“It’s not pretty. It’s not pretty at all,” I said aloud as I looked into the mirror.

It’s worn and torn and has aged terribly, I thought to myself. It’s misshapen and scarred and will never be what it once was, but I believe there is still a bit more life left in it.

Though the description fit the middle-aged face looking back at me, it was actually my coat that I was observing. It seemed to be on its last legs, or should I say last arms.

It’s not a pretty coat. It’s not pretty at all, but this red flannel garb has been a part of my life for over a decade.

“I think it’s time to lay that coat to rest,” my dear wife has suggested several times. “There’s a box of rags in the shed calling its name.”

She’s probably right in her suggestion, but there are so many memories involved here.

Just as a woman takes swatches of material from shirts, dresses, pants, and tablecloths to create a quilt that records a generation, the stains and rips in the fabric of a man’s favorite work coat become his own personal record—a diary of the tasks he has performed and the toils in which he has been involved.

I reflected for a moment as I viewed my coat’s reflection in the mirror.

There were tears in the sleeves from a wrestling match I had with either a roll of barbed or chicken wire. There were small holes in the side from either an encounter with a rooster or a briar patch. The Navaho White stripe down the back of the coat was the result of leaning on a porch post to enjoy a tall glass of iced tea—forgetting I was resting because I had just finished painting the porch post Navaho White. There were spots of Charleston Green stain from the day I painted the well house. The pale blue dots from decorating my daughters’ playhouse. Maroon from our shutters. Slate gray from our porch floor. Silver from a past Sunday School project. Black acquired during the construction of sets for a community theater production. The ripped hem from when one of our dogs became bitter over the fact we left him overnight.

I reached into the right pocket. I found several bent nails and extra staples from when I constructed the goat pen. There was a crocus bulb, an empty packet of Burpee radish seeds, sawdust from building a recent birdhouse, and seven cents made up of a nickel and two pennies.

In my left pocket were needles from our Christmas tree, an ACE Hardware receipt, three cents and a button that was once attached to my coat.

How could a person throw away a coat filled with so many memories? You can’t. And what is one more coat in a house of many coats? As you already know, when you live in Central Virginia with its fickle weather, you’re going to have a lot of coats. One never knows what the jet stream will bring next.

You need your windbreaker, your thermal hood and parka and fleece pullover and down vest, raincoat, poncho and everything in between.

When was the last time you took an inventory of your coat supply? You just might be shocked. I know we were. I’m not saying all our coats are name brand nor were brand-spanking new when we acquired them. Some are from yard sales and thrift stores and some are hand-me-downs. 

You’ve got your Sunday-go-to-meeting coat, your going-to-town coat, your go-out-and-get-the-mail coat, your going-out-to-roll-up-the-windows-on-the-car-‘cause-it’s-raining coat, your feeding-the-livestock, changing-the oil-in the car, and shooin’-away-the-stray-dog-from-your-yard coats.

Around this time of year, any house in Central Virginia is taken over by coats. From the coat rack by the front door to the peg board on the back porch to any flat surface in the house, many of us are guilty of hording hoods and collecting coats.

But we all have that one coat that is so warm and comfortable and personalized onto which we continue to hold. For me, it’s this ugly, splattered and tattered red flannel, blue thermal lined garb that I keep wearing.

I believe this coat of mine has a few more good years in it. I don’t think I’m ready to toss it in the rag box quite yet. It’s not very pretty, but neither am I and my wife keeps holding on to me.

I smiled and buttoned the coat at which point another button popped off and bounced about on the floor. I picked it up and dropped it into my pocket with the pine needles, the receipt and the other loose button.

Aren’t we all a little like that worn favorite jacket on to which we keep holding? Aren’t our imperfections and blemishes and scars truly our own personal quilt that records our own personal history? Though we become old and wrinkled and worn, it’s nice to know that there are always those around us who will keep thinking we’re worth holding onto just a while longer.

Truthfully, is there anything more comforting than that?