Ties

When I was a little girl, about four or five years old, my father went away on a trip to Florida. I only vaguely understood the purpose of the trip, but it was related to the construction or remodeling of a motel in St. Petersburg called The Marlin. My grandfather and my uncle, who were already there, had invested in this motel, and Daddy would be driving down with his friend and helper, Vito, and I understood that this was a work trip, not vacation, but I felt a great surge of anticipatory abandonment nonetheless. I pictured palm trees and beaches and tropical skies, and my father in an exotic elsewhere far away, entirely minus me, being whoever he was without us.

The home of my childhood was a tumultuous one, and Daddy was our strength and our happiness, the heart of the universe as we knew it. I wanted to go with him. "I'll be back soon," he said.

But soon seemed like a series of empty o's and moons and gloom. I went to the window that looked down on Coney Island Avenue, wept dramatically, then pulled myself together and decided to be a helper instead. I opened his suitcase, whose contents were austere, and looked in his closet in search of better choices. The best thing he had were his ties.

Oh, his beautiful ties! I couldn't even decide. I pulled down a sumptuous armful...gorgeous silky swaths of color: deep maroon, sapphire blue, a richly textured burgundy. They were striped or patterned in wondrous ways, classy but not bashful. Now these were adornments worthy of my father, who so often wore the paint-splattered overalls of the hardworking man he was, but who was also elegant and handsome, someone who enjoyed stepping out now and then feeling dressed-up and dapper.

And because I couldn't decide among the ties, I crammed them all into his suitcase. Why not be extravagant? I imagined him selecting one each morning, and it would shimmer like a jewel in the Florida sunshine, and he would emerge with new confidence. Or maybe it was just my way of going with him.I suppose I've always had a fondness for ties. Decades later, I admired my husband's ties: bright flags among dark suits, a promising little crowd of prospects to choose among each morning. I had favorites...the one I bought him in Rome, with multiple hues of  magenta; the retro one with a print of open fans; a bright red one with white flowers, so contrary to expectations. He doesn't often wear ties anymore, so he gathered most and donated them. He's very efficient about getting rid of things, too efficient sometimes. It was only by pure luck I was able to rescue the ones in the picture above, and I'm not sure what I will do with them, but I keep them with my arts and crafts supplies. (Monte doesn't know I have them; I wonder if he will ever see this blog post.)

But, back to the 1950s, and my father's trip to Florida, and the ties I so helpfully packed. He of course opened the suitcase before he left, and he was not so much delighted as baffled and bemused. "Cheez," he said. (It was an exclamation he used. Some contraction of Jesus and cheese? It meant surprise, but with a dash of bewilderment.)  "Who put all these ties in my suitcase?"

The answer to that was immediately apparent. He hugged me. But it would be hot and muggy in Florida, and it wasn't that kind of trip. He didn't take any ties with him.

And in the end, I was glad. Because I could open his closet the whole time he was gone and bury my face in his ties.