When I was in junior high, I “inherited” a winter coat from my Uncle George (who is only three years older than I am). It was a very expensive coat and looked practically new, so I knew George hadn’t worn it. The reason was obvious: it was an extremely thick, long ski jacket that made the wearer look like a pregnant, black polar bear. The fur that covered the whole coat had to be four or five inches long. The really sad thing was that the satin lining had a terrific embroidered snow eagle. I would have loved wearing the coat if I could have turned it inside-out. But, alas, this was impossible. As it was, my mom made me wear this monstrosity every day at a time in my life when standing out in a crowd was painful if not dangerous.

On a Friday night in December, I was invited to stay with Da…