At some point, my dad decided never to throw out a shirt unless it had holes in it, and even then maybe it was worth saving, because, c’mon, this was a perfectly good shirt. Later on, he started tucking an ancient Kent State sweatshirt, rendered thinner and less warm after every washing, into his jean shorts. “You can’t wear that,” I’d say, horrified. Dad would shrug, acknowledging the fact that he’d heard what I said, but also acknowledging that he didn’t really care.