Frayed, badly marked and bagged--in other words, perfect for work.

Work clothes, by which I mean clothes for physical though not recreational activities, require a surprising degree of thought. Perhaps not as much as might go into something like a suit for a wedding, but evaluations and decisions no less. The difference is the thought required when seeking something new manifests as a list a desires, like peaked lapels, or a lightweight cloth of navy pindot. When deciding upon work clothes, the thought is one of allocation of existing qualities. Which old clothes best serve a particular task requires consideration of the rigor of the task versus the diminishing life of the cloth and the sentimental attachment to the garment. It can be melancholy work assigning one’s clothes their final roles.

My grandfather on my mother’s side was an avid gardener. He died before I was born, but his passion for soil and the things that grow in it was passed on to my mother, and, in some diluted measure, to me. Since adolescence, I have developed an image—even a jagged narrative—of him cycling his modest plot of land through the seasons. He is wearing a weathered gray suit, an off-white shirt and dark tie. In summer he leaves the jacket hanging and allows himself the pleasure of rolled sleeves. The tie is tucked through the shirt’s placket. Remarkably, my mother recently confirmed these long-held images, adding the delicious detail of an economical three-suit wardrobe. The newest was his best suit, reserved for holidays and special occasions. The second, a suit for ordinary wear, and the last his gardening suit. Of course none were static; a best suit would, in a dozen years, have trundled down through the scale until indistinguishable from the soil it had, in its final stage, expertly worked. Gardeners understand the beauty of compost; even prize-winning roses eventually become soil for the lowly shrub.

My own gardening clothes are less suffused with the metaphorical. They did, however, all start life as clothes that I wore on the street—an important distinction from the purpose-built costumes many hobbies infer are required. The selection consists of two pairs of chinos—one made exceptionally gauzy and lightweight from laundering that I reserve for the heat, the other a sort of canvass duck cloth in some indeterminable putty color. I expect the summer ones will disintegrate sometime next summer; the ducks are impenetrable, but don’t breathe, which is what consigned them to cool-weather gardening. For shirts: the oxford cloth button-down collar, the traditional choice of those interested in American Ivy-League inspired style. They are durable, absorbent, breathable and launder well. Oxford cloth is thoroughly active wear cloth; I will never understand how it leapt into popularity as dress shirting.

Below gardening is a task with far more permanent reminders of station: painting. It is difficult to assign old clothes to the task of painting. In one respect, the clothes will be ruined, and often after a single session. But sometimes a favorite pair of chinos gains an unquantifiable element of style with its permeant reminders of lavender rooms and buttercup hallways. For the wearer, it’s the memories of past projects, however misguided. For the audience—for it is inevitable that paint-splattered clothes will be worn for beer runs as a project reaches completion—they engender curiosity: is the wearer a painter or a painter? Jean Michele Basquiat was said to regularly paint in the droopy Armani suits of the late eighties. This seems excessive, even for an eccentric, but a watered-down effect occurs with all genuinely splattered clothing. It should go without saying that any pre-splattered clothing is disingenuous, no matter how artfully executed. The randomness of real labor simply cannot be reproduced.

Finally, accessories. If it is sunny or cold wear your third-best hat. Many menswear aficionados will be shocked to learn that roughly finished, buff-colored hog-skin gloves can be purchased for a tenner a pair from the glass aisle of most hardware stores. A neckerchief is helpful in managing perspiration or drafts. My grandfather wore a tie while gardening. I almost didn’t believe my mother until she showed me a treasured gardening book of his. It is a resinous and dusty volume full of pressed roses and herbs from his garden, many still faintly fragrant. And then there he is, neatly spading a trench, precisely as I have always pictured him.