There may be no laborers who have more wardrobe changes than farmers.

After all, when farm families get up in the morning, they put on their school or town-job clothes, and when they get home they change into their “everyday clothes” and shoes. Some parts of society don’t even know what “everyday clothes” means.

If they ever spent an afternoon cleaning out the farrowing house, they would see that some clothing and shoes need a power washer before they ever see a washing machine.

But of all of the farmer’s apparel, they have more footwear than Elvis has had sightings.

They have shoes they wear out to nice events, of course; but they also have (for all intents and purposes) “dung” kickers that they wear most days just doing their work; there are ankle boots that require shoe strings longer than an evangelist’s sermon; rubber boots that slip on over shoes, knee-high boots — probably more than one pair, and on and on.

My husband doesn’t throw his old shoes away once they have gasped their last breath — complete with their tongues hanging out — you never know when you’ll need a spare pair.

Mostly, they just add more bulk to the mud room or garage.

A farm house that has a mud room (we all know what that “mud” really is) — is often overrun with a farmer’s footwear needed for various times of the year and for all kinds of weather-related work, especially if there is more than one farm laborer in the family.

But for all the shoes we’ve tolerated and understood over the years, prom shoes proved to be the biggest challenge one weekend for our boys.

A farm kid will agree to wear tuxes and formal shoes only occasionally in all their lives.

They are used to blue jeans, work shirts and comfortable work boots, so when prom or weddings roll around, it’s a sacrifice they make in order to maintain the order of society.

When our boys were juniors in high school, they both had proms at different schools on the same night. They gathered up all the things they needed — a clean truck, corsages for dates, tuxes, socks and shoes, and whatever else guys squirrel away for prom night.

All went well until I received a call from one of our sons, who was half an hour away and with his date, when he realized he had forgotten his tux shoes.

“Can you meet me with them?” he asked.

And so I hurriedly unearthed those shoes and drove 20 minutes to meet him with them, and he was on his way.

It looked like we had just done something illegal in the parking lot.

Later that evening I was a chaperone for the after-prom celebration, where our other son was. It was 12:30 a.m.; and when I saw him approaching me, I knew something must be up.

“I forgot my tennis shoes — I don’t want to wear these shoes all night,” he said as he showed me his tux shoes. “Can you run home and get my tennis shoes? Please?”

And so I left the gathering, on assignment to find his tennis shoes at home — ones that didn’t tattle on the fact that he was a farm kid. I returned to the party to find a grateful son, and I took his other shoes home with me when I left the celebration at 4:30 a.m. Luckily, they were shoes that didn’t have to ride in the back of the car in a cardboard box, or make me have to drive home with the windows down and my head hanging out the window.

When that Monday morning rolled around, the guys both took their tuxes to school with them, where carts had been placed to gather all guys’ tuxes up and take them back to the store to be cleaned. Again, I got a call from one of our sons as I was getting ready for work.

“Mom — I forgot to bring my tux shoes — can you bring them to school? Please?” he asked.

So I rifled through the remnants of his weekend and stopped at school with them, being greeted by a school secretary’s “look” that told me I was not the first mom she’d seen.

Seemed like all I got done that weekend was chase after prom shoes and free time.

I’m not sure who looked more harried that Monday morning — our sons, or me.

At least I always know where our guys’ work boots are — and they usually don’t forget to have them on their person when they leave to go to work.

Rare is a work boot “SOS” call — unless I’ve been rendered unconscious from their fragrance after cleaning out the barn.

Karen Schwaller writes from her grain and livestock farm near Milford, Iowa. She can be reached at kschwaller@evertek.net