Growing up I was under the assumption that this was a normal habit. My dad would make occasional pop-ins to his folks on the weekend to say hi and chat. I always loved that time of gathering for no particular reason, just to shoot the poop and say hi. In the later years his father would reciprocate and pop-in on our family on weekend mornings. My mom would later tell me that her mom also was a frequent “popper” and would often have friends in tow to come see the kids. [As it turns out, my mom was not a fan of the pop-in in these instances]. So perhaps it’s a genetic trait [also read as disorder] that you either inherently feel the need to impose upon friends and family unannounced, or you don’t.
As you can guess, the pop-in can be a very revealing experience. Take first my general pop-in habit. Add my brother’s highly anticipated move back to the city. Add a new wife, and you are certain to come out with an experience that would pose issue to my pop-in habit. Let’s just say the good Lord blessed my sister-in-law with great hearing, and He had the wisdom to move them into a second level condo where twenty steps protected me from certain blindness.
Take next my Grandpa's pop-ins at our house. These were usually Saturday morning stops at a time earlier than I liked to be up. But of course the racket of a new arrival to the house would usually roust me from my slumber and I would slog out to the breakfast table. Knowing that the arrival was most certainly family at this ungodly hour, I felt no inclination to spruce myself up. So I seated myself at the table in what the rest of the family knew to be standard weekend attire. Whitey tighties and my infamous blanket/toga. Did it concern me at all that we had visitors? Not in the least. This was family habit. Casual was our style. Standard fare that should be known to all, or at the very least, caveat emptor. And besides, I usually wasn't the only one dressed like this. Which leads to my next point.
As it turned out, this preference for casual weekend attire existed throughout familial generations, and to a greater extent than I knew. As it happens, my oldest sister is a longtime opponent of fabric covering. Her turn to full-time motherhood provided her the opportunity to stage daily full-scale protests, and she even was able to persuade her kids as to the evils of cotton, wool, and poly-blends. Thank heavens for curtains. And doorbells. And locks. My pop-in habit reached another conundrum when, upon ringing the doorbell, I had to await several minutes while hearing loud scampering behind the door and yells of “uncle Ryan’s here,” while still not receiving a greeting at the door. But alas, a few minutes waiting at the door did not deter the joy of randomly greeting and talking with family.
When questioned on her frequent “activism”, my sister simply replied, “Why would I want to go to the trouble of putting all those clothes on when there’s no one else around?” That’s a [good/valid/troubling/absurd] point. When I asked if her if her husband shared her same political leanings on the “fabric question” she smirked. “When we hear the car pull-up I send an all out call of ‘everybody upstairs to put clothes on’.” Well at least she has a system.
So this still leaves the age old question of nature versus nurture. Do I despise clothing because it’s in my genes or because I learned to? As a kid we would make frequent trips over to Grandma Mom-Side’s house. Now I’m uncertain of whether these trips were pop-ins, or if my Grandma just had insurmountable levels of self-confidence. Either way, during the summer, our arrival was always celebrated by a waving Grandma from the garden, or the fire-pit, or the front stoop, clad in nothing more than her undies, bra, and fashionably accessorized sweat rag. Again, this was our “normal”. This is what we grew up with. Can we really be blamed?
Fast-forward fifteen years, and my brother and I are both attending college. We are separated by at least three-hundred miles, and he attends a casual, liberal state university while I am housed in a right wing bastion of conservativism. Yet somehow, despite the miles, despite the contrast in colleges, my brother and I develop the same reputation. We’re both the guys who are always running around the dorms naked. Go figure. [Yes, I am “that guy”].
As if this wasn’t bad enough. I fear this casualization has spread to a new generation. Either our ideas are proliferating or the gene is strong. My sister, yes, surprisingly that one, was at home with her 4-year old son. She began doing her morning yoga routine. [Surprisingly, I think her husband had convinced her of the benefits of clothing by this time]. After a few moments of intently observing her, son decided he would join in. Very deliberately son began to follow the movements and angles of the yoga workout. As the workout continued, son was apparently reaching oneness with his being and began removing his clothes as he continued with his yoga. The shedding of his stress and clothes continued until the little jaybird concluded his session.
Not one to forget, my sister asked son several days later, “do you remember when we were doing yoga the other day?” Son, looking sternly at her replied, “Mom, we don’t talk about that.” Despite the nudity, maybe his father’s genes are fighting to instill some sense of decency and humility that apparently my own family’s genes are incapable of mustering.
Well years passed and we grew in age if not maturity. I graduated from college and managed to walk the line without incident. I returned home to make a serious adult life, and I moved back in with my parents while I attended law school. Memories of my family’s casualization faded as we took a more “main line” approach to clothing. Perhaps I could live a normal life. Perhaps the events of the past were behind us. Or so I hoped.
One weekend Aunt and Uncle J came into town to spend a few days with the family. We enjoyed an evening of dinner and laughter as we recalled memories of past and told stories that had turned to family lore. Evening turned to night and night to morning, and not being the same sluggard I once was, I rose at a decent hour to head upstairs for coffee and breakfast.
Upon arrival in the living room I had to check myself to make certain I was not still dreaming. I decided I better head first for a cup of coffee in the kitchen before assessing things. After pouring myself a cup of thick black coffee I returned to the living room for assessment. There in the rocking chair was Uncle J enjoying his morning coffee and the paper while lounging in a white undershirt and his white boxers. Loose boxers. Airy boxers. I thought I had left this behind.
I turned to find my dad, not to be outdone in his own house, also enjoying coffee and the paper while lounging in a black undershirt and his black tighties. Tight. Form fitting. I thought we had purged this. What happened to social norms and boundaries. All our advancement. I was stunned, disillusioned. What was to be done? Where was my mom in all this? Oh well. I suppose sometimes nurture cannot overcome nature. Dejected, I returned to my room, removed my shirt, removed my pants, grabbed my coffee and headed off in search of my section of the paper.
this is awesome. so funny to read. you are a great writer :) so glad your Mrs. linked to your blog!
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