ODE TO A PAIR OF WORK PANTS

(apologies to John Keats)

Just yesterday I had to lay to rest my usual pair of long work pants. They had gotten a reprieve during summer, when I mostly wore shorts, but I was just holding on to them for memory's sake. It was time for them to go.

I have been using them through all kinds of work here at the farm from the day we first started. Cleaning out brush. Cleaning out the barn. Cleaning out the shed behind our house. Scraping and caulking and painting the barn. Caulking and painting the livingroom, the kitchen, the hall, and the upstairs bathroom. And paint, paint, paint, paint.

They were like an old friend. Whether cutting down errant weeds, or hauling felled branches, or moving rocks, I reached for these pants every morning.

They eventually ripped. Then ripped some more. I wore them proudly. I began to look like one of the extras from Pirates of the Caribbean. They finally got to the point where they could not be repaired. Only retired.

My wife doesn't understand the affection I have for these pants, and I'll admit it's a touch odd. But there is nothing like a pair of worn, used work pants to reach for when the day begins.

Got to start a new pair today.