Dishevelment. (original) (raw)

Evidently, I have a genetic defect in my makeup. As mother often stated, "Delbert was born with dirty hands, cruddy ears, and his shirttail hanging out." Maturity has given little relief as the problems still exist today.

Psychiatrists might trace the problems back to 1933 when she had to drape the crib with damp diapers to protect her newborn baby from the rolling black dust storms of the Dust Bowl. Another contributing factor might be that my father was my idol, who allowed me to follow him as he worked, leaving me trailing along in his dust. Ingesting this much dirt might have affected my body chemistry, creating a magnetic field to attract additional dust.

I can vividly recall the embarrassment I suffered as a little boy while sitting innocently in church praying for the sermon to end. Mother placed an arm lock around my head, moistened her handkerchief with spit, and cleaned my ears right there before God and everybody.

In fact, to get me to church in a presentable manner, my parents had to follow a strict regimen. Dad dressed while mother dressed me. He then held me in his arms, not allowing me to the floor while mother dressed. She held me in her lap while traveling and at church or the whole process would have to be redone.

Much of my early life occurred during the time of Saturday-night-only baths. Each evening, as I prepared for bed, I was stripped and stood on a chair at the sink and scrubbed until my skin became warm and my ears hurt.

I believe I contributed to my mother never being bored, as she was constantly retying my shoes, trying to flatten my cowlick, stuffing in my shirttail, or wiping my nose.

No wonder she was totally exhausted at night and waited four years before starting my little brother on his way.

Most family photographs show me with wrinkled britches and shirttail flapping in the breeze. If the "disheveled look" ever becomes fashionable, I could be a centerfold model.

I hear of people who sort their clothes occasionally, donating the surplus to The Salvation Army. Ha! My clothing lasts one year at best and is torn into grease rags.

I have three kinds of apparel: worn, worn out and funeral.

I'm also experimenting on long tailed shirts with lead fishing weights sewn onto the tail for weight. I'll let all you fellow disheveled sufferers know how this scheme works out.

I read where many states are banning the use of cell telephones while driving. I think I'll write state Sen. Teel Bivins, R-Amarillo, and suggest they add an amendment to prevent wives from grabbing their husband's head while traveling at 70 mph and wiping out their ears with a Kleenex.