Everyone's parents embarrasses them at some point in time. Especially when you are a pre-teen or teenager. Those are difficult years, aren't they? I can remember being MORTIFIED by my dad's maroon shorts. Everytime he wore them, I would try to think of any way possible to pretend that I didn't even know him, let alone admit he was my father. This was difficult to do when you were in the same house, on the same driveway, on the same porch or otherwise. These shorts were *short*. I mean REALLY short. Not quite Daisy Dukes, but believe me when I say that they were short. "Say no to crack" ... anyone?
Dad would wear these shorts around the house while doing chores. I don't think he ever really wore them out of the house... at least not often. I'm sure my mom would have had something to say about that. Oh, how my mother and I hated those shorts.
I remember one summer when I was in high school, I was helping my mom and dad work on the "circle" in the front yard. This was what we affectionately called the front half-moon shaped flowerbed that was on the left hand side of the house (when your back is to the street), and under the long lower awning.
This flower bed had two large azalea bushes that over time had grown together making it look like one large bush. I really liked that azalea bush... in the spring, it used to bloom pink flowers, and (I think) in the fall we used to cut it back so it was in the proper "hotdog bun" shape that we loved.
I think this was the year that my parents were putting in the "railroad ties" around the circle, with my dad custom cutting the long planks of curved side wood in short angled sections to best fit that half-moon shape. Those railroad ties also were put along both side flower beds as well, but this story took place during the work on the front flowerbed.
Dad had the saw in the front yard, and was cutting the wood as he went. This was a fairly hot summer day and Dad didn't have a shirt on (fairly common for when he was working in the yard). He had on his maroon short-shorts, a grungy ball cap with a pencil that he used to mark his cutting lines shoved up into the cap near his temple. As he worked, he was often on all fours, crawling around to get things. He was using a seat cushion to buffer his knees from the ground.
"Working with Dad" was often a challenging task. He was very meticulous about how he wanted to do something, and was often quite impatient. He would start off asking for a tool or for you to get him some other supply, and time after time we would bring him the wrong thing. "If you guys would spend more time with your old man, you would know more about tools and what I'm looking for!" he would often complain. I'm sure it was trying for him to ask for whatever tool he wanted, using the proper name for that tool, describing the color and size of it and even giving us an idea of where on his garage-wide tool bench it would be located (there were thousands of tools) only to have us bring back the wrong tool, wrong color, wrong size, found on the opposite side of the tool bench.
Needless to say, over the duration of the task, Dad would become frustrated with our "help" that he would become frustrated and even angry, grumbling around, sometimes tossing a tool or two "if I have to come and find it myself...". Usually after a little while, this frustration and tension would break and things would be lighthearted again. Reducing us "helpers" into puddles of giggles and laughter with Dad joining in, laughing at the tension from just moments before.
It was at one of these tension-passed-lighthearted times during this railroad ties in the front circle project that my mom and I caught each other's eyes after noticing that each other were seeing the same sight. There was Dad, on his hands and knees, sweat dripping from his brow, cutting or fitting the next railroad tie. From the front, here was a hard working man trying to finish a challenging job. But we weren't looking at him from the front. In front of him was the half moon flower bed. Mom and I were behind him... watching Dad... and a good 3" of cleavage... from behind. We stifled snickers and giggles as best we could.
We continued to help him, but the giggles came harder and harder, rattling our bodies and bringing tears to our eyes. Finally Dad caught on that we were laughing, although I don't know if he knew initially that we were laughing at him. Smiling at us, "What?? What's so funny?" Between giggles "your..." "shorts..." "see..." "butt...". Smiling his million dollar smile that I love, mouth gaping open, with just a bit of teeth showing on both the top and bottom, Dad kind of blushed and tried to yank up the shorts in the back while still sitting. I think he tried to gauge if we were lying or not when he tried to pull them up too... but the yank didn't work. Those darn shorts were so short and ill-fitting that no amount of jostling would fix them.
The remainder of that project was many laughs and giggles from me and my mom as Dad scooted around the circle fitting in and securing each railroad tie. The entire time, my mom and I were threatening my dad that we were going to take those shorts away from him, donating them or maybe burning them to ensure he wouldn't EVER wear them again. Each time we threatened, Dad protested. He liked the shorts. He didn't see anything wrong with them (maybe he liked the breeze?).
Finally... a few weeks (maybe months?) later I took matters into my own hands. In the time between the front circle project and this next event, there was LOTS of talk about the maroon shorts. Each time my mom or I would see Dad in them, we would tease him about how we were going to get rid of them. Dad couldn't do much about Mom, but he would threaten me with my allowance, or letting me go out with friends, or giving me more chores if we threw out the shorts. That didn't deter me.
I didn't have the courage to actually throw them out, burn them or donate them... but I did have the guts to hide them. Being a good Catholic girl, I wouldn't lie about the situation. If asked about nearly ANYTHING, I would always tell the truth. Still do. I tend to be brutally honest, often at the expense of people's feelings. Just the way I am.
I hid the shorts behind the "hunting cabinet" in the basement. This was a large armoire type piece of furniture that my dad and brother stored all of their hunting gear. There was just enough space (and my arm was skinny enough at the time) for me to tuck those shorts as far as my arm would reach back behind the cabinet, but also close enough to the wall that by balling up the shorts, I was able to snugly cram them there so that they would be forever suspended between the chest and the wall. I want to say that I did this in the fall/winter time frame so that Dad would not be looking for those shorts for some time. But, shortly after the leaves started to bud on the trees and the weather warmed up, Dad had a reason to wear the shorts and went looking for them.
Initially, he wasn't so suspicious because it had been a while since had worn them, but eventually the questions came more and more often. Dad would ask "did you throw those shorts out?" or "did you donate those shorts?" I could honestly answer "no" each time. Eventually he stopped asking about them. YEARS later, maybe when they decided to paint the basement, I don't know, I don't think I was living at home anymore, they moved the hunting chest. Dad found his shorts. But, I don't think I've seen him wear them. I wonder if Mom was finally able to donate them?
