A Chip Off The Old Block ...

in Cowboy Boots with Pockets

Dec 13, 2024

What do you call someone who has a thing for cowboy boots and pockets? Growing up, we all called him ‘Chip’. Of course that wasn’t the name he was born with.

His real name was Joe, like my dad’s and my mom’s, Joanne, and the same as my middle name, Jo.

When he was born, my grampa, dad’s dad, looked through the nursery room window at the hospital and said, “Oh my God, look at all that black hair! He’s a chip off the old block.” The nickname stuck.

Just between you and me, Chip was the hairiest baby I have ever seen. With a head full of coal black hair, that boy even had black hair on his ears, across his shoulders, and down the outsides of his upper arms --he even had real eyebrows.

If they had asked me, I would have said my baby brother looked more like a monkey than a baby boy.

Chip was eight years younger than I, cute as a button, and ornery as hell. By the time he was four, he loved pockets so much, Mama had to cut extra pockets from old rags and sew them on his pants.

Chip didn’t care that his navy blue pants had tan pockets, only that there were pockets there for his special treasures.

Mama asked him once why pockets were so important. His answer was simple. (He had such a vivid imagination). “Mama, where else can I put my special treasures? My hands are too little.” Mama went so far as to keep a large Maxwell House coffee can beside the washer.

When she found Chip’s pants in the hamper, she emptied the pockets into the coffee can before throwing the pants in the washer. When the coffee can was full, she put it on his dresser. She figured he had a right to either ‘rediscover’ his treasures, or throw them out. She didn’t want the responsibility.

They had a system that worked well. Wearing his cowboy boots, she always knew right where he was outside in the yard as he searched for pocket treasures: “clop-clop, clop-clop.” And she could continue what she was doing.

But it was also nerve-wracking for her on days when she found a toad, beetle, or a hairy spider. Those treasures never made it to the coffee can —they went back outside, tout de suite …

Now at 67 he’s a grampa. His thick black hair is nearly gone and he’s almost retired. Just enough of the little boy remained over the years to still want a place for special treasures —but the pockets were traded for a briefcase ...