After my Pop passed away this year I found myself wearing his clothes. This was nothing new. Back in 1998, when I first discovered op-shopping, I realised I had an exclusive treasure trove right under my nose. During a regular weekend jaunt to Nan & Pop’s ©, I asked politely if I could inspect their wardrobe, and with the excitement of one passing through the ‘Staff Only’ door at Salvos, I initiated a gangly, late teens version of dress ups. Whenever a fellow vintage freak complimented me on my retro jacket, it was with great pride that I said it was my Pop’s. At times it was a little awkward, as Pop was still wearing it at the time.
Adorned in a full set of his clothes, I strolled through Melbourne one brisk winter morning, like a soldier of nostalgia, trying to blend in with the past. Top: Safari jacket, dark green, pure wool from New Zealand. Bottom: dark green, flared suit trousers. Shirt: pale lime green, poly/cotton blend. Singlet: Bonds, athletic. Socks: knee length bus driver style. Underpants: yes, underpants. They were a pair of cheap generic boxers that Nan had bought, but he’d never worn. The clothes made me feel safe, purposeful, loved. He was a quiet man who never said “I love you.” But what an impoverished upbringing had economised from his language, he made up for with a generous smile and patient ear.
There are days when the loneliness really hits me, and I find myself scuttling through the sand layers of my mind to find my fondest memories of him… I’m six and it’s a breezy, summery day and we’re walking along the beach. This was our walk. These were our times. We’d do it regularly. Pop would plod along at a steady pace, watching me sprint ahead and poke around in the sand. I’d run back and find his large, warm hand. Constant shift work had not allowed him to have this kind of time with his own children. This must have been such a joy!
I wear his shirts like a hug. When I first got them, they still smelt like the cool linen stillness of Nan and Pop’s cupboard. Now they’ve been through the wash a few times, but the cloth still connects with my blood. I am reminded of my love for my family, and this man who would be a father figure to me. Wearing his clothes makes me feel strangely complete. Like an animal returning to the place it was born.
The truth is I’ve been wearing dead people’s clothes for years. There are those who scoff and hang cruelly on the edge of second hand shops, dabbling their toe in the dust-ridden air, daring each other to go in. What twisted expression could I evoke with tales of my grandfather’s undergarments keeping me snug at night. I wouldn’t want them to understand – they would be clumsy with such sadness, dropping it on the hard floor of their hearts.
My friend in Hobart said his father had just passed away and he, too, had taken to wearing his underwear and socks. He didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. In this global shopfront/virtual techno-paddock world, sometimes we need to walk like kingdoms and wear our memories like flags.
JUSTIN HEAZLEWOOD
