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Natalie Grasso
ovember 1997. I was a chatty sixth grader, barreling down Interstate 80 in the backseat of my parents' red Chrysler minivan. We were on our annual road trip from Pennsylvania to Illinois, where we'd celebrate Thanksgiving with a houseful of extended family and friends. We arrived late the night before Thanksgiving to a gaggle of adolescent cousins with tummy aches from eating too much of Uncle Mark's homemade salsa. The moms were putting the little ones down to bed, and the dads were cracking open cold beers while bellowing talk of football, of Steelers and Browns and Bears, ensued. This was the scene when my eldest cousin Jen, just out of college, breezed in from her own road trip. Rosy-cheeked on arrival, she was bundled up against an increasing lake effect chill in the staunchest navy blue coat my eleven-year-old eyes had ever seen. I watched and listened intently as my mom greeted Jen with a hug and effusively praised her pea coat. Jen said she'd gotten it at the Army-Navy surplus store and the two agreed,