Before little boys entered the first grade, in the early 1940’s, they wore short pants. Not long, short-pants; but short, short-pants. If you had to dress up, maybe for going to church, a “good pair of long pants” was acceptable, but be sure you had suspenders, the narrow, clip-on kind. The suspenders could also be useful for those shorts. In many instances, suspenders may have been mandatory to keep the pants from falling down at inappropriate times, like when running fast.
With entrance into the first grade, little boys were allowed to wear knickers. Only advertisements in the stores might call them “knickerbockers.” They were the in-between version for pants. The trouser leg came to just below the knee. The young boy’s lower legs were protected from scratches by long stockings.
If you were well-dressed, the bottoms of the knickers were secured by a button or two immediately below the knee. Many mischievous boys went with falling socks due to unbuttoned knickers; mine were always buttoned. Although the knickers might be either gray or dark brown, or most likely black, their major, consistent property was that they were made of corduroy cloth. Knickers always made a swishing sound. They hissed and went whip-whap with every step. Every teacher knew immediately when a little boy walked up behind her; there was no quiet entrance. I tried to walk quietly but seldom went unheard.
Kickers went the way of other breeches once worn by Washington, Jefferson and other founding fathers. A boy could wear kickers in the first grade, but never in the second. However, they could not get rid of the sound accompanying long, corduroy pants. Teachers still knew when a little boy approached from behind. Fortunate boys were able to shed their corduroy by the fifth grade.
What kickers were for little boys, pinafores must have been for little girls, even if they were not made of corduroy. Little girls were Shirley Temples; young boys were the little rascals.
Little boys wore short pants, knickers and corduroys but seldom tried them on before they were bought. If mom made a buying mistake, she could always return them for another size. Shoes were different. I enjoyed going with my mother to buy shoes. It was fun.
When I tried on different pairs of shoes to learn which might be the right size and, therefore, wearable for a few months, I could look at my feet inside of the durable leather covers. Yes, the fluoroscope was the fun part of shopping for shoes. With X-ray vision, I saw how my toes wiggled inside of them.
My mother or the saleslady looked through the observer’s porthole while I viewed my feet through the main one. I wondered if she saw them upside-down. The wearer could look through only one opening at the view screen below and not both portholes located opposite to one another. If my mother bought shoes for herself, I did not have the chance to see her wiggle her toes. Of course, the real purpose for the fluoroscope was not to see me wiggle my own toes, but rather for the adults to see what space existed around my feet. Was it sufficient for me to “grow into my shoes?”
When it was discovered that fluoroscopy was dangerous for young, growing feet, shopping for shoes was no longer fun. It was just another task little boys had to endure. It was no more fun than looking for new knickers.