A few days ago I was looking through my closet for an outfit to wear and became distressed at what I saw. I just could not seem to find anything to wear although I am blessed with an adequate wardrobe. I counted twenty-nine beautifully starched shirts; several jackets; a number of suits and quite a few pairs of mix-and-match pants.
After this quick review of my clothing assets I became thankful and reminisced a bit about my early childhood days when a shirt was a shirt and fit and color match didn’t really matter.
I was raised by maternal grandparents who had thirteen children of their own and many times we were the recipients of boxes of used clothing that was sent to us by a Methodist preacher who lived down in Giles County, Tennessee. Brother Moore had a rural congregation that was good about sending clothing to the poor. He also had a son named Eugene Moore who was slightly older and larger than me. At the time I was about eight years old and probably tipped the scales around forty-five pounds. Well, Eugene would wear his clothes until he outgrew them and then stuff them in the poor box to bless some other less fortunate child.
I remember the day this shirt named Eugene arrived at my house. It came in with a menagerie of other bright-colored but somewhat faded garments. When it came from the box it was thrust into my hands. Someone said, “Here Frank is a white shirt for you.”
It was a little over-sized for me but that didn’t matter as I was used to wearing over-sized clothes. What really mattered about this particular shirt was that across the top of the pocket emblazoned in green was the word:
EUGENE
Some mother had lovingly crocheted her son’s name in pretty green lettering on my shirt.
I wore this shirt to school and church for a few weeks and the teacher began to call me Eugene. I tried to explain that my name was not Eugene, that was the name of my shirt and I would like it very much if she would stop calling me Eugene. I never did like the name Frank but at least that was what my long-departed mother and daddy had named me. Also, my grandparents continued to call me Frank after I came to live with them when I was about two years old.
I recall the most-sad fate for the shirt named Eugene. It was Sunday morning and the family had made arrangements with one of the older boys to take us to see this preacher in Giles County who had the boy named Eugene who had outgrown the shirt named Eugene. In those mid-forties years a trip to town was an event, but a trip to a faraway place like Pulaski, Tennessee was a lifetime dream. We had planned all week what to wear and the old smoothing irons had been put to work to press all the Sunday clothes that would be needed. Eugene the shirt got special attention for me as it was my only shirt. I was up bright and early with much anticipation and dressed as soon as breakfast was over. I went outside to play until the rest of the family was ready. Well lo and behold what should happen to me and my shirt named Eugene but slip and fall in the slick dew-covered grass? Grass might have been all right except for the fact that the ducks in our yard had nested the night before in this particular spot of grass and these ducks had left their evidence in many places – including the exact spot where Eugene the shirt chose to land.
When I struggled to my feet I knew that my trip was definitely on hold and that Eugene the shirt could be put to permanent rest. However, since there was still a little time left my grandmother quickly washed the shirt and removed all evidence of the ducks and had it dry for me to wear. I remember how sad I felt about wearing the shirt named Eugene to see the boy who had given it to me.
I sure was glad when I outgrew the shirt named Eugene.
April 17, 1989
- Excerpted from From Humble Beginnings: Songs of a Native Son by William Franklin Andrews. Copyright 2005 William Frank Andrews, all rights reserved.
YouTube Video: Frank discusses getting the "shirt named Eugene" with poets S.R. Lee and Susie Sims Irvin before a reading for the Williamson County Allied Arts Club at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Nov. 17, 2008.
Thanks for sharing your story of “Eugene the shirt”. So many thoughts fly through my head … how character grows in the fertile ground of humble beginnings … how ’stuff’ isn’t necessarily a prerequisite of happiness … how today’s children with their extensive ‘must-have’ wardrobes must struggle to find deeper meaning in their lives ….
I hope Eugene the shirt went on to grace the lives of other young boys! Maybe, he’s still out there, somewhere …. Pam
Comment by Pam Kidd — November 1, 2005 @ 10:57 pm |Edit This