I knew that I was going to have to say goodbye to that old coat some day. Despite its age, it still looked beautiful. Along with other slacks and shirts that were too tight anymore, the VA is scheduled to take my donation in the morning. Too tight now for my fat privileged Boomer belly anyway, my spare tire I make efforts to manage. I hated to let it go. Edward R. Murrow or Humphrey Bogart might have worn this kind —British tailored with a softer cotton, green khaki, double-breasted rows of faux tortoise shell buttons, deep pockets to bury frozen hands, or lose your change, epaulets at the shoulders, straps around the cuffs, and a buttoned flap meant to latch across the throat that I never used. A thicker more modern zippered lining, conveniently removable. A garment originally meant to proudly wear in the muddy waterlogged trenches a century ago in war-torn Europe’s colder empty days, like this day. The larger heavy snowflakes are tumbling from the sunless sky a bit early, long befo…
