Shorts Story

It dropped down into the 50s the other night, cold for these parts. My

wife and I were going out to eat at a place on the beach. She looked at me and said: "You're wearing shorts?"

They were nice shorts. And I wore a nice sweater with them. I was warm enough and altogether

presentable.

"Sure, I'm wearing shorts," I said. "I'm a shorts kind of guy."

"But it's not a shorts kind of place," she said.

"Then I'll try not to be offended."

She smiled and said: "You know, you've become just like your father."

There was a time when I might have argued, but she was right. And if indeed there is a gene that makes some of us wear shorts in all kinds of weather and in all circumstances, even if others might not deem it appropriate, then I have surely inherited it.

My father-we called him R.J.-was a third-generation Floridian who loved his family, fishing, the Gators and good bourbon. He made his living doing what his father and his grandfather did before him and what one of my brothers does to this day-raising ornamental plants. It's hot, hard work. So for my father, business attire was a pair of shorts and a polo shirt. Casual attire was pretty much the same.

Long pants? R.J. wore them to church, but damn if you could get him into a pair of full-fledged trousers for any other occasion. Not even for those official family portraits we'd hire a photographer to take of our clan every couple of years. All the rest of us would turn out in our very best outfits. R.J. would put on shirt, tie, sport coat . and a pair of shorts. Mother would make him stand on the back row. In all the photos he wears a grin that says: "It might look as if I'm all dressed up like the rest of these fools, but ."

Hot weather, cold weather, didn't matter. R.J. wore shorts.

"I like being able to see my knees," he said.

We'd go out to restaurants, and every other man in the place would be wearing long pants. Not R.J. "If you're clean, well-mannered and can pay the bill, you can damn well go where you want and wear what you want," he said.

This steadfast dedication to his attire of choice was often a point of considerable contention. A few years ago, my niece celebrated her bat mitzvah. R.J. wore a suit to the service at the synagogue, but as soon as it was over he stopped by his house, and when he showed up at the country club for the party he was wearing shorts. Some of the attendees were appalled. But by then R.J. was almost 80, and for him to have come otherwise would have been against his nature and innately inappropriate. Some of us applauded.

My father died a short while back, and I gave the eulogy. There was a nice crowd at the church, standing room only. I walked up to the lectern, thanked everyone for coming and said: "There is only one way to properly honor the memory of my father today."

That was the cue. My two brothers stood. My two sons stood. I undid my belt and dropped my pants. The four of them did the same. We were all wearing shorts. It got a lot of laughs. It's good to have laughs at a funeral. I gave the rest of the eulogy with my long pants around my ankles.

I hadn't told the priest, Father Jackson, that I had intended to do this. Lucky he is Episcopalian and has a sense of humor. As I passed him on my way from the lectern he whispered: "You know the quick path to hell, don't you?"

That's OK. I'll be wearing shorts.