When I was a young man growing up in cold and snowy North Dakota I learned the value of a nice warm sweatshirt.
(For you residents of the UK, think "jumper".)
Even the governor wore one on a Saturday morning run with his staff and members of the press.
(Governor Bill Guy is the tall fellow on the right in glasses. I'm the lad in dark on the left, apparently dreaming of going back to bed.)
They were cheap.
They were rugged.
They lasted forever.
And most important of all, they were warm.
So as I have reached the senescence of my long and not-so-well-lived life and the temperature has dipped into the 50 degree range . . .
(Again for you residents of not only the UK but the entire world outside of the U.S. of A., think Fahrenheit. Celsius puts it in the 10 degree range and now I'm really shivvering.)
. . . I went looking in the retail outlets for sweatshirts.
Lo and behold, I found one.
Bright red it is and, with it's fleecy composition, as warm as I remember from the Good Old Days.
But I only got one and while I am extremely careful in the kitchen and at the dining table (he lied) it would accumulate spots from time to time.
I dreamed of getting one or two more and today I went back to the same store and did just that.
Now, SWMBO has qualms about me shopping alone for additions to my wardrobe.
And when I came home and modeled my latest purchase, she shuddered noticeably and covered her eyes.
Now I ask you: is this too much?
She seemed to think it was a tad (or a truckload) too bright.
But I assured her it would protect me when I go out to the street to pick up the mail from our mailbox.
And frankly, I love it.
(To be honest: I got one other in a subdued dark grey.)
By the way, when I was looking for that first picture above I found one other of me in a sweatshirt, albeit a short-sleeved one worn for summer.
It shows me exhibiting my style sense at the end of our obviously exhausting weeklong migration from Indiana to Arizona in 1972.
It was just past July 4th and I was still dressed for the patriotic fervor.
