My tomboy childhood was spent clung to my dad's leg, literally and figuratively. I was his shadow. Everything he did, I wanted to do. When I'd see his car pull in from work I'd hide in his closet. When he walked in I'd announce in a deep ghastly voice, "This is the voice of DOOM speaking!" He played along and feigned fright each and every time and then we'd both laugh. His closet began to fascinate me. When my parents would go out for the evening, I'd lurk around organizing his neckties by color or stripe or label, clink around his cuff links, page through his old baseball card collection, thumb the stacks of dress shirts folded from the dry cleaners, stuff his silk pocket squares into different blazers to see how they looked, gleam at the white linen handkerchiefs perfectly ironed in a drawer, marvel at his bowl of foreign coins, breathe in the intoxicating (and toxic) aroma of shoe polish, and practice tying Half-Windsors on our golden retriever—a skill I mastered before my older brother, I'm proud to say. His closet is the perfect balance of chaos and order. My husband and I were recently talking about how there's nothing better than a father's closet, even now as adults, it's still a magical place—and one that I still sneak into now and again. Happy Father's Day, Dad.
I'd love to know, do you have a memory or memento from your dad's closet?
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