In days of yore, I had mixed emotions when I confessed I had grown up (mostly) in a little town in Northeastern Colorado named "Brush." The name was not felicitious, speaking as it did of Sagebrush (our yearbook name) brush fires, brush piles, isolation and down market living.
Then I became proud of coming (mostly) from Brush because in time I understood that the little place had a certain authenticity that many generic parts of suburbia did not, and that isolation is not all bad and television and the internet un-isolates these little hamlets and brings their residents into the mainstream. My prejudices, that maybe it was uncool to be raised so far from an urban center in a place of no particular culture, gleamed like fool's gold.
A long introduction to this blog photo, which showed up in my parent's slides. Instead of ho-hum, another view of whatever, the slides provided a treasure-trove of memories and this photo, of which I have no recollection whatsoever. Back in the day we dressed up, but not like this, and usually only for church. I don't think I wore this to church. No recollection whatsoever of the hat or the coat, and usually I remember my clothes. All my clothes. Not so, this outfit. And an "outfit" it is.
My dad's ancient Buick, a car I loved, is parked in the driveway. My parents new house was actually a prefab, with three bedrooms, two baths, and a gas fireplace. My mom, ever practical, turned the dining room into a laundry room. We still didn't have a dishwasher, which I continually carped about. I had a few wild parties (for then) and have fond memories of smoking, drinking, music and wearing some cool outfits. But not in the green coat. Whither the green coat? Where it came from and where it went and if I ever wore it outside this photo.
No one will ever know.