Coveralls

 Thoreau warned of any enterprise that requires new clothes. The same warning ought to come with projects that make you find old clothes.

The job to clear the overgrown woodlot began with a search for my coveralls. Years ago, when I would feed cattle with my grandfather in winter, we’d put on coveralls and load the pickup truck with baled hay. I’d carry range cubes in the pockets of my coveralls. Mutt, the Brahma bull, would stick his nose into my pockets and help himself.

Coverall pockets are big and deep enough to accommodate the nose of a 2,000-pound bull. They also are deep enough to carry a Thermos bottle of coffee.

My coveralls were made by Roebucks. I’ve had them for decades. They are dark green but have acquired a patina of paint, engine oil and other substances.

When people imagine Texans tending to cattle, they don’t usually think of coveralls. They also don’t usually imagine lace-up boots. Mine are all hooks, no eyes. Our boots were the only expensive items in our outfits. My grandmother ordered them from a mail-order company that catered to farm families.

My grandfather never went outside without his Stetson, but I was never fussy. Soon after the Iron Curtain fell, I bought a felt cap made by Hückel, which has a factory in the Czech Republic. The cap’s warm and shows less wear than I do. 

If you’re curious, this getup works in layers: long johns, flannel shirt, rag sweater, coveralls and a wool scarf knitted by my grandmother. Even on cold days, I shed layers as I work. The woodlot looks like a clothesline by the time I break for lunch.

Does it seem strange to start a new project by examining old memories? Maybe it’s just natural at my age.