A CHRISTMAS STORY; THE GREEN CORDUROY JACKET

Bridget Foy, was our landlady at 5621 Carpenter St. She and her five sons lived on the first floor and our family of five lived on the second. In time, she became our loving, surrogate grandmother. As a two-year-old, Bridget was too difficult to pronounce so I dubbed her, “Rea,” and the name became hers forevermore.

As I grew into a little girl she would let me join her for “a fine stretch of the legs” as we walked to 63rd ‘n Halsted to “root.” It was her expression for looking through remnants of material. She was a magician at turning remnants into tea towels, housedresses, and play clothes for her grandchildren. The Singer Sewing Machine sat beneath the large, sunny kitchen window to catch, “God’s own fine light.” Many a day I stood at her elbow entranced by her movements, watching as she turned the material this way and that. Most of all it was incredible to watch a yard of material from a remnant bin at Wielboldt’s become a summer pinafore for Kathleen, her oldest granddaughter.

When I was eight, as Christmas approached her Singer was whirling five to seven hours a day. Every gift for nieces, nephews, her sister, Nora, and Lord knew whom else, would be made by her. Of all the gifts she was making nothing seemed as beautiful, to my third grade eyes, as a green corduroy jacket. Everyday after school she’d ask me to try the jacket on because her niece, Fiona, was about my size.

Being loose lipped with a dash of boldness to boot; I repeatedly asked her why the jacket couldn’t be for me. Green was my favorite color, I loved the jacket with its two pockets, and I would only wear it to school and Mass on Sunday.

“I’ve only so much time and money,” Rea would say. “This is for Fiona. Now stand still, why I pin the material.”

Days one thru two I did as I was told, but by the third day jealousy took hold. Not only did I not stand still; I slumped my shoulders over and acted like a rag doll. What did I care about Fiona? She’d be wearing the jacket I wanted with all my heart and she probably wouldn’t even hang it up nicely on a hanger. My modeling career came to a sudden halt on the fourth day when Rea announced,

“There now. Done it is. Sure’n it looks lovely.”

Words that propelled me out her back door and up the stairs to our apartment. I threw myself across the bed, and had a good feel-sorry-for-myself-cry. I hoped Fiona would get fat eating too much turkey and her jacket wouldn’t fit!

Christmas morning dawned with all the excitement of discovering Santa’s gifts. Rea and Nora came upstairs for a cup of tea and some fruitcake. Rea handed us our presents. Billy opened his first and whooped with glee when he discovered a Hopalong Cassidy cowboy shirt. Jo Anne was thrilled with soft, warm pajamas, and so of course I knew what was in my box, a pair of soft, warm pajamas. What made adults think sisters liked to wear the same things at the same time? With a puss on my face, I opened the pajama box and stared in disbelief! It was the green corduroy jacket, my longed-for possession, the most absolutely beautiful jacket I had ever seen. Embarrassed by the way I had acted during my short-lived modeling career, and filled with joy, I threw myself into Rea’s arms and said,

“O Rea! I love it so much. Thank-you, thank-you!”

“And I love you,” said she with her sweet Irish lilt. Dearest Rea.