The frayed cuffs of my barn coat could tell quite the story. From the dirt deep in the pockets to its aroma, to the grease stain on the elbow—its been there through it all.
This particular brown Carhartt came into my life when I was a freshman in college (more years ago than I care to admit). We were heading out to judge at all the big stock shows—Denver, Houston, Fort Worth and a couple smaller regional contests. Denver, being in January required some advanced planning.
We were going to practice in the days leading up to the collegiate livestock judging contest at the National Western Stock Show. My winter clothing wasn’t quite up to par, so Mom and Dad scrounged up enough funds to get my sister and I a set of coverall bibs and a Carhartt coat. I thought the silver wild rag I’d acquired during Christmas break was something special too.
That coat kept me warm during that trip and the one that happened the following year. Some years it felt like it was never cold enough to merit its quilted lining, so early on it wasn’t worn very much.
It made it’s way to K-State and Oklahoma State for my time there. It even spent a month in Colorado after I’d misplaced it on New Year’s Eve one year. Too many winters to remember so it seems.
After college it made its way to the coat rack at all the homes I’ve inhabited, and more and more it got worn. Its pockets have more than gloves and tools in them. There’s a bit of every thing I’ve fed, whether it was horses, cows or baby calves and goats. I’m sure the residue in the bottom of the pockets could tell its own story.
At one point in both of my pregnancies it got too tight to zip, but that didn’t really stop me from wearing it. Even though I am a few inches from the size 26 jeans I wore in college I still hang on to the old Carhartt coat.
It reminds me of how things can be built to last. It reminds me about how we all change course in our lifetimes, but no matter what we can go back to those things that remain so familiar to us.
