A Growing Fool
On the rare occasions it was warranted, I was thrilled to wear a tie my father had long since banished to a far corner of the closet, so much out of style it was that it was a new style all its own, wide and long enough to serve as vest or bib, wild enough to please the choosiest of adolescent clowns. I had big shoes. But not the nose, and not a knotted nose, or belt of rubber hose, though these might be termed indispensable. I was but a growing fool, scant possessed of sense to fill a thimble full. Yes, those were the days. Soft to the touch, cool to the face, the very image of an angel kind enough and blind enough to see through my disgrace.