Hand-Me-Downs

I was born the second son of a second son of a second son. Unlike seventh sons of seventh sons of seventh sons, who are occasionally endowed with mysterious psychic powers, seconds of seconds of seconds are not so occasionally endowed with not so mysterious, not so psychic, hand-me-downs. Now I understand why seconds always get seconds. Firsts are growing fast, and “it doesn’t make any sense to throw away perfectly good clothes, or perfectly good shoes, or perfectly good toys, or perfectly good sports equipment.” But I don’t understand why a “perfectly good baseball glove” doesn’t remain “perfectly good” for son number one. I never quite bought into the “you don’t need to break this one in; I’m really doing you a favor taking the new one.” I also don’t understand why “perfectly good” girlfriends never got handed-down.

My folks were not wealthy; and except for food, for better or worse, they couldn’t really afford a lot of stuff, especially new stuff. We always ate well though, and if we seldom had steak or fresh fish, there was always lots of pasta with hamburger sauce, or hamburgers with fried potatoes, or meatloaf with mashed potatoes, or casseroles, or chop suey, or American chop suey (yes, pasta with hamburger sauce) or tuna pea wiggle with crackers. We occasionally had pot roast with boiled potatoes, or pork roast with red potatoes, and on rare occasion, cubed steak. Cubed steak, if case you’re fortunate enough not to know, is an un-chewable, inedible cut of beef that is cleverly sliced and diced in such as way as to turn it into a chewable, inedible cut of beef.

But getting back to stuff, vis-à-vis new stuff, it was a rare commodity. Christmases were somewhat an exception, and annual gifts of underwear and socks were nearly always brand new. Gifts of other clothes and toys were nearly never. I vividly remembering receiving the skis I had requested from Santa when I was about ten years old. Somehow Santa had managed to locate a pair of slightly used oak ski jumping skis that were about eight feet long, weighed about 20 pounds and were sans bindings. I’m not sure how I was supposed to attach them to the 20 pound Army surplus leather ski boots that accompanied them. Even at age 10, I knew enough not to show up at our local sledding hill with that package in tow.

When it wasn’t Christmas time, rummage sales (hand-me-down heaven) were the preferred shopping venue. My folks went to church religiously (pardon the pun) and regularly volunteered to run the regular rummage sales that were the mainstay of the never-ending fundraising campaign. The great thing about running the show (the rummage show, as it were) was that you got first dibs on all the good stuff, plus the added benefit of being able to take home anything left over that no one wanted (perhaps there was a hint there, but my folks never got it). I doubt if my mom ever bought a brand new dress, or if my dad ever bought a brand new suit. I know the only time I got a brand new suit was when nana came to town, flush after her recent divorce (her fourth), and took me shopping. I still remember with fondness my brand new burgundy blazer, my brand new azure blue dress shirt, my brand new forest green slacks, and my brand new white bucks with matching white leather belt.

Don’t get me wrong. Rummage sales often had some actual good stuff, at least for a boy of ten with a passion for gadgets and an inclination to collect things. At one rummage sale I scored a giant console radio/record player that got two AM radio stations and played 78 rpm records. It came with an extensive collection of classic records, which I wish I had today. At another, I scored an eight-millimeter movie camera, with all the bells and whistles, that almost took movies, and a state-of-the-art (at one time, at least) eight-millimeter projector that almost played them.