The Importance of Dennis’ Jeans
He adopted the fashion for wearing jeans early, but they came to mean something more to Dennis
When jeans first arrived in the UK they weren’t considered cool streetwear. Dennis, with an eye for fashion and practicality, wanted a pair. Few shops in London sold jeans, but in Carnaby Street, where Sean Connery had reputedly been seen wearing them, Dennis bought two pairs of Levis and a Breton top. 1950s jeans had straight legs and only came in one length so, although Dennis was six foot tall, he wore them rolled at the hem.
Dennis wore his denim jeans for casual weekend attire: sailing, fishing, holidays, or jobs around the house. Dennis’ look struck a balance between James Dean and Cary Grant. In contrast to Dennis’ work attire of a suit and bowler hat, he relaxed in casual shirts, jeans, and plimsoll shoes.
The 1970s, by Dennis’ way of thinking, sent fashion to hell in a handbasket. He wouldn’t give wardrobe space to trousers with bell-bottoms, heavily patterned shirts, jackets with wide lapels, or kipper ties. Dennis stuck to his guns, continuing to wear a more classic two-piece suit over white shirts and sombre ties. He never replaced his original Levis for flared versions. For weekends spent washing the car, taking his kids to the park, or lounging in the armchair, he chose to wear his jeans.
Time moved on and eventually Dennis retired; he’d maintained his style but wasn’t inflexible. He now wore brush cotton shirts and corduroy slacks. He’d discovered cargo pants had very useful pockets, a zip-up fleece jacket was light and comfortable while a duck-down gilet provided warmth and practicality. Long ago he’d upgraded his footwear from plimsolls to desert boots. Now he spent more time dressed casually, he relegated his jeans, which were by now heavily patched, for doing handyman jobs at home.
It so happened that the day ninety-one-year-old Dennis was admitted to hospital, he was wearing his trusty Levis. His health was failing and the family, each with children of their own, gathered at his bedside.
“Why not put on pajamas?” his daughter asked.
“I’m alright,” Dennis was stoic, although the doctor’s diagnosis had been grim.
When she and her father were alone, she tried again.
“You’ll be comfier in your pajamas, your belt buckle’s digging in.”
Dennis looked at her steadily, about to share a confidence.
“If I keep my jeans on, it feels like I’ll be coming home.”
Dennis was holding onto the familiarity of his jeans like a talisman; so she didn’t nag him.
Dennis did come home from the hospital. He shared one more Christmas with his children and grandchildren around him, but the subsequent January they hung up Dennis’ jeans for good.
~In memory of my father 7.4.28–17.1.20~
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