My Daddy's Shirt, by Carl Owen

I don’t think I ever saw Daddy wear a fancy shirt. I do know that he liked flannel shirts and he had a lot of them due to my sisters Thelma and Estelle buying them for him. One of his favorites was a red and black checkered flannel shirt. When I picture my Daddy he is always wearing this flannel shirt. It is very much like what used to be referred to as a lumberman shirt. I got it shortly after he died and it hangs in my closet. It was threadbare in places when I got it and I have hunted for a replica to no avail. So I keep my Daddy’s shirt and a 22 caliber revolver that I got when my sister Estelle died. So I guess I have two profits from two deaths in my family. I never wanted to profit from someone’s death. My niece Vonda Lynn who was named after my sister Vonda Lee gave me the revolver because Estelle treasured it because it belonged to Daddy and Vonda said she really thought Estelle would want me to have it. I keep it in my desk drawer and now and again I take it out and place my hand on the grips where I knew my Daddy placed his hands many times. As far as a monetary value goes these two possessions of mine would not bring much. But how do you place a money value on something that has such a value that it cannot be measured in dollar figures? The shirt is much worn and I try to only wear it when I feel a need to get in touch with family members that are no longer here to talk to or visit with. I like to wear it when I am woodturning. I enjoy my quiet time in my shop in Daddy’s shirt and somehow I feel his presence. I sometimes wonder if this particular shirt was bought by Estelle or Thelma. At any rate I know a lot of love went into the giving of the shirt to Daddy and Daddy loved the shirt. It kind of reminds me of a song by Dolly Parton about a coat of many colors that her Mama made for her. If you listen to the song, you can just imagine her view of a beautiful patchwork coat. When she wore it to school the other kids did not understand the value of the coat and viewed it as a combination of rags. I bet that Dolly still has and treasure’s that coat. When you listen to the words of the song, the love put into the coat is conveyed in her voice and the pride of the poor sounds out from what is now a rich girl. Not many people know that before Dolly got married her last name was Owen. As far as the revolver goes I have not shot it. I had a gunsmith go through it and clean it well and oil it and I keep in in the holster that I believe Daddy bought for it at a flea market in South Carolina. He loved to look at knives, holsters, watches and old implements. His tastes were not sophisticated. If you were able to go back in time and look at his living room you would see a tattered picture of an eagle torn from a magazine. Some peacock feathers brightened the drabness of the wall as well as a metal cutout of a Buntline Special Colt 45. These things brought him pleasure but would cause an interior decorator to faint. An old company store calendar of 1955, a picture of a raccoon and a multicolored rooster. I can close my eyes and see his treasures. I wonder what happened to them. I get a lot of comfort from the old ragged shirt. When I put it on I feel calmness in my life. I know someone seeing me wear the shirt might say wow that shirt needs to be replaced. They don’t know that there is no way to replace this particular shirt. I intend for this old shirt to go to my son Kyle and hope that he feels some history by having it or maybe even wearing it once in a while. Speaking of calmness I have to relay a short story. When I was stationed in Iceland (Kyle’s birthplace), I injured my knee. I was loading supplies onto an old C47 aircraft when the cargo door slammed shut upon my knee. For years my knee would swell up and lock in place. The doctors would stick a long needle with a large vial into my knee and draw out bloody liquid. Finally, when I got out of the Navy I went to a civilian doctor and he examined my knee and he said that my knee was weak because I tended to favor it when I walked. He had me go to the gym and push weights with my right leg and sure enough it worked. My knee got stronger and the pain went away. I quit walking like Walter Brennen and I was so happy. I reported back to the doctor and told him that I was cured and asked if I could give him a hug. He said a handshake would suffice. As I left his office I had to stop at the front counter and sign some medical documents. The receptionist gave me a pen, I signed and without thinking, I put the pen in my pocket. Now, when I got home and took the pen out of my pocket Anita asked me where I had gotten the Prozac pen. The pen laid on top of my dresser for a long time and one day I put it in my pocket and I felt a calmness come over me. I know you are thinking I am exaggerating and I will admit that I have done so a few times especially in some of my stories. But, get ready………..This is the truth. Each time I left home with the Prozac pen in my pocket I felt calm and at peace with the world. Ha, no pills necessary for me. All I needed was my pen. All good things come to an end. I started doing some paralegal work and I often had to get peoples signature. So, my best guess is someone signed using my pen and inadvertently put it in his or her shirt pocket. I mourned the loss of this pen until I felt depressed over the loss. I finally went back to the doctor’s office and confessed that I had stolen a Prozac pen and had lost it. I asked if I could have another one and the receptionist said sure and she fumbled through a whole drawer of pens left by pill salesmen. Alas, no Prozac pen was to be found. She did find a Valium pen and I tried my best to adapt to it but no go. Apparently, Valium has not the magical effect of a Prozac pen. I often wonder if the guy is still out there somewhere calmly walking through the world with my Prozac pen in his shirt pocket or if he mislaid it and it is paying forward. I hope so. I may have lost my pen but I still have my Daddy’s shirt. And no, I won’t give you the shirt off my back when I am wearing it.