When I was a kid, my poor mother always complained about how myself, and my younger brothers were too hard on our clothes. She had hoped to raise three little gentleman, but ended up with a trio of swashbuckling adventurers!
Mother was of course most displeased with me - I was the oldest and presumably the most responsible. When I fell off my bike riding home from school, she lamented the size of the hole in my pants more than the abrasion on my leg. You see, my parents were hard working dairy farmers and there wasn’t a lot of money available to spend on fashionable attire. It was therefore assumed that my younger brothers would inherit all the clothing I had outgrown – but any garments issued to me were always tattered and torn beyond recognition after a few months in my possession, no matter how high the quality. The family clothing budget doubled and tripled after every mud hunt, clam bake and corn cob roast. When the neighbours challenged us to a ‘crab apple war’ the only casualties were torn shirts, soiled socks and filthy disgusting sneakers. Yes it was our shoes that suffered most – running shoes could only be machine washed once without damage. After two or three tumultuous experiences in the washer the glue stopped sticking and those primitive plastic rubber shoes simply fell apart.
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