These jeans I am wearing above, they are my papaw jeans. For non-Dixielanders, "papaw" /PAA-paw/ is a colloquial title for a grandfather, the male counterpart to the female "mamaw" /MAA-maw/. I myself have two papaws: Papaw and Papaw Ray. They are both men of flavor. Flavor is very important to me.
My papaw jeans, a pair of baby blue men's Levi's I bought thrift some ten odd years ago, are britches one would find adorning only old papaws, and me. Despite a couple of grease stains and a ridiculous 15" rise (a.k.a. front zipper length), they have become a permanent staple of my wardrobe over the years, alternately surfing and bucking the mode, keeping me and my bum comfy from Tennessee to Mexico and, now, to Seattle. They represent to me something familiar, something good, something of the flavor of the old neighborhood and of all things Grigsby. My papaw jeans keep me connected, to Chapman Highway, to thick air, to fake gold bling and perms of all genres, to the sounds of locusts and of tobacco voices calling on us from the little league bleachers to "Ho now, look alive now!"
This explained, here's to blogging, and to papaw jeans across the landdd.
3 comments:
Seattle welcomes you, and your papaw jeans!
Do you wear your size 42 underwear under them jeans?
bahh! no those have been retired and are now framed on my wall.
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