Why I Don’t Wear Khaki
I heard it all of my life. ‘Go change your clothes’. Coming home from church Mom would tell Dad, “Don’t forget to change out of your good clothes”. Dad would sit down to read the paper, enjoy the wonderful Sunday dinner Mom had cooked, maybe nap on the sofa a bit. After a couple of hours he’d wander out into the yard, or down the cellar. By nightfall his pants, or shirt, or good shoes would bear the marks of his tinkering.
He was ‘just going to mow the lawn’, but then the blade needed sharpening, or he changed the oil, or just got grass stains. My brother and I were no better. More than once I showed up at school with my good loafers smelling of horse manure because I was ‘just going to throw the horse some hay’ before school.
Then I married a farmer. Getting him into clean clothes was hard enough. Getting him to remember to change was impossible.
I try hard. I have clothes that are for my job in town, and clothes for home. I put on neat clothes to go to town. I change -usually- as soon as I get home. Usually.
Last Sunday I had been relaxing after lunch and decided I had better clear the driveway before it got dark. I was still in my new jeans and good sweater. I mean – how dirty can you get moving snow?
Well, the snow blower didn’t want to stay running. It choked and farted and blew smoke. When I went back into the house my sweater smelled like exhaust, so I threw my clothes into the washer. This is what I found when I pulled my pants out to dry. Yep. Looks like my puttering pants will be khaki, and I’ll go back to the blue jeans for work.