After two months of excessive heat, it suddenly feels like October in Southern California. I know it’s officially fall when I pull my old blue sweatshirt out of the drawer and don it for the first time, which I did last evening. I came downstairs all cozy and warm, relishing it’s feel for the first time in months, and sat down on the couch next to Scott.
“Oh no!” he said.
Oh no?
I don’t think he meant, “Oh no,” as in, “Why are you wearing that ratty old thing when you have newer sweatshirts and sweaters that would keep you just as warm?” Although, if he were another man, he might have meant that. I mean, look at this thing! Ratty is putting it kindly:
My old blue sweatshirt. Isn’t it fabulous?
The neckline binding is ripped out. There are perma-stains on the front. It’s several sizes too big for me, and I freely admit most people would have consigned it to the rag bag long ago. But not me. And here’s why:
My old blue sweatshirt used to be Scott’s, long before he and I met. When we moved in together, I got cold one evening, and he lent it to me. I never gave it back. It had his essence, his smell, his feel to it. I loved it because it was his.
Elephant seal pup
My old blue sweatshirt kept me toasty warm when Scott and I took our first camping trip together. It was the first weekend of April, 2009, and it was cold on the California Central Coast, camping among the giant redwoods in Big Sur. It was my first trip up the coast since moving to California, and it was this trip that made me fall in love with my new home state. We saw elephant seals on the beach, and waves crashing through rock windows on the shore. We saw whales and sea otters. And I realized for the first time just how beautiful and wild California was.
Pfeiffer Beach, Big Sur–California’s Central Coast
Yellow-bellied marmot
My old blue sweatshirt was on my back the first time Scott took me camping in the Sierra Nevada mountains. We went to Sequoia National Park; it was Father’s Day weekend. We went with a bunch of his—now our—friends, and took our first hike to Tokopah Falls. I was flabbergasted when I first saw the falls; they cascade down the mountain for more than 1,200 feet! I laughed at the comical marmots who populate the rocks around the falls, and have become totally accustomed to having people around. And I saw my first California black bear, my spirit animal. These mountains, the mighty Sierra, were not my beloved Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. These enormous peaks are mere babies compared to the Smokies, which once towered higher than the Himalayas, according to geologists. But I could feel myself falling in love with these towering behemoths, these rocky crags; I could hear the mountains whispering in my ear, “You’re home.”
One short stretch of the 1,200 feet of cascades that make up Tokopah Falls
It wasn’t just the good times, though, that made my old blue sweatshirt beloved by me. I wore it daily in the rehabilitation center—really, a nursing home—after my knee replacement surgery December 23, 2010. On Christmas day, when most people were dressed in holiday finery and gathering around dining room tables with family and friends, I wore that sweatshirt over a hospital gown and ate little at all, I was in so much pain. The old blue sweatshirt enveloped me like a hug, keeping me safe and warm. When I was released from the nursing home at the end of January, I was wearing that sweatshirt. I think at some point Scott must have coaxed it off of me so he could wash it, but I don’t remember. All I remember is practically living on our couch for six weeks because I could not yet navigate the stairs, and how cold our house was (we have no heat). I huddled under a pile of blankets in my old blue sweatshirt, watching reruns of Law and Order SUV and Criminal Minds in the middle of the night, when pain in my knee kept me awake. The sweatshirt next to my skin made me feel like Scott was right next to me rather than upstairs, sound asleep in our bed.
The tidepools at Leo Carillo State Beach
My old blue sweatshirt has been soaked in the ocean when I slipped in the tide pools, and covered with blowing sand in the desert. It’s been snowed on, rained on, peed on by puppies and thrown up on by kitties. The sleeves have dusted furniture and caught drips from a slow-leaky nose. I’ve gotten paint on it, printer ink on it, spilled olive oil and nail polish remover on it. It doesn’t mind, and it pert near always washes clean.
My old blue sweatshirt has traveled to Big Sur and Yosemite, Sequoia and Kings Canyon and Joshua Tree, to San Francisco, San Diego, and back home to my native Chicago. It’s been my clothing of choice for walks along the beach and walks around our woody hill; for watching TV on a chilly, rainy evening and for meditating on my back deck while the sun crept up over the mountains.
So yesterday, when I put it on for the first time this autumn and Scott said, “Oh no,” I don’t believe he meant “Go change out of that ratty thing,” or “What, that hasn’t fallen apart yet?”
No, he didn’t think those things. I think what went through his mind was, “Oh no—what sort of mischief will that old blue sweatshirt get us into this time?”
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This is your most beautiful blog ever! By “Oh no,” I meant, “Here we go again! We must prepare ourselves for another wild ride, through another season of challenging, crazy adventure and play.” I must brace myself.
And a wild ride it shall be, but then, aren’t those always the best?
I thought “oh no” meant – ” winter’s coming” – but then I realized you don’t have Real Winter!
Some of the places we go, we have real winter. Like up in the mountains. Or out in the desert; it can get bitterly cold in the desert. And back east, people have heat in their houses. We have no heat, so our house is only about the high fifties for four or five months.
I have a 50+ year old jacket and a 40+ year old pair of climbing boots that saw everything and come back out on occasion. Unfortunately, they aren’t quite as adaptable as your old blue sweatshirt. I see old clothes like these and, as you recount here so well, think of all the places I’ve worn them. At other times, they can be like Linus’ blanket.
Malcolm
Well, perhaps there is a bit of Linus’ blanket in my old blue sweatshirt, too.
I have a old green sweats that would go nicely with your blue sweater. And has been on many adventures, too.
I think everyone needs a sweatshirt or jacket or something that takes them through life’s adventures.
Wonderful experience, I know. My mother kept my father’s bathrobe after he died and she wears it when the weather gets cooler.
I understand your mom keeping your dad’s bathrobe. My father was crazy about model railroading; one year I made him a train shirt by getting a blue chambray shirt and some fabric with train engines on it, cutting out the trains, and sewing them to the shirt. He wore that train shirt everywhere. Whenever I miss my dad, I put that train shirt on. Usually, over my old blue sweatshirt.
Isn’t it funny how a seemingly random piece of clothing can have so much meaning and depth? When my grandfather passed away and we were going through his things, I pulled out a pair of plaid pajama pants that he used to wear. They’re too big, but so comfy and whenever I wear them my mind floods with all of the wonderful memories of him. I took his flask too!
I hadn’t realized how many of us have an old item of clothing we feel so attached to, that holds so many stories. It’s nice to see I’m not alone.
Love this post, Smoky. I sleep in a pair of Donny’s old, flannel boxers. Is that too much information? LOL! When one pair completely wears out, I steal another one.
LOL–Collin may call his blog “Modern Confessional,” but it seems that, with this blog, my blog could be called that!