What an Old Flannel Shirt Taught Me About Forgiveness

(A version of this story first appeared on The Heart of The Matter on January 18, 2023.)

My wife surprised me the other day by asking to wear one of my shirts – a black and white flannel. I last wore the shirt a year ago when we took family pictures on a cold, blustery day. In the photo, the guys wore flannel, and my wife and daughter wore gray ponchos. I remember shivering, wishing we had planned the timing of the shoot better.

Of course, I had no problems with my wife’s request, but I couldn’t help but laugh at it. I told her she was welcome to keep it. The truth is, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with flannel.

Anything but flannel

When my father was alive, he wore flannel no matter the season. I rarely saw him in anything else. He wore flannel shirts because they had pockets and held up well at the steel mill where he worked, and later in life, in his basement workshop surrounded by tools and little cups of screws and nails.

I have just two flannel shirts in my wardrobe: the black and white one from the family photo, and one of my father’s old shirts that my mom gave me after his funeral 18 years ago.

Smells like home

I rarely wear flannel, but I still occasionally pull out my father’s old shirt and hold it to my face. It smells like a mixture of wood, Aqua Velva Aftershave, peppermint, and a hint of cigarette smoke. I close my eyes and memories — some good, some bad — come to mind:

—I’m a young tyke in the back of our car, waiting with my mom for my father to get off work. A whistle blows and the men start coming out of the factory. Some head to their cars, others to a local bar. Finally, we see my father. He looks tired, but excited to see us. He’s wearing a burnt orange helmet, a work coat, and a blue flannel shirt. I’m not sure if the memory is real or one I’ve created in my mind, but he’s younger than I am today and full of life.

—Several years later, we’re working on our car in the driveway. He’s wearing a gray flannel shirt, tucked into his jeans. The job is supposed to be quick, but turns problematic. He yells at me when I get bored and forget to hold the flashlight firmly where he needs it. When he asks for a wrench a few minutes later and I’m slow to respond, kicking over a jug of oil when I do, he calls me names — swear words I’ve never heard before, but know now to be more common on a factory floor than at home — and storms away. When he comes back outside, he tells me it’s my fault the car isn’t ready and that I’m going to miss baseball practice.

—I see another memory. I’m 12 now. It’s late August and hot as heck, but he’s wearing a flannel shirt. He’s tired and takes a nap. Minutes after lying down, he starts to convulse on the couch. When EMTs show up at our house, the first thing they do is loosen the buttons of his flannel shirt and get him started on oxygen. It was a devastating heart attack that would change his life forever.

—Six years later, I’m graduating high school. I will be leaving in a few days to start college. It should be a happy day, but my father, dressed in a red plaid flannel shirt, and I butt heads. We’re two stubborn bulls, neither giving ground. I’m bigger than him now and not intimidated by his anger. I dare him to hit me. Fortunately, my mom intervenes and we maintain a fragile peace. Later at my graduation, we hug. I notice his eyes are wet. He offers an apology, hard to hear over the shouts of my classmates, and tells me that I’m going to do well in college.

—Finally, I see my favorite memory of my father. He’s a grandfather now, still dressed in flannel and jeans. He’s sitting awkwardly on my kitchen floor with my four-year-old daughter while the two of them paint her Little Tikes Push Bike. On a whim, she wants to paint it blue. I make a joke about the two of them, but they don’t hear me; they’re entirely focused on their task. She gets a dab of paint on his shirt, and he doesn’t even budge. She could spill the entire jar on him and he wouldn’t say a word. In his eyes, she can do no wrong

Choosing Grace

I hang my father’s flannel shirt back up in my closet. It reminds me that people are complicated messes. They’re full of good and bad, kindness and anger, and their faults are often there for everyone to see. I could choose to focus on the painful moments involving my dad — no one would blame me — but I choose to focus instead on the moments he brought love and grace into my life.

Yes, people are most definitely complicated.

What clothes or smells bring back childhood memories for you?