My jacket, my mountain

Humor me while I interrupt the thought-provoking stream of inspiration and genius that is normally featured here on an apple a day to talk about my jacket. It's important that you understand about my jacket.

Rewind your clocks to 1993. I am 9 years old and in the hall of my grandfather's house. I spy this unassuming jacket hanging on a peg. I've recently been forced to wear laura ashley for picture day and hated every moment of it. I dream of what it would be like to have such a normal jacket. A jacket with a wool plaid lining from a sporting goods store. A jacket that boys would think was cool.

Fast forward to 1995. I am 11 and in the same hallway. The jacket is on the same peg. It's been abandoned by my older cousin Andy. Its zipper is broken. Victory is mine.

I've worn this coat, off and on, for 14 years. Its lining makes me quiver. The drawstring confirms in my mind the existence of god. It's from the early 1980s. Me too.

The kicker is that it says Crotched Mountain 5 on the back. It causes sideways glances from people not intimate with the geography of southern New Hampshire, but that's fine with me. When I lay in bed in my favorite room at Elmwood, I can see Crotched Mountain. When my mom was my age, she lived on top of Crotched Mountain. As a baby, my dad carried me up Crotched Mountain. My aunt's ashes are scattered on Crotched Mountain. I love Crotched Mountain, and this jacket.