By Wendy Kennar<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My eighty-year-old mom tells the story every year. Usually, more than once during the Thanksgiving season. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you remember the year we went\u2026?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I cut her off. \u201cTo Fedco.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe year we woke up early so you could buy\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe black jacket,\u201d I finish. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened before my son was born. Seventeen years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened before I was married, before my last name changed from one shared with a popular television show (Frasier) to one that is sometimes confused with an actor\u2019s last name (Kinnear, Greg). Fraser to Kennar. Twenty-six years ago. Before smartphones, the internet, and online shopping. When Black Friday really was just one day \u2014 the Friday after Thanksgiving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened when both our last names were Fraser; when I was living at home, going to school, and working part-time jobs. When I had become the taller one and surpassed her 5\u20194\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened on the Friday morning after Thanksgiving Day. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened at Fedco in Los Angeles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fedco was a membership department store, akin to an antecedent of Costco. You could, and we did, buy everything there \u2014 from books, to underwear, to pigs-in-a-blanket to eat on your way out or to bring home and enjoy later. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fedco published a small \u201cmagazine\u201d called the Fedco Reporter<\/em>. Some might call it an ad paper. Or a sale book. A small catalog, maybe. I thought of it as a magazine with a lot of ads, because in addition to arriving in the mail and advertising the sale price of the Dr. Scholl\u2019s sandals my mom wore back then, the Reporter <\/em>also published short stories. (At least that\u2019s how I remember it. There may have been both fiction and nonfiction pieces.) <\/p>\n\n\n\n I remember submitting some of my stories to Fedco\u2019s magazine. I wanted to be a published writer. To do that, I knew I had to write and mail my writing to other people who would decide if my words were \u201cgood enough\u201d for their publication. <\/p>\n\n\n\n That year, as part of its Black Friday sale, Fedco advertised a black, leather-like jacket. It wasn\u2019t real leather, and it wasn\u2019t pretending to be real leather. But in my eyes, it looked like leather, and that was close enough for me. It was a cool-looking jacket that I wanted to buy with my own money, which meant fake leather worked for my wallet. Back then, all my jobs paid in cash \u2014 babysitting and tutoring. Sometimes, weekends were spent babysitting the children I tutored during the week. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The bargain Black Friday price was the only way I could afford a black, leather-like jacket. The fact that it was sold in the men\u2019s department didn\u2019t deter me. My mom had taught me years ago that \u201cmen\u2019s\u201d and \u201cwomen\u2019s\u201d labels didn\u2019t always mean much. A men\u2019s V-neck sweater was sometimes a bit looser and fuller than a woman\u2019s V-neck sweater. For a teenager who was never confident in her looks or size, I appreciated that looseness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I wanted this jacket. In black. Brown was the last resort.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We knew what we had to do. We had planned it out at home. We had set our alarm and woken up earlier than I usually did for school. We arrived at the store before their doors were open, when the streets of Los Angeles weren\u2019t yet busy with cars. We reviewed our game plan while waiting in line, noticing that with every minute, more shoppers joined the line. As soon as the doors opened, we planned to split up (I was faster back then) and would meet in the men\u2019s department. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t remember who found the jacket, or if it was difficult to find the black jacket in my size. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I do, however, remember the running. The pushing. The shoving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I clutched the jacket to my chest as we made our way to the checkout lines. My mom stayed quiet as we maneuvered our way through the parking lot, with circling drivers asking us where our car was parked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n After buckling up, and right before my mom put the car in reverse, my mom spoke. \u201cNever again.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She said it many times during our thirty-minute ride home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Later that night, during our Thanksgiving leftovers dinner, my mom shared our experience with my dad. It was<\/em> a successful Black Friday shopping trip. Mission accomplished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And while much of the experience wasn\u2019t that different from our usual shopping strategy \u2014 go in the morning when stores are less crowded, shop from a pre-written list \u2014 our first experience with an in-person, early-morning Black Friday sale was our only<\/em> experience with an in-person, early-morning Black Friday sale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But each time my mom tells the story, we look at each other and smile. It\u2019s one of those experiences \u2014 an event you don\u2019t realize will become super special as the years go on. One that serves as another link in the bond between the two of us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We did that. My mom and I. Mission accomplished. <\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" By Wendy Kennar My eighty-year-old mom tells the story every year. Usually, more than once during the Thanksgiving season. \u201cDo you remember the year we went\u2026?\u201d I cut her off. 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