The DICK Story
She was still living at #505, in great shape for her age, which then was about 90. And still driving — she relished a quick trip to TJ Maxx or her favorite, The Christmas Tree Shop where she could buy more scented candles, more cocktail napkins, more scatter rugs and always, always more clothes. Never wealthy or even financially comfortable, my mother paradoxically relished both shopping and a bargain at the same time, which is why in that November of 2015, she found herself at the LL Bean Outlet in her hometown of Orange, Connecticut.
Carefully, with gnarled but manicured fingers, she worked her way through the inventory, searching for the ideal one — rack after rack. Up and down those long aisles, the cart, a convenient ally in her attempt to hide the occasional unsteadiness. With a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that comes with finding the perfect gift at the right price, she at last brought her trophy home.
And that’s where I come in. I had driven down to Orange for a pre-Christmas visit. The fleeting impermanence of her situation was never lost on me. Every time I pulled into that driveway I thought, this could very well be the last time. How many people get to visit their Mom in their childhood home when they are in their 50s? And not just my mother, at the time my brother Steven was living there as well.
I walked in, past the painted kitchen cabinets and the growth chart on the door jamb, greeted by Jessica the pit bull and made my way upstairs where I could hear my Mother’s muffled footsteps. And there I found her, bustling around her tidy bedroom, in what is best described as a tizzy.
No preamble, no greeting, no ‘how was the drive.’ With an exasperated humph and a heavy sit on her well-made bed, just “oh there you are, you have to help me”.
“Ut oh, what’s wrong?”
“Well, you know I thought and thought about what to get the little fella for Christmas” (this is what she called my then 10 year old nephew, the quiet and aloof, Shane). “And I decided what he needs, is a bathrobe”. Well, what 10 year old boy doesn’t ask Santa for a bathrobe? I learned a long time ago that resistance was futile, and so I leaned in and in so doing, threw Shane directly under the bus. Wholeheartedly I agreed that a bathrobe was, of course, an ideal gift for any 10 year old boy.
“So what’s the problem? Couldn’t you find one you liked?”
“No”, she said. “No that’s not it.” Reaching for the LL Bean bag, and with something akin to embarrassment with an added touch of vexation — she pulled the robe from the bag. A plush hunter green fleece.
“Wrong size?” I asked.
With her chin down and a slight shake of her head, resignation set in her shoulders, she unfolded the offending garment so the front was plainly visible. Without a trace of humor — my 90 year old mother, gesturing toward the area just to the left of the collar, said with an exasperated exhale:
“Look, it’s covered with DICK”
Startled. No, not startled — shocked. I took in the wholeness of the situation with what I like to think was quiet dignity, but inside, inside, I was screaming with laughter. Growing up as I did in this house, where cussing was simply not tolerated — not even crap or damn or hell — well, this — this was too much. Before I could fully process what she had said, she spoke again:
“Look at the DICK!. What are we going to do about the DICK !?!”
Like many items at the LL Bean outlet, this particular bathrobe had been customized. No diminutive, difficult to read script, with an understated tone on tone palette. No, this DICK was in all caps, an inch and ½ high.
DICK
Prominent and proud as can be in metallic gold thread no less, contrasting beautifully against the dark green material. This DICK commanded attention, this DICK was a stand out.
“Didn’t you see the DICK when you bought it?”
“No, I never saw the DICK! I wouldn’t have bought it if I knew it had DICK all over it! Look at the size of that DICK! What are we going to do ?!?”
“I don’t know Granma, it’s a pretty big DICK”.
“Well, Shane is no DICK, so what are we going to do about it? Should I try to return it? Tell them I want a plain bathrobe, one without a DICK?”
I can’t lie, the thought of my mother marching back to LL Bean with a bathrobe covered with DICK, gave me no end of pleasure, but I fished the receipt out of the bag to find it stamped with FINAL SALE in red ink. This DICK was here to stay.
“OK” I said, “Since we can agree that Shane is no DICK, why don’t we just cut the thread out and remove the DICK?”
Having overheard the entire penile parley — this is when Steven showed up. Swiss Army knife at the ready, scissor tool deployed, hand over heart. With mock solemnity that was not lost on me he said “I, I will cut out the DICK”.
And so the three of us set to work, bound by a common, lofty purpose. Carefully cutting the metallic gold strands from the fleece and removing them one by one to eradicate the offending DICK. When at last the final thread was gone, much to our collective chagrin, what remained was a perfect, perforated version of DICK, created by thread holes.
“Yikes, it still says DICK” I said.
“Now it’s just a holey DICK, now what?” my mother said, now at her wits end.
“How about I run down to Michael’s and get a fabric patch of some kind, and we’ll cover that DICK right up” I offered.
And so on Christmas day, none the wiser, Shane unwrapped the green fleece bathrobe with the jaunty dragon patch, and graciously thanked his grandmother. If ever called upon to dress as a young Hugh Hefner, maybe for Halloween or a 5th grade school assignment, then by God, he was ready.
What happened to the original, metallic gold DICK, for whom the robe was intended, we shall never know. But we thank him most ardently for returning the robe to LL Bean where my mother, ever the bargain hunter bought it, and in so doing, enriched our lives with the DICK story.
