Christmas, 1960

That is me concentrating on my toes, circa 1960, which is something I still do with regularity.  The others in the photo are a few of my nieces and a nephew.

Everybody is still alive as far as I know.

Note the patches on the knees of my pants, ordinary symbols of austerity from that era.  By 1969 patches were de rigueur in U.S. society, as affluent hippies seized the best of proletarianism and attempted to make it their own.

You could buy patched clothing in the finest haberdasheries across the land.

That of course threw me into a quandary, for having worn so many patches on my clothing as a youth I had grown tired of "the look."  I rejected the virtues of style. I rejected the hippie ethos in other words, and opted for new, unpatched clothing. Around the same time I rejected Jerry Garcia in favor of Miles Davis.

When, even later, patches transcended hippiedom and became a symbol of the actual proletarian revival, I again embraced them to affect the "look of the poet."

Patches are an interesting aspect of U.S. cultural history.  But then again, so is oatmeal.

Merry Christmas everybody.


TS