“Don’t go out looking like a ragamuffin!”
That’s what I heard from my mom, quite often. It was a variation on the old “Make sure your underwear is clean! What if you’re in an accident!?” My mom quit using that one when my older brothers started to tell her that they weren’t wearing any. The word itself, ragamuffin, comes from Ragamoffyn, the name of a demon in a poem from the mid 1300s. Eventually, the word came to mean a “shabbily clothed, dirty child.” As a child, I could be a little devil but my hair covered the horns and I rarely took my pitchfork out of the house. Therefore, I’m pretty sure my mom was thinking of the second meaning rather than the first.
She did not want to see me walking around town in ripped or dirty clothes with unkempt hair…not to be confused with Jack Kempt hair, meaning unnaturally thick, white and intent on balancing the budget. It was all about showing respect to those around you and being prepared for unforeseen circumstances. While the word “RAGAMUFFIN” continues to echo in my nearly-empty noggin, I don’t always apply the good advice from my mother. For example, I’ve driven to pick up the kids from different places in a frayed t-shirt, polar-bear pajama bottoms and no shoes. Yes, bear-bottoms and bare-feet which is better than bare-bottoms and bear-feet. Still, it’s not appropriate. What if I have a fender bender? Or, have to get out to knock on a door? Or, find myself having to make an emergency stop for Double-Stuf Oreos? Well, this past Saturday, I was hearing my mother’s voice loud and clear for five hours straight.
Saturday, November 15, was Scholar Day at the University of Kansas in Lawrence. That means, if your child is a scholar of some sort, you get a nice buffet and tickets to the football game. Last year, this was a late afternoon-evening event so I assumed the same would apply this season. Turns out I had a prior obligation for the evening so we told Harrison, the youngest, he could take my place and enjoy the food and fun with his big brother and mom. Well, it became a morning deal with kick-off at 11:35 a.m. We decided it would be unfair to Harrison if I big-footed my way back into the mix. However, due to an automobile dilemma, it became necessary for me to drive my wife, Jessica, and Harrison into Lawrence, on Saturday, for the occasion. The idea was that I’d drop them off and head back home. They’d spend the night there and I’d come back for them on Sunday. As I said, that was the idea. It was not the reality.
Our first stop was the motel where Jessica had reservations. She just wanted to leave her bags until check-in later in the day. Good thing we stopped. They didn’t have her on the roster. No room. How that happened is a whole other story I am not certified or permitted to relate. Let’s just say it involves language barriers, the popularity of the name “Jessica” and Dublin, Ireland. ‘Nuff said. Clearly, it made no sense for me to use the gas driving home again. I decided I’d just hang around town until about half-time and then we’d head back.
This is where the “ragamuffin” factor comes into play. I was wearing threadbare, ill-fitting pants and a baggy, partially-stained sweatshirt. I also had my broken glasses on which my wife has gotten held together with toilet paper, glue, rubber cement and prayer. (It’s the temple that is snapped so prayer seems appropriate.) Let’s just say the repair job is noticeable. On walks with the dog, my glasses have started to scare small children. Also, I hadn’t combed my hair or shaved. Now, I know that in some magazine ads, that tousled, unshaven, macho look is in vogue. Let’s just say that I didn’t look like I belonged in a magazine unless I was the centerfold for Middle-Aged Adrift Monthly. In that state, I couldn’t really horn in on the buffet and there was no extra ticket for the game. I dropped the revelers off on campus and drove away.
Being game day, there were people everywhere. I sneaked into the bank to take care of a transaction, trying not to look anyone in the eye, which probably explains why the teller’s finger was on the alarm button. Not only was I not really dressed right for human interaction, I had neglected to bring a book or newspaper with me. I left downtown and set out to find a quiet spot to wait. I ended up in the parking lot of the Dole Institute of Politics. There was no other car around so I made the decision to go on in. Other than a very kind woman who asked if I was waiting for the tour, I was the only person there. I read every word of every display. This was a place I’d wanted to visit since it opened so I felt lucky to have so much time to explore. It was fascinating. As more folks started to come in, though, it was my cue to move along. I felt like Bill Bixby at the end of every Incredible Hulk program. I only needed the plaintive piano, tinkling in the background as I moved on…not able to tell others my secret.
I ended up sitting in the van from then on. In my vehicle exploration, I found a bag of pennies, a pile of pens, a scissors, socks, cds without cases, cases without cds. Looking back I really should have found a spot to park near the Kaw. Then, I could have really been Matt Foley…living in a van, down by the river. Just know, I will never venture out as a ragamuffin, again. My mom gets smarter with every passing year!
