last hurrah of the suitor's coat

Here's me, wearing for the last time what we called my Russian coat, heavy enough to tough out whatever chilly tortures nature had in store for me in New Hampshire or Grantsville.


Bought during my first church job, in Exeter, N.H., at a rummage sale for (do I remember correctly?) $2.50, it saved my life, kind of, during my first, solo trip to Grantsville, New Year's Day, 1977, in a green VW bug with a totally useless heater. In this coat, coasting on a sled on a hill near Mapleshade Farm and probably on Dorsey Hotel Road, Dorcas thought, she tells me now, that maybe things will work out with this guy. I was already hooked.


The rest is history. She was right. I was right. Over 110 trips to western Maryland later, time to junk it. I'll put it on one last time.

The first year we were married, travelling again in the VW with no heater and by now a rust hole in the back floor, this coat helped me survive. At Chambersburg at midnight we stopped at a Howard Johnsons along I 81 and warmed up in the lobby. The graveyard shift clerk was either apprehensive or afraid, but what could she do as we stood over the hot air vent. If I were superstitious I might call the coat a talisman. The coat did hold me when the big moment came--choosing Dorcas.

Actually, it's that beauty by my side that did most of the keeping warm.


After about 15 years of just hanging in the closet, it's time to put it down.