MY BEST FRIEND

In 1946, when I was six years old, I got my first, very own Lederhose. A short pair of pants of the pig skin variety, naturally gray colored, with the usual trap door in front and secured by two buttons at the belt line on top. That square flap opened like a drawbridge of a castle so a man could do his stand-up procedure. The pig leather was somewhat stiff at first. However, after the constant every-day wear, the Lederhose gradually conformed to my body. In my case, Mother made sure I would not soon outgrow this onetime expenditure. The hose (pants) were so big they started at the knees and nearly went to under the armpits. The Lederhose, like a constant friend, became my everyday companion and part of me. They hung on my skinny body by a set of buttoned leather suspenders. To keep them from slipping off the shoulders a horizontal strip of leather between them held the straps. 

Woolen underwear was bearable only in the winter when the much sought warmth overruled the itch of wearing them. Summer time brought freedom of such encumbrances, so we wore nothing under the pigskin pants. The buttoned-up trap door, always a challenge, overwhelmed me when time had to be taken to use the bathroom. The dropping of the flap in front was not really the big problem. It was the spigot, yet too small, that just would not reach to clear the leather, no matter how much I pulled to stretch it. So, inevitably most of the pee bounced off the inside and down the pant-leg. This actually was not a problem, because wet leather molded itself more easily to the body and its movements for a more comfortable fit. 

The pants were not considered broken-in until black with dirt and grime around the pocket and the back side. Anyone with a “new” pair was considered an outsider and sort of green–a bit snickered at. Therefore, as quickly as I could, I wiped every dirty thing that needed wiping on the pants. With no pockets in the back, the slick part of the breeches made a great toboggan when sliding down a steep hill. No one ever wore a hole in the Lederhose. The pants just became more “broke-in.” 

The pockets, one on each side in the front, were ideal places for a little boy’s treasures. All of us carried a pocketknife, and usually some marbles for any sudden challenge. Never all the marbles I had, just the ones I could afford to lose.

At the end of the day I stepped out of my breeches at the side of the bed. There they stood erect all night, sort of like a get-a-way car parked at the curb, until action resumed the next day. All I did in the morning is swing my legs over them, jump out of bed, and pull them up.

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