Bell Bottom Blues

Love this song. I’ll start with that. Eric Clapton’s voice crooning the vocals tore at my heartstrings in my younger days. (I’ll confess, when I listen to the song now, it still does…)

However, this post is not about the song (as much beloved at it is), but about those denim jeans we, of a certain age, wore. With pride. Before they became a popular item of consumer fashion, bell-bottomed jeans were our “freak flag.”

They were, of course, fashioned after sailors’ denim trousers, although those were usually looser the whole way up to the waist. The bells at the bottom of what we wore got wider with each iteration, until they were, quite honestly, somewhat ridiculous. But not to us. Not to those who wore them as a symbol of non-conformity (which eventually turned into conformity, as everyone donned them).

The more worn out they looked, the better. Their decrepit state emphasized the philosophical, conjectural, sometimes physical battles we waged or were pulled into.

We also made them statements of our individuality. If not large enough, we made the bells wider by cutting along the seams and piecing in fabric indicative of our particular tastes. Might have been more denim, a favorite bandana, an old shirt, sometimes (horrors) storebought fabric.

We lowered the already low waistlines, the curvy among us often having to sew pieces into them to accommodate a move further down the hips. This wreaked havoc on the zippers, sometimes causing the need to fold the excess length into the pants themselves. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but dang, we had a point. I’m not sure what that particular point was, but I obviously knew it back then.

As the jeans aged (and sometimes prior to the natural wear and tear) we sewed patches on them. These, too, were a matter of personal preference and our mindset. Peace signs were abundant. But sometimes there were musical references (I’m not certain where those patches came from–probably one of those “hippie” shops as our parents were wont to call them…), or flowers, or, I don’t know, whatever you found and could manage to sew onto the failing denim fabric. Because yes, those jeans got worn out. Sometimes the patches were all that held them together.

We stood for something back then, dressed in our “strange” clothes. Something we knew our parents didn’t quite get. Something we maybe didn’t quite get either. And yet, I think that’s when and where the attitude and conviction I’d been forming as I grew up finally settled into place. I wholly became someone who stands firm in my beliefs. A person who doesn’t back down from bullies. Who strives to protect others. Who will call out injustice. Who shouts out the love I have for and share with those around me.

Bell-bottomed, late-into-the-era hippie chick, that’s me. But without the recreational drugs. Never was a fan.

I wish I still had a pair of those marvelous pants, though. A pair I’d worn and decorated, demolished and put back together. Not that I could wear them if I did. I was a skinny little thing back then. No more. The years have given me a few extra pounds with which to face the world. I suppose I need that weight now. Something to keep me from being knocked down as I go through this phase in my life. But I’ll tell you, even when I get knocked down, I come back with a vengeance. Somehow, I continue to wear those bells, invisible to everyone else, but a constant calling to who I am.

My cousin Pattie, soulmate and fellow bell-bottom wearer, shared the above post with me on Facebook. I’m not sure where it originated, but whoever you are, thank you! It certainly made me smile, reminisce, and sparked the ol’ brain to write this post.