Saturday Morning at 9:51am
I love my slippers. They keep my feet warm. More than that, they make me feel loved. Something about the meeting of sheepskin and foot skin.
My father loves slippers too. So much so, that for his 75th birthday each of his 4 children gave him slippers. He had an actual party, meaning non-family, and entertainment. A shindig. Public present opening. (High WASPs don't say gift. We say present. I don't know why. Maybe because there is a gift industry.) But we wanted to give him slippers, so we did. He opened 4 boxes, one at a time, while we 4 adult kids doubled over in less-than-silent laughter around the room. The joke was not so obvious to everyone else, maybe, but we thought we were hilarious.
To the point where, the other night, when we were gathered to celebrate my brother's and my birthdays, my father was telling a story. It involved a friend of his, who had a son-in-law with financial resources. "Guess what (my friend) got for Christmas," said my father, gleefully. "Slippers?" we chorused. "A driver," said my father. He was not referring to golf clubs.
For High WASPs at a certain point on the family fortune slope, slippers are the new drivers. Without all that human folderol either.