Under the Wire

If I have ever written a classic column, it would be this one. No probably 30 or more years later, I want to share it with you all again.

I felt really guilty, standing there watching an old friend go up in smoke. Disloyal, a traitor. All described my emotions as the flames danced and consumed. It had started a few weeks after Christmas last year. It was hard to imagine such a happy occasion resulting in such sadness now. Maybe it’s a law of physics or an unwritten axiom, I’m just not sure, but the two events were definitely linked.

My friend’s cremation began with a gift. As other family members attacked the present-laden tree, I found one of mine. It was easy to spot, bigger than most and heavy. Obviously, Santa had recognized I’d been a very good boy last year. I was thrilled to open the big box and find a brand new pair of coveralls. You guys know the kind. Full zipper legs, insulated, lots of pockets including the coveted pliers pouch on the leg. They were a work of art. Immediately visions of doing chores, cozily protected by my weather-proof outerwear, danced thru my head. Bring on calving season, frosty mornings horseback moving cows and exercising overfed geldings. Bring on the cold, I was as close to invincible as a guy could get.

I could hardly wait to go out the next day. It was cold, real cold, but I was not disappointed. I looked around for things to do outside, enjoying my new found protection. It wasn’t until I returned to the house that my problems began. After I’d taken my shiny new coveralls off, I went to the closet to put them away. There, hanging in their usual place, looking tired, faded and frayed were my old coveralls.

“Don’t worry,” I quietly thought, “I can use you, too. Now I can save my new ones for looking sharp at farm sales and wear the old ones to change the oil in the pickup.” However, it seemed that whenever I was faced with the decision of going outside and being cold in the torn, worn-out, old coveralls or staying toasty in the new ones … well, you know the answer.

As the weeks went by the previously indispensable old coveralls hung, ignored, pushed out of the way, in fact, in the way. It became obvious something was going to have to be done.

Finally, the day arrived to forever disconnect myself from the garment that had served me so well in the past. How, I thought, do you give them a dignified end. Burying was out of the question. Not only was the ground frozen but if the EPA ever heard about me placing this grease soaked, stained garment contaminated by every liquid known to man in the ground … it would probably mean prison for me.

That’s how I decided on the trash burning barrel. After starting a good fire I reverently tossed them in. I didn’t leave, though. I felt I should stay and say good-bye. Actually, I’m glad I did. When the grease soaked material hit the fire, it reminded me of the 4th of July! The left breast pocket (zipper long ago torn off) fairly exploded with something I’d left in it. The two legs burned different colors, the result of oil on one and horse cut medicine covering the other.

I felt bad, of course to see them go, but then the W-D 40 can I had left in my pliers pocket went off.

It was a fitting finale to years of service. I wonder if these new ones will return to Carhart Heaven as impressively?