I wouldn’t give up my Levi’s jeans for anything in the world. Not because they are Levi’s; the manufacturer doesn’t matter. They could be a George brand from Walmart for all I care about brand names.
They are old enough to have some historic value, I suppose, but any drama they’d been involved with smelled of fish, rotting seaweed and diesel oil generated by years of commercial diving adventures along the rugged coast of BC. But all that had been replaced by the harsh aroma of chlorine bleach and the garden freshness of laundry detergent.
They are thin and ragged, not to mention the animal hair that still clings to them after my dog died forty years ago. But dog hair wouldn’t bring a dime in a garage sale.
Unlike the hair of the vicuna – a relative of the camel, native to the high plateaus of Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and Chile – which sells for US$250 per pound, the hair clinging to my treasured jeans is worthless, not that I’d sell it… even if it could be separated from the thin threads of the pants.
It’s often said that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure. And any antique collector will affirm that the story behind a broken, scarred or worn-out object is what makes it a treasure. People often pay millions to purchase a piece of history.
I treasure my Levi’s jeans not because I had worn them during my many adventures but because my dog, Butch, accompanied me everywhere, and bedded down on my jeans when I took them off every night of his life… and sleeps there still.
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