The Red Sweater
n the summer of 1966, I was five years old, and we had a big family party at our place.
My parents hosted a lot of parties while I was growing up. They still do, actually. And
they all are good, fun parties. But there are a couple of things that make that one stick out
in my mind. Young as I was, certain vivid images still linger.
First there was the fish. Someone brought fresh water fish - don�t ask me what kind. My experience with fish at that tender age (and for the ensuing two decades) was limited to tuna, flounder, and frozen fish sticks; so it was an event for me. I didn�t like it.
The other thing was the RED sweater. Mine. It was a simple cardigan. A simple, bright RED cardigan. A simple, bright RED cardigan with RED buttons. I don�t like red. I don�t remember how I felt about red then, or any other color, but I really don�t like it now. Anyway, I wasn�t wearing it. It was too warm. There was a breeze, but not enough to chill. At least I didn�t think so.
My mother, however, was of a different opinion. My mother, whose circulation stops at her wrists and ankles on a hot day, thought I�d be chilled. My mother, who life motto is, �I�m cold; you�re cold,� told me to put on my sweater - the RED sweater.
�But, Mom,� begins the age-old refrain. �No buts,� - the time worn response. I told her I wasn�t cold. She told me to put on the sweater. I told her it was summertime; it was hot outside. She told me it was dusk and getting chilly and to put on the sweater. I begged. I pleaded. I carried on. She told me to put on the sweater.
Finally, I pointed to the tin Coca-Cola thermometer which hung outside the kitchen door and pronounced that the red went all the way up. My mother pointed to the kitchen door.
The argument was over. I was banished. I sulked in the kitchen for a while then went to my room and sulked there. Then I came back to the kitchen and stood inside the screen door trying to catch my mother�s eye and a return from exile. I�d put on my sweater. The red sweater.
