The month of November, where I grew up in northern New York State, was cold and gray with leafless trees and daily rain or snow flurries. Although there were my birthday and Thanksgiving during November, nothing really made it a month of joy and excitement. When I moved to the South, November suddenly became the last warm month of fall, and the marshes became the gold that was nearly as beautiful as the changing leaves had been in the North. As I began to realize that winter would soon be here, I decided that I should purchase a new coat. All my heavy woolen coats, which I had dragged with me were gone, given away to others who wanted something warmer for the days ahead.
Shopping on line for a quilted coat became by quest, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Not one of those puffy coats that made me look twice as fat as I already am, but a quilted coat that would be warm, light weight and easy to wear with all my outfits. When I found just what I was envisioning, I was ecstatic, and I promptly sent for it. The coat arrived and when I tried it on, it was exactly what I wanted. I saw that it was a perfect fit; the sleeves came to the end of my arms and the length fell to the middle of my calves. As I gazed in the mirror at that lovely coat, I suddenly remembered the coats that I had when I was eleven-years old, one that did not fit me and another that was just right.
My oldest sister, having graduated from college, handed down to me her winter coat. Because she was very careful with her clothes, the coat looked brand new. It was a brown plaid with a velvet collar, and velvet trim around the sleeve cuffs. I could not wait to wear it. On the first of November, a cold and gloomy day, I took the coat from the closet and tried it on. It was absolutely beautiful, but there was a small problem. My sister was a small woman about two inches above five feet tall and very thin, while I was five feet six and my hips and shoulders were already those of a young woman. The sleeves came down to about six inches from my wrists and the length was above my knees. Still, I decided that I would wear it to school.
To camouflage the too short sleeves, I put on a dark brown sweater and to try to hide the length, I chose
a dark brown woolen skirt. When my mom saw me leaving for school, she shook her head, but must have decided to let me make my own decision even if it was obviously wrong.
Walking on to the grounds of my elementary school, I found other students looking at me as if I were wearing clothing that had come out of the rag-bag. Very quickly laughter and pointing at me, turned into chants, and one boy began calling me “chicken legs.” I knew then that I looked ridiculous in a coat that was way too small for me.
At lunch time, I burst into my mother’s house sobbing. Other kids going home for lunch had followed me down the street calling, “chicken legs,” over and over. Mom listened to my lament, then simply unbuttoned the coat and told me to put it in the missionary box which was meant for our church. Finding an old jacket that still fit me, she said, “Wear this, this afternoon, and we will try to figure something out for tomorrow.”
When I went to bed that night, there had been no solution, but at least the taunts had stopped, and I thought that the jacket was warm enough for the time being. When I awoke the next morning, draped over the foot board of my bed was a brand-new woolen coat. It was a soft gray with a red plaid scarf run through a collar that buttoned down. In my pajamas, I tried it on, and instantly knew that it was a perfect fit with sleeves that reached my wrists and a length that was below my knees. I loved it, and did not stop to think how my mother had managed to purchase that coat. I dressed as fast as I could, gulped my breakfast, and thanking my mom with a quick hug and kiss, I flew on wings to school.
Now in my old age, I wonder how my mom got that beautiful coat. We lived over twenty miles from the nearest city, and there was no way that she had driven there to find a coat for me. Her ability to drive was limited to places close to home, and thinking about it now, I knew that she would not have tried to drive in the city. I’m guessing that she had called my next oldest sister, who worked in the city, and asked her to get a coat for me. That sister, who always looked after me and my clothing would have immediately shopped and purchased the coat. How she got the coat from the city to our house is something that I cannot figure out, but obviously she did just that. The coat was there the next morning waiting for me to wear to school. Because I had reached my full growth that year, I wore that coat until I graduated from high school. Every November, when I retrieved it from the storage closet, the coat continued to look brand new and fit me perfectly.
I am happy, that my new quilted coat triggered the memories of a coat that became a treasure then and is now in my memories. I remember it and a mom and sisters who loved me enough to make sure that I would own a coat that made me feel beautiful. How very blessed I was to have them in my young life.
