions, slamming me across slick vinyl into hard chrome. I had no idea where you went for Levi’s. Other than the Sears, I’d never fashion shopped before… would there be hippies?!? Shopping in my little western town meant parking on Broadway and going to the Sears for regular stuff or Beno’s for fancy – neither, for bellbottoms. As I clung to the armrest, I waited to feel the Chevy rise up the ramp that led to I-80 and the bridge that crossed the river to the big city. Big cities are where the jeans are. No rise came, no powerful acceleration as the big block four-barrel kicked in, just the modulations of steel belted radials on brick streets. I saw the spire of the big Lutheran church, felt the car slow, I knew where I was; there would be no hippies here. She was out of the car and twenty paces away before she looked back, all I could see was the top of an over teased blonde bouffant as I threw myself against the door to get it to close. “Crimony, you whine all summer long about getting your new dungarees and now you dawdle!?” To this day I’m not sure what a dungaree is, but I never asked for a pair. I caught-up, clinging to the level of optimism known only to 8-year-olds, and followed her into the store. First things first, Irish mothers are efficient shoppers; only protestants browse. Enter and move through the store to the left; new underwear (god forbid you get in an accident and …), socks (always black), short-sleeved white poplin front button shirts, and finally – my eyes desperately scanning for a hippie now, even a beatnik - the pants section. From around the shelves appeared Morty, the only salesman I ever saw at the Sears. His last name was unpronounceable, and I’d heard vague stories about his religion and that some people were rude to him because of it, but not us; descendants of famine Irish don’t judge. “So, I heard from you papa you were coming to see me about new trousers,” he corrected himself, “I mean jeans, of course, so very modern.” Aha! Morty was my hippie! Hippie? Maybe, but above all, Morty was a Sears man. “You don’t know your luck, young man, if you momma had brought you to me a year ago, I could have offered you nothing but Levi’s.” He motioned us to follow, the word Levi’s still hanging in the air. Around the corner was a new set of shelves filled with dark blue material underneath a neatly lettered logo; TOUGHSKINS. I knew there was no point in asking – a Toughskin would not come in a bellbottom. …betrayed by Morty the false hippie. Crushed as I was, my training about how to act in public kicked in. Allowing my disappointment to cause disappointment in an adult taking the time to interact with me…apostacy! I leaned on Morty’s sincere excitement as he continued his pitch, but he had my mother at tough. We left the Sears that day with two pairs of what Morty described as the most indestructible material ever used to create a piece of clothing. Groovy! Sears had their standards, but my mother had her own. She couldn’t sew, but she could improve, and she had recently discovered the modern convenience of iron-on clothing reinforcement. School would start in a few days but before I could even begin the break-in process (if it was even possible to break-in a Toughskin) my mother had ironed on knee reinforcements. Not just to the inside, but an extra layer on the outside. Ray Bolger would have felt restricted. Double knee patched, starched and iron-pleated Toughskins – I would never be a Flower Child, in fact I would spend the majority of 3rd grade being bullied by the love children of Flower Children. The only redemption in this story is that by winter, I could sled faster on my Toughskins than other kids could on their Radio Flyers. Oh, and that expected growth spurt; didn’t happen for two more years – laughably within the lifespan of the Sear’s Toughskin. [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2023/10/14/2199344/-Keith-Partridge-Never-Shopped-at-Sears?pm_campaign=front_page&pm_source=trending&pm_medium=web Published and (C) by Daily Kos Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/