The Soft Package

As a 10 year old boy, I was any mother's worst nightmare. Thankfully, my mother was a truly strong woman. She was a single mother in Brooklyn, N.Y. and, you can imagine, not rich at all. We lived in apartment 8C of a 14 story Housing project. The time was 1982. Pop culture of the day loved phases like, "Oh Snap!", and, "Sucka, you's a duck!". Artists like Run DMC, LL Cool J, and Kurtis Blow use to Jam in the park right across the street from us. The hottest toys on the market were Lego's, Capsela, and the Attack Track, a programmable 6 wheeled mechanized adventure of no end. I was the happiest 5th grade boy ever when I got that Attack Track. Still, there was one present that loomed over my elation like a dingy green shroud.

We had a tradition of opening one gift each on Christmas Eve. Now, my aunt, April, was an evil genius of incomparable proportion when it came to wrapping related counter espionage. My mother had to work extra hard to keep April's tongue on a leash. She had an ability to sniff, feel, and shake any package so that, within 45 seconds, she could tell you the make, model, color, and relative desirability of any gift. No lie. April had and still has 'Gift-Ray Vision'. Consequently, when it was time to open our one gift each, I already possessed a through understanding of what my potential Christmas morning take would be. I figured that I could afford to show my Mommy some love that evening and chose to open one of the soft packages. I dug around under our well decorated wire bound tree wondering, "Which one." Eventually, I settled on a package from my mother. It was a bit larger but, flatter and flimsier than the others. The socks, shirts, and underwear in the other soft packages would have to wait for the morning carnage.

I tore into the package with measured eagerness ready for whatever I'd find. I'm glad that I couldn't see my own face. I wasn't ready for that at all. I was greeted by a dingy OD Green, billion little pocket having, military-esque (and I hated all things military, at the time), hip high jacket. I flipped the thing open to get a good eyeful of the monstrosity. It only got worse. My eyes were stinging with the horror of a day glow emergency orange inner lining. The only thing this jacket was missing was a genuine 'German Shepard Dog Fur Collar'. I thanked her. I think I even told her that I liked it. I hated it! My only appreciation was for my mother's heart in giving it to me. I dreaded the thought of ever having to wear the thing.

Christmas day, I was wearing that thing. She didn't make me... didn't ask me... didn't even hint. Honestly, I don't think she expected me to ever wear it. I loved my Mommy though. Day after day, I wore it. You should know, back then, I didn't know that I was a nerd. I didn't even know that nerds existed. Now, pockets to a nerd is like gold to a miser. Before I knew it, I was being swept off of my feet. Pockets on my chest, pockets on my arms, inside pockets, and a hood that secured into a pocket with perfect symmetry and a zipper was all speaking my language of love. I don't know when it happened but, we eventually bonded like Spider-Man and his alien black suit. Long story short, one day, when I was 13, my Mom, no longer Mommy, had to threaten me with thermonuclear bodily harm if I ever again wore that 2 sizes too small, year and a half unwashed, beat up old ugly jacket. I loved that jacket! To this day, it's still my primogenial archetype by which all other jackets are judged. I'm still glad it didn't have a dog fur collar though.