Listen. I am a child of the 90s. I feel deeply insecure about being in public without a flannel. It’s been this way since at least 1993. I guess it was a combination of Kurt Cobain, Stevens County Church of Christ Homeschool Counter Culture and an inherited affinity for Little House on the Prarie for me, but whatever the cause, plaid flannel is a deepy ingrained need in my positive mental health wheelhouse.

I cannot overcome the conviction that ANY outfit is better with a flannel. Jeans? OBV. Dress, yes, and some combat boots, fo sho. Cut-offs are grossly inadequate without a flannel. Leggings… duh, what else? And no man is a man who does not regularly appear in plaid flannel. Thank you Brawny. Sorry, not sorry.

A substitute for the ESF. Close, but not it.

But all of this leads to a certain perplexing problem: finding The Perfect Flannel. The Flannel to End all Flannels. When I was younger it was a GAP number in shades of blue and grey that I would not be separated from. It saw me through courtship and marriage and the birth of at least two offspring. I wonder where that shirt is now…

Secret Waterfalls in Yelapa, and The Flannel

I’ve been through myriad flannels since those days, always on a quest for The Flannel. THE ONE. I’ve tested out designer names - flannels that cost upwards of $100. I’ve worn Goodwill Specials missing buttons with questionable stains. The best ones are always either second hand or $20 at the local farm store - as was the Best Flannel Ever. I stumbled across it about 5 years ago at North 40 in Spokane and something about the plaid, and the softness, and the fit… I wore it until it started to fall apart. I wore it from coast to coast and all around the world. On fire assignments and during snowed-in winters. Mexican beaches and Walla Walla Wineries. The elbows wore out a couple years ago and I started hunting for a replacement.

That happened to be about the time Aspen was headed to Vietnam and in a moment of panic realized she hadn’t packed a flannel. I told her to grab one from my closet on the way to the airport. Which one, out of no fewer that 78 flannels, did she grab? THE Flannel. The One.
She drug it across Vietnam. And several airports. Quite literally.

But this is what makes a flannel great. It’s adaptability. The comfort it provides. The versatility and universal language that tells anyone, anywhere - “chill, man.”

I hunted for a long time and finally found the same flannel on Ebay. two sizes too small and had to pay exorbitant shipping from Canada, but it’s worth it. I may even give one to Aspen someday. It’s things like this that make me stockpile when I find something I love. Who knows when it might run out or disappear forever. But I guess that’s what makes things so valuable.

Maybe The Flannel will never be fully replaced. But neither will all the memories I have in it.