This morning I was
getting ready to take the dog out and pondered what to wear during this cold
snap. My eyes lit on an old flannel shirt. Yes, this was a flannel shirt kind
of day.
As I pulled on the
shirt, I thought about the history of this shirt. The frayed collar and the ripped shirttail were indications of a well-worn shirt. That’s not too odd considering the shirt had aged a quarter of a century, or more.
Jim and I both wore
his flannel shirts on cool spring days when we were building our house. In
fact, I believe the tear in this shirt came from catching the shirttail on a
nail.
On a day like
today, Jim might have put on a flannel shirt, grabbed up his fishing pole, and
headed to the lake. The fish always tasted better when the water was cold.
Fishing brought Jim
a lot of enjoyment. I remember one time after he first started showing signs of
dementia, he decided to go to Truman to fish. I went off to work, happy that he
was going to enjoy the day.
I wrote about that day in my journal, and here is an excerpt from Indelible:
My co-worker Tammy thought I was out of the office, but when she
called my cell phone, Jim answered.
She came into my office. “I think there’s something wrong
with him,” she said. “He just didn’t sound right.” Jim’s plans for the day had
been a trip to Truman Dam to fish.
I called his cell phone. “Where are you,” I asked him.
“Right here,” he said.
“Can you tell me where you are? What highway are you on?”
“I’m on I-70,” he said, “and I have a friend with me.” I-70
was the opposite direction from Truman.
“What are you doing on I-70?” I asked.
“I’m taking my friend to Higginsville,” he said.
“Who is your friend?”
“I don’t know his name. He needed a ride home.”
Jim was easily distracted and I was afraid to keep him talking while he was driving on the Interstate. I told him to call me as soon as he got home. Jim’s assurance that he knew this guy didn’t mean anything. If someone started a conversation with him, Jim thought that meant he knew the person.
Why I kept this
flannel shirt out of all Jim’s shirts is a mystery. Apparently, when I sorted
through his clothing to donate to Open Door, I didn’t consider this shirt worthy of charity.
So today, I
am wrapped up in memories of flannel shirt days, wearing a shirt that should
have been tossed in the ragbag twenty years ago. Minimalists warn us about this
kind of hoarding.
I have a new ladies’
flannel shirt that isn’t threadbare or torn. So wouldn’t the logical thing be
to toss this shirt? When I take it off tonight, it will be decision time. Do I
throw it away or put it in the laundry? Trash or treasure? My mind says trash,
but my heart says treasure. When in doubt, I follow my heart.
Copyright © April 2018
by L.S. Fisher
#ENDALZ
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