Outerwear Hoarder, Just Can't Cut the Corder (by which, of course, I mean corduroy)

Some weeks ago, I blogged about the fabric -- and book -- corduroy.  I even shared my collection of corduroy skirts and single pair of corduroy pants.  But what I neglected to say is that I have another corduroy garment, a kind of skeleton in my considerable closet.  And that garment is this coat.

If you look closely, you can see the time-tarnished St. John's Bay label.  Which always makes me wonder, just who is this St. John, and where is his bay?  According to Google, he isn't the frosty-but-reliable, seafaring New Englander that I'd imagined.  Because this particular bay is in the Caribbean.  So, Johnny (because he's become Johnny now) is probably some puka shell-wearing pleasure craft sailor who ferries tourists to snorkeling excursions, daiquiri in hand.  Which makes for another illusion shattered by the interwebs.  Anyway, I got the coat in college, and at the time I didn't even like it that much.  But when my mom insisted on buying it for me on one of our weekly trips to J. C. Penney's, I acquiesced (a free coat's a free coat).  After that, I was surprised to find myself reaching for it often, realizing that it was a kind of wardrobe glue that held my more out-there things together.  It was cozy yet crusty, its milk chocolate bulk reminiscent of a brown teddy bear (Corduroy!), and its twig-colored cords and faux shearling like that of a longshoreman or granola-choked hiker.  Although I sometimes jazzed it up with bright brooches and jaunty scarves, it remained, at its core, the same salt-of-the-earth defense against the elements that it had been on its rack that fateful Sunday.  Whenever I wore it, I felt both humbler and more worldly (longshoremen have seen things).  I think that being different from my usual glam garb is what made it even more precious.

Twenty years later, I still wear it, much to the chagrin of my mom.  She says, "Oh, Tracy. How can you still have that coat?!"  Which is ironic considering that she's the one who forced me into its earthy arms in the first place.  But pulling it out every now and then reminds me of those shopping trips and of that J. C. Penney's, which isn't even there anymore.  In this way, wearing it (and yes, I'm about to spread some Velveeta) feels like a great big bear hug.  A friendly, fairy tale kind of bear, that is, as opposed to the kind that mauls people.

St. John probably wouldn't want such a hug.  He'd feel more at home high-fiving a stingray.