Jeans: A History
By: Henry Rosen
Sunlight spoke through the blinds with its soft and somber tongue that coated the room in its warm orange morning tones, marking that the day was floating over the distant mountains in the window down to the homes scattered about the village side like pointillism dots on a Georges Seurat painting hung in the Louvre. As I awoke, I could feel the weight of a new day with new duties gracefully enter through the foyer like a welcomed guest only to be shut out by the door of my bedroom, which kept intact the sanctity of everything contained within it, as if it were some diligent guard stationed at the most sacred of locations, only a single push away from becoming the belligerent defender of what’s inside. I collected myself in a calm and cool manner as I started the day, moving as a ballroom dancer across the room while gathering my necessities, until like an Olympian figure skater catching their blade on a rapture in the ice and falling. Where are my jeans?
My legs longed to be covered in the pure blue denim they had grown accustomed to in my lifestyle as a carpenter. I felt naked without them. I was in such a routine that even without them on, I could feel the specialty fleece insides touching my skin. It was a phantom sensation, similar to those felt by my Irish ancestors who valiantly fought against the British Redcoats to preserve what was left of our heritage on our beautiful island only to be nearly slain like a pig and left with a gash running from their mid thigh to their ankle, prompting the doctor to rely upon his primitive medical knowledge and amputate it using a rusty bonesaw brought to him by one of his loyal aids, who had no idea the pain he was helping to cause under the guise of treatment. The rate at which we used to declare limbs unsalvageable was quite high, but not as high as the spirits of the men who suffered amputations and felt a sense of pride for cheating death. Stepping onto his doorstop, looking into the single glowing eye peeking out of his black cloak, and deciding today would not be the day. Death was within reach, but his hands could not move fast enough to catch the soldiers. They dodged his attempts with grace and speed, like they had some sort of sixth sense, knowing where he would be, and thus keeping the golden string held by the fates intact for a while longer until something greater than war could claim their lives.
These jeans have been in my family for generations. Despite the efforts of my hard-working parents and grandparents, the economic ladder seemed to be missing a few rungs. We’ve been stuck in the pit like a group of peasants at the Globe Theatre in the 1600s, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of William Shakespeare’s Othello before it was retired from production to be replaced with something else he had written in his home in Stratford. I would wager a guess that he used solitude as inspiration, the same way someone will come out of the shower with an idea because it is the only place without distraction, he used the emptiness of nature to inspire his brain to fill the void with a story. The trees with their leaves blowing in the slight breeze, along with the fields of grass yet to be occupied by apartment complexes, were not enough for the space; there needed to be a story commemorating it all, whilst chastising those who sought to destroy the wonders for personal profit. My jeans are a wonder to me. There is no visible wear and tear on them, even after constant use for decades and decades. My father worked on a farm in Southern Ireland, tending to a large group of animals, but his specialty was sheep. He carried the crook with him at all times, as his livestock would often escape. They were treated well on the farm, but animals don’t take well to fences. I guess humans don’t either. Broken planks of wood marked the part of the fence they forced their way through by running full steam headfirst like a ram. They always came back inside, though. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
My father took good care of his jeans, like his father before him. Washing was a special occasion for this denim. It would wear the tough denim down more than necessary. His way of cleaning was a nuanced one for the times. He would take a trip down to the rocky coastline. The land was harsh, and the water was angry. Such as the whole island of Ireland. It is not for the faint of heart. The hills were more of an evergreen than any land I have seen before. It contrasted in a comforting way with the grey rocks whose sharp edges could draw blood from the toughest of feet that step upon with a sense of invincibility only achieved by the young and naive. The land sloped down slowly toward the Irish Sea, making a leisurely walk for those careful enough to navigate the terrain with their eyes trained on the rocks ahead of them rather than the thrashing waters that splashed up in a beautiful white at its tips. Having completed this trek so many times before, my father no longer needed to look at the solid ground ahead of him as he made his way closer to the coastline. Sometimes he would bring me along, but I was made to stay atop the hills, looking down from afar. The speck of my father took a seat on the roundest rock he could find, bending over and dipping his jeans into the waters of the homeland. Taking them back out, laying them flat on the rock he was sitting on, and coming back atop the hill to see me. The jeans stayed there for days, taking in the sunlight that poked through the clouds that almost constantly blocked the blue sky from shining through. But the jeans didn’t need sunlight to be replenished, he told me. The grey sky and the cold were the antidote to whatever ailed the pants.
I’ve heard stories about my father doing the same with his father, but never from him. My mother would divulge his secrets when he wasn’t around, which was often. He was a carpenter much like myself, and much like myself, he felt the insatiable need to be alone that could only be filled when he neglected those around him.
“Your father was a bit of a recluse. A good man, but not around a lot. His workshop was more of a home for him than this one,” my mother told me once. On weekends when he was supposed to be with the family, he would stay in his workshop working on his personal projects while my mother and I sat by the fire and talked.
“When he was a young boy, he clung to his father. But his father never wanted anything to do with him. He would hide away like yours does. But as a child, he didn’t know he wasn’t wanted around. He followed him, especially on trips to the coastline. He wasn’t allowed near the water with him. It was a way to keep him satisfied, yet physically far. I remember your father telling me about seeing a speck sitting on a rock, dunking his jeans in the thrashing water, and placing them back onto the rock he was sitting on. Then they left them and came home. Your father never knew this, but his dad would go back at night with a handheld sewing kit he stole from his own sister. Too proud of a man to buy his own. The rocks were hard to navigate at night, but he did it with minor cuts and bruises. He’d sit there and sew the holes left by slices from the workshop.”
As my father grew older, and the jeans were passed down to him, he continued the ritual of soaking the denim in the Irish Sea and letting it sit on the rocks. I’m afraid he was never made privy to the secret that my mother shared with me during that fireside chat. He would retrieve them, still with slits and holes. A somber look covered his face when he would get back, never showing anger. More of a sadness. I presume he was disheartened that he didn’t have the same power his father had over the jeans. He took it out on me in the sense of negligence. I never really knew who he was, and I believe he wanted it that way.
I stand in my room, the warmth of the summer still hitting my bare legs, making the hair glow in the sunlight, searching for my family’s jeans. I have a special hanger in my wardrobe dedicated to housing this specific pair, and keep it separate from any others that are less worthy. My jeans are not on my hanger, nor are they anywhere in my home. The banister has nothing hanging off of it. No chair is laid with denim.
I resign myself to choosing another pair to wear in the workshop for the day, hoping I will have an epiphany and remember where I have placed my sacred pair. The air is beautiful on my face, I can feel myself glow. It’s light and blows my hair slightly, just enough to the point where I realize again that I have it. It’s long and brown, just like my father’s was at my age. I use the same workshop he did, the same tools, and serve the same people. The walk is calming. I look upon the openness with a sense of serenity, I imagine the great William Shakespeare felt when he sat outside his home in Stratford to write his famous plays. His words filled the openness of the land at the time, and now my carpentry does the same. As I walk, I come across the fork in the road that separates the paths to my workshop and the coastline. Like an invisible string, I am pulled towards the coast, wanting to see the rocks my father did and his father before him. The world around me radiates with green, then the blue sea, only separated by the grey rocks lining the coast to keep the anger at bay. I walk down the sloped hill almost in a trance. My mind is blank. The water thrashing catches my eye, and I just stand and stare, unaware of how much time I spend doing it. My eyes glide down to the rocks. On the flattest one, that is most suitable to sit upon, I see my jeans.