Old Shirts

It is a second day of trauma in the Call household. Yesterday, to the sound of the death march, and yielding to pressure from the matriarch of the family, I somberly carried my old favorite (but now worn out) shirt all the way from our bedroom to the trash can in the garage. In its blue and white window pane pattern were folded memories of excitement (when I first bought it about 15 years ago), fear (when for a moment I was out of control and partially flexed before I realized that if I fully flexed I would have shredded my shirt altogether), and satisfaction (when I carefully stitched up the holes so that the repair was essentially invisible to the naked eye). It had been a good shirt. It was the kind that did not show wrinkles much at all and did not require ironing or any other special care after washing. It had been loyal to me through thick and thin (and it was more on the thin side of late) and it was comfortable to have around. The edges were worn and lacked the crisp texture of years ago and new holes had appeared because of the inadvertent strains of use. It was indeed with a heavy heart that I gently deposited it in the garbage bin knowing that I would never see it again.

Today the trauma continued. I had returned home from church wearing the last of my missionary white shirts. Although it was “permanent pressed” when Mom and Dad bought it, the treatment had long since left its fibers. The shoulder seams rode high on my shoulders as if from a different era when shirts were supposed to fit rather than drape. Although generally white, it was no longer as bright as it had been and the body of the fabric was limp and lifeless--some would even say it looked wrinkled. It had served me well as I walked from door to door to door in Italy. When my feet were sore and my socks worn out, my shirt was still strong and resilient. When it was soaked by the rains of fall, or steamed in the humidity of summer, there was no complaint, just silent resolve to keep doing its job. It was there when I offered to help a couple of young college students with their calculus and they thought they would humiliate me with the perplexity of the problem. It stayed with me when I calmly explained a trigonometric transform that led to the solution easily and quickly. And when my pride almost led me to say some haughty remark, it teamed up with my tie to choke away any untoward comment. After other shirts had long since given up because of stain or stress, this one had “hung in there” quietly in the closet ready at a moment’s notice to again come to my aid. Just moments ago, I gently laid it to rest beside its younger, casual brother in the silent darkness.

Watch out Penney’s here I come! Shopping Spree! Yippee!