Cotton, Flannel and River Water

This shirt is old and faded
All the color's washed away
I've had it now for more damn years
Than I can count anyway.

* * *

This shirt was the one I lent you
And when you gave it back
There was a rip inside the sleeve
Where you rolled your cigarettes
It was the place I put my heart
Now look at where you put a tear
I forgave your thoughtlessness
But not the boy who put it there

* * *

This shirt is a grand old relic
With a grand old history
I wear it now for Sunday chores
Cleaning house and raking leaves
I wear it beneath my jacket
With the collar turned up high
So old I should replace it
But I'm not about to try.

These are some of the lyrics to Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song, “This Shirt.” I’m thinking of them today because I’ve been sloping about in a perfectly ratty old flannel bathrobe that an ex-Someone left behind with all the other things he didn’t want. I bought the bathrobe for him when he was in hospital with one or another of the various surgeries I nursed him through. I suppose I keep it around because you just can’t have too many ratty bathrobes when you reside with a pack of corgis and a couple of insistent cats. And since, during my recovery and rehabilitation from my latest hospital outing, I can’t lean forward when I’m eating, I either wear ratty old bathrobes or one of those big, plastic pelican bibs we used to put on the kids when they ate in high chairs on plastic throw cloths.

This solitary recovery is beginning to get me down. The furkids are marvelous company, but one can only stretch the intellectual conversation so far with them. When I checked on Owen today because he did not answer with the others when I called, his only excuse was that he had his head so far in the cats’ litter box that he didn’t hear me. So much for living on a higher plane … I can’t seem to get my Dr. Doolittle act together. The text messages and emails are entertaining, but not the same as the sound of a human voice (other than my old friends on NPR) or the touch of a hand.  I shall have to find a way to get back to humanity before they come looking for me and find my mortal remains in the laundry room with the radio blasting in the kitchen … (waggery only).

A friend contacted me today asking if he could give my email address to a woman who is looking for someone to help crew her sailboat on the river. I was suddenly taken back years to when I lived on another planet with Someone who loved to sail and the ocean was minutes away (he is not to be confused with the Old Bathrobe Someone). I have toyed with the idea of a small sailboat for years, but the reality of the maintenance required put me off. A bicycle is so much easier to deal with. But, if I could just be responsible for crewing, that would be grand. The woman and I made contact and we’ll talk more when I’m not hobbling about on crutches and can lean over when I eat.  How glorious to have the possibility of doing the things I wanted so much to do but chose not to because I thought I had to do things with somebody else. All I have to do now is figure out how to divide time between the bike, the boat and the music. What a marvelous problem to have!

My ratty old bathrobe, with a grand old history, is calling to me to put it back on and feed the dogs. It’s good to have faithful friends about; animate and otherwise.