Fashion Democracy

Since it appears that cooler weather may actually one day occur in West Texas, I spent part of Friday – my day off – shopping for jeans and longer capris. In truth, I began searching for super-casual t-shirts, but ended up in the jeans section. I know it was a bit masochistic of me, but there it is.  As Robert Frost wrote, “As way leads onto way….”

Anyway, I digress.

Eventually, as I searched the sand-blasted, acid-washed aisles of our local mall, it dawned on me that I am not emotionally or psychologically equipped to shop for jeans anymore – if ever I was.

I simply don’t like stretch, and that’s all jeans of the new millennia are; they are leggings with pockets. There I’ve said it. It is entirely antithetical to what the jean is all about to make it primarily of spandex. If your jean tags say anything besides “100% cotton,” you are deluding yourself with the label, “jeans.” You are really a fraction of a fashion skip away from Pajama-jeans, and, in truth, we really all know that it’s wrong to go there. Really. On so many levels.

But I will go here: I imagine that Levi Strauss would spend the rest of eternity whirling in his grave if he could see what modern man – and woman – has done to his opus, making his masterpiece stretchy, ripped, and abbreviated in such ways that only Barbie could really drive that zipper.

What happened to waist-high cotton denim? You all remember it – the legendary crop grown in the South that was eventually turned into Wranglers with a pre-starch stiffness that would allow them to stand on their own. I am not suggesting that I enjoy these brand-new, Wrangler-type jeans; in fact, I always hated new jeans as a kid because they did chafe a bit. At the same time, I LOVE what comes after that newness wears off – jeans that are worn, soft, and comfy after years of wear and laundering. Old jeans seem to totally fulfill that kinesiological theory of muscle memory; they have it, and they remember exactly where to give and where to hold in.

And this type of jean is authentic. Utterly genuine. The rips and tears and wear marks on them are earned, not engineered by some tiny woman in Romania. Like so many other things, man – and woman – is trying to emulate a process best left to nature.

I write all this only to ask, Do you know where I ended up on Friday as I shopped and philosophized? The men’s department.

Apparently, men are not as in love with spandex, legging jeans as a large portion of American women. They also don’t seem to love the tiny, elf-sized zippers, so, over there, I found 100% cotton, waist-high jeans.

I also found 38-inch waists and inseams that were a bit intimidating for a girl who’s had a clear 29-incher since junior high. Again, the essence of my being was not prepared for the beating it took that fateful Friday morning.

So, regardless of how you expected this story might end, know that I did not come home empty-handed. I am now the proud owner of two, brand-new pairs of shorts. Winter will just have to wait.

Celebrating 9/11!

Son #1 was born on 9/11. Here he is the next day:

Very soon after most people learn his birthday, they say, “The 9/11?” and I have to explain that, yes, he was born on the most infamous 9/11 in history.

September 11, 2001, began like a regular day for most of the world. My husband and I, on the other hand, spent this day – and the night before – in a labor and delivery room waiting for our son to arrive.  He was born around 10 p.m., so we spent the day watching the news; we even saw live footage of the second (north or south?) tower fall. It was an amazing, historical day for us and for the rest of the world. The nurses would come in and would stand amazed, watching our TV for a few minutes.

Here's Son #1 when he was a Scout in first grade. He's standing next to the 9/11 Memorial in our hometown. It was hard to explain why his birthday was written on the monument.

Many mothers have told me that they would have hated for their children to have had my son’s birthday, but I am so grateful for it. On a day when the rest of the world was mourning – a day the rest of the world still mourns – my husband and I found an amazing reason to be proud and happy – and hopeful. The rest of our country was horror-stricken, and we were facing the beginning of the most amazing ride of our lives.  As my doctor said months later, “[Son #1] was the only good thing that happened that day.”

This week, Son #1 completed his fourth week of the fourth grade. Since those thousands of people died, he has learned to walk, to talk, to read, to write, and to run and play like any adventurous boy. He has played little league, caught his first fish, mastered many a Wii game, and survived his first TAKS test. He has grown so much since that day – his first day – in September.

More than these things, though, Son #1 has been an astonishing reminder of God’s most valuable promise – a promise that does not guarantee only good times, but a promise that does ensure that there will always be reason to hope in the midst of any tragedy.

So, tomorrow, unlike the rest of the world, we will celebrate. We will eat cake, open presents, and sing, and we will rejoice in the first 10 years of Son #1’s life. More importantly, though, we will remember to never lose hope.

         

With a Y please...

So, we went to a family reunion last weekend. Here's what we looked like...

We're the cute quartet on the far left. The rest of the folks are branches on the same family tree. Only some -- maybe half? -- still share the same surname, but, regardless of their names, the sense of and loyalty to family is something that runs deep with this group.

I should mention that my cousin and his family aren't in this picture. They were totally present for the weekend's activities, but they had taken their girls back to the motel for a nap. (Secretly, I am a little glad they missed the shot; those 2 girls of his are so stinkin' cute... I doubt anyone would have noticed the other 65 people at all!!)

The old guy on the front row with the cap on his knee. See him? That's Uncle Tooter. So named because he was always such a "toot." Metaphorically, of course. Not literally. At least I don't think so...

Anyway, I enjoyed a time last weekend listening to him tell stories about my granddad and him as boys. He told about how they handled an unruly chicken one time; it was the equivalent of spy games boys today play -- you know... involved plans were hatched and traps were set. I think the story ended with yard bird for supper instead of huge explosions, but it's the same still. Really.

He also mentioned that Granddad didn't really like horses -- something I never knew. Funny how relationships keep developing and changing, even after people die. Weird.

Although maybe not. See, here's what this group used to look like when they got together...

Okay, not that exact group, but the people who beget the people in the first picture. Anyway, see the cutie patootie in the checkered dress and the really handsome guy on the back row, far left? Those are my grandparents. Can you believe it?

I have trouble with it -- with remembering them as young, vibrant people. I know they were more active when I was a kid, but the last few times I saw them, they were, well, old. Pictures like these and stories like the ones Uncle Tooter told... Those things make me remember that my grandparents were real vibrant people, not just always my grandparents.

Look at this one:

That's my sister, Dad, Granddad, and my Granddad's parents. I'm the chubby one in pink. Big surprise there; I could still be described that way.

Also, it was the early '70s, so excuse the eye wear.

Everyone has a hint of a smile. I like that. It's how families should be when they are together.