My childhood friends and I wore blue jeans most of the time. Our parents bought them because we were hard on our clothes. Life was full on petal to the metal, so our jeans took a beating. They were the sturdiest option on the market, so moms and dads bought them for their sons. Most moms bought them two to four inches too long to provide for growth.
We rolled the bottom portion to make a cuff, sometimes doubling, or even tripling, them. If we just got taller, not fatter, the plan worked well. You could get a full year out of one pair. You just had to roll your cuffs down to empty the dirt before you went in the house.
The Presteds, our next-door neighbors, had several boys so the worn jeans were easily passed from one boy to the next. They got more than one kid through a couple of years.
If any of us tore out the knee falling off a bike, or taking a tumble on the concrete sidewalk, our moms ironed on a patch, and we were good to go. Most ironed the patches on the outside of the hole, and the jeans took on a dark blue badge of courage, singling to the rest of the world that you were a man’s man or a Clutz. Some ironed them inside the tear where they were more difficult to detect. I’ve mended more than one pair of pants during my adult years that way.
Mom had a friend who altered and mended clothes in her home. She would send me over there to alter newly purchased “dress” pants. If she turned the cuff up just right, I could get an extra year, or so, out of the pants even during a growth spurt.
One year Mom bought me a pair of gray dress slacks for the holiday season. I was to wear them for Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings. I was twelve or thirteen. My cousin, Gene, had his driver’s license. We had Thanksgiving dinner at his house and his mom, my Aunt Ruth, sent him to the store for some last-minute items. I tagged along.
Gene ran out the front door and I ran out after him. He was four years older and more accomplished in such a maneuver. I hit the bottom of the front porch, slipped on the ice, fell, and ripped a hole in my new dress slacks. It was the first time I had worn them, and I had destroyed them in a manner of moments. When we returned from the store, I told Mom. She had me take them off and I put on a pair of Gene’s too big for me slacks.
The next week, Mom sent me back to the “mending lady” and she wove my slacks back together. Other than a small rise in the material, you would never have known there was once a hole at the knee. It was like magic.
A couple of weeks later, we went back to Aunt Ruth’s house for a Christmas affair, and once again, she sent Gene to the store. I tagged along, and as careful as I could be, I made my way to the car. My caution blew up in my face when, once again, I hit the deck and tore out the knee. This time Mom didn’t send me back to the mending lady.
Why tell such a tale? Well, the times have changed and now people buy new jeans with holes in them. Manufacturers are making them that way. It’s a fashion trend that makes no sense to me. I’ve got a couple of fashionistas in my own family who buy their jeans that way. I still love them, but I don’t get it.
Some who wear them too tight look like they have tiny little butts running down their legs. Each butt cheek pops out from either side of a few strands of thread. I just shake my head and think how much my mom’s mending lady friend could make if she was still around. She’d be making a killin, and the iron on patch industry would be blowing up.