BROWN BLANKET COAT

Originating from Long Island, a stones throw away from New York City, I consider myself to be a woman of keen fashion sense, flair and style. I will openly admit I am very much a snob when it comes to the clothes I will wear. Garments hawking Donna Karen, Bill Blass, Anne Klein and Ralph Lauren were what I most preferred. I entered young adult hood nourished by a steady diet of the most expensive designer labels and products. I only bought the best, and if I didn’t have the money, I would save my pennies until I did. Classic designs and lines, (with matching shoes and hand bags) were the mantra of my day.

As a result, I have been rewarded with a wardrobe that has withstood the test of time, and has lasted through many dry cleanings and raising many children. Classics never go out of style, and good fabric is indestructible. Which is why I surprise everyone every late Fall, when the chill winds turns to winter snow, and I look in my closet for my winter coats.

There is it again. The ugliest coat I have ever seen.

It’s a brown, hounds tooth pattern, double breasted, mid length wool coat. It cost $75 in 1987. Every winter since then I look at this monstrosity hanging in my closet, haul it out, and make myself wear it for several days as the chastisement from my daughters and friends begins. It's become a tradition and they think its all a big joke. If they only knew.

“What were you thinking”, I hear over and over. “Oh, not THAT coat again! That coat is SO not you! This coat is so unfashionable, so not chic. It's so 80's! It has no lines, no pleats. It has no collar and no fur. No cuffs, no silk lining and no gold buttons. It’s a plain, black buttoned, rayon lined blanket!” I smile. Fashion diva that I am, I still will not allow myself to part with this coat. For they don’t know the story.

Many years ago, Sunday mornings were spent going to church together as a family. There we would be, the seven of us, going down the aisle to our seats, taking up a full pew. I would be so proud of my little ones, all dressed in matching jackets or identical sweaters, baby girl in a little fake fur hat and matching hand muffler. Praying was secondary, I was all about “showing off” my brood.

Their father and I would be dressed in our Sunday best. Because of our large family, finances were tight and our best didn’t always look that great. Our coats were never dirty or torn, but would look old and worn, having seen better days. His looked worse than mine. Of course, his things always looked worse than mine. He never bought himself anything, and wouldn’t accept a gift from me. That’s the kind of man he was.

An older woman used to sit alone in the pew behind us. She would always give us a big hug and kiss at the beginning of worship. She usually had a sucker or piece of chocolate that she would sneak to the kids for “after church.” When it came time to give me a hug, Dorothy would inevitably first look at my coat, then sigh, and then look at my husband with a look to say “can’t you get her something decent?”

I know it always made him feel funny, but we never discussed it.

One Sunday in October, when the leaves were just about off the trees, Dorothy surprised me with a gift out in the church parking lot. It was a mink coat, a REAL mink coat, one that had obviously been of excellent quality to have lasted so long. The buttons were worn, some of the clasps were torn off and there was tear at one of the seams. It had been her coat when she was younger.

“I know it needs a little tailoring” she said pulling me closer so no one else could hear, “but its better than what you have now. Get it fixed. No one needs to know I gave it to you.” She headed towards the church entrance to sit back in her seat and begin saying her rosary smiling, content she had done the “right thing.”

“Ahh…., thanks,” I stammered, not really knowing what to say. I had never had a fur coat. We couldn’t afford one, and it would be some time before he would be able to even think of getting me one. My grandmother had a black mink that my mother borrowed now and then. I remember rubbing my hands on it the one or two times a year she would wear it. I had the same feeling now as when I felt grandmother’s coat. Envy. After Mass and getting in the car, I couldn’t look at my husband. Neither could he look at me.

Several days went by as I struggled with my conscience.

I wanted to run out to a furrier and repair that coat, get the buttons replaced, the latches secured.

I wanted to get it steamed cleaned and have the torn lining sew back in.

I wanted to wear that coat.

But I knew that if I traded it in for money, I could get $300 for it. $300 could buy groceries for a month. Toys for Christmas. A coat for my husband.

Or I could get a new coat for myself.

When I left the furrier with the money in my hand, I was torn as to what my next step should be. As I turned the corner, I tried to convince myself that I was the one who the coat money should be spent on, not the kids, not the family. Dorothy gave that coat to me, I reasoned, I deserved a new coat! I work so hard, have all this responsibility and I haven’t bought myself something nice in years. Why shouldn’t I take this money and get myself an expensive leather jacket?

My question was answered when I turned the next corner. God doesn’t waste any time. Another one of those defining moments.

It was a beautiful winter afternoon, and people were walking up and down the street, enjoying the day and chattering in their own little worlds. As I got to the end of the corner and was about the cross the street, the light turned red. I had to wait. I looked over to my left and saw a parked car.

A 1979 Rambler. Brown. It was full of papers and clothes and books. In it was a woman close to my age and what looked to be two young girls, around 7 & 8 years old. Several coloring books were stacked on the dash board.

What a mess, I thought to myself. What a slob, I sniffed. Until I looked again.

The kids were sleeping close together in the back seat, dirty blankets pulled up to their chins. The woman had her head on the steering wheel, softly crying. The mess that surrounded them was every possession they had in the world. They were living in that car. In the midst of all the activity of this beautiful day was a family living in a car. How many times had I passed them and didn't notice?

All I knew was I didn’t have a nice coat.

Before I could change my mind, I knocked on her side of the car. Barely allowing the window to be rolled halfway down, I threw the $300 through the small slit and choked out "Merry Christmas.” I turned and walked away, quickly and ashamed. What had I become?

Several days later, I bought the brown, black buttoned, hounds tooth patterned, blanket coat on sale for $25, marked drown from $75. It is the ugliest coat I’ve ever seen, but I wear it at least for a week during the winter.

Not to remind myself that I did a “good deed” and gave the woman some money. God knows she needed more than the $300. Not as a clarifier that I was an unselfish person and thought of someone else.

I keep it to remind myself that I had felt the other way.

Greedy, entitled and selfish. I never wanted to feel that way again.

Now, I am not going to pretend I am a martyr and wear nothing else but that coat. I'm not saying I won't try to find the next "gotta have" dress, or forgo the whole shopping experience of scoping out the perfect shoes. But I will keep the Brown Blanket Coat forever. I will never get rid of it. There but for the grace of God, go I.

Life can change in a moment. I don’t know what the circumstances were to force the woman and her kids to live in their car. I didn’t want to know. But I keep the Brown Blanket Coat as a warm reminder. When I start getting cocky, I remember the coat. I still want nice things, but I will never get rid of that coat, and I will never put things before my family.

There but for the Grace of God.