Originally published in The Nome Nugget, Summer 1995
There’s something about a Carhartts man that sets my heart aflutter;
Is it the cloth or is it that color of mustard and peanut butter?
Be he a carpenter, musher, or cook, or a man crushing rusty fuel drums;
If he’s cloaked in the hues of mustard and mud, you can just hear my pulse rate hum.
Out on the tundra, on someone’s roof, skirting a new trailer house;
Driving a pickup, getting the mail: I’m watching them, still as a mouse;
Unloading the barges, buying supplies, gold miners down on their luck,
No Thinsulate, thick wool, or Gore-Tex for me; it’s got to be good, cotton duck.
Hanging on racks in the dry goods aisles, you’ll find Carhartt garments galore:
Overalls, jackets, diggers, and pants in Extra Large, Large, and much more,
Waiting for men with calloused hands who’ve given 3-piece suits the heave,
To show where they’ve labored and conditions they’ve suffered work its way into the weave.
Wrapped in the cloth of outdoor work with creases and oil stains and grime;
The color of sweat, resolve and regret; the color of leaving behind:
Yes, there’s something about a Carhartts man not in all of them
under the sun;
It’s that workers’ weave of mustard and mud: it’s the fabric of getting it done.
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