Take It from Dad

by George Griswold Livermore

Dear Ted:

I didn't say anything about it when you were home last Sunday, for you were so happy basking in the glory of that thirty-five yard drop-kick that won the Andover game I hadn't the heart to cast any gloom, but honestly Ted, as a deacon in the First Church I don't enjoy walking to service with a son who looks like a combination of an Italian sunset and a rummage sale of Batik draperies.

It's perfectly true that clothes don't make the man, but they help to, and because Joseph wore a coat of many colors and was chosen to rule a nation, is no reason for a young fellow to get himself up like an Irish Comedian at Keith's and expect to do likewise.

Customs have changed a little in the last few thousand years, and although it may still be true that a South Sea Islander may rule the tribe by virtue of being the proud possessor of a plug hat and a red flannel petticoat, it doesn't follow that a passionate pink tie with purple dots, and pea green silk socks with bright yellow clocks, will help you to sell a bill of goods to a hard-headed buyer in Kenosha, Wisconsin.

I don't want to rub it in too hard, for I realize that in boys there's an age for loud clothes, the same as there is in puppies for distemper, and that if given the right treatment they usually survive and are none the worse for their experience.

I won't hire a salesman who wears sporty clothes and carts around a lot of jewelry, for when one of my men is calling on the trade he is not exhibiting the latest styles in haberdashery, but the latest samples of the "Heart of the Hide" line, for I've learned that a buyer whose attention is distracted from the goods in question is a buyer lost.

All this reminds me of an experience I had when I was in my first and only year at Epping Academy. The Academy was really a high school although I believe my father did pay $10 a year for my tuition, and the teachers were called professors.

Well anyhow, at that time my one ambition in life was to own a real tailor-made suit, vivid color and design preferred.

Now buying my clothes had always been a simple matter, for when I needed a new suit which in my father's estimation was about once in two years, my mother and I drove over to the "Golden Bee Emporium: Boots & Shoes, Fancy Goods & Notions" at Bristol Centre, where, after much testing for wool between thumb and finger, and with the aid of lighted matches, and in direct opposition to my earnest request for brighter colors, I was always fitted out in a dark gray, or blue, or brown, ready made, and three sizes too large so I could grow into it.