Here’s a quick story about how specific it gets:
I’m on the couch in the basement at Gesundheit! Institute, watching a documentary about international humanitarian clown trips. I’m thinking about props and costumes. Although the floral print baseball cap I found at Little Levels while thrifting in Hillsboro is a great new addition, it would be really sweet to get my hands on a propeller beanie. But as soon as I have that thought, I remember: all throughout my baby-toddler years, my dad would come home from work from Interstellar Propeller, THE name in propeller beanie hats, grumbling and distressed.
Chances are very good that my dad would come home angry from just about any job. But he was packing and shipping boxes of propeller beanies. And my gut reaction on that couch was an honest, “I can’t wear a propeller beanie out of respect for my father.”
