The Yellow Umbrella

I was born in one rainy climate, and grew up in another. In British Columbia, we take our umbrellas seriously. When it rains over 300 inches a year, we have to. For high school girls, an umbrella was a fashion accessory as well as a practical necessity.

This story started with Doreen Espey. Doreen was one of those girls whose clothes were always perfect, whose hair was always glossy, and symmetrically curled, whose pleats were always pressed, and whose stockings never had a run. She knew not the meaning of the word, "zit." Naturally, I disliked her.

One day, she had a new umbrella. It was beautiful; flowered, scalloped, elegant. She said she got it in Vancouver.

Now, my family occasionally went over to Vancouver, on the mainland, to shop. Very occasionally, and the one place we shopped was a place sort of like Big Lots, though I can't remember the name of it.

When Doreen said the got her umbrella in Vancouver, I chimed in, "Did you get it at Big Lots?*"

She raised her right eyebrow, and her eyes slid from side to side, gathering the attention of her friends, as she said "heh." Just that, nothing more. I was all of a sudden about 2" high. Of course, she had bought it at The Bay, or some other Macy's-like department store, all glass and class, where I had never set foot.

Later, I saw an umbrella I wanted. It was beautiful. Dark green, with several narrow, deep yellow stripes around it, several inches from the edge. The handle was molded plastic, about the colour of butterscotch amber. It had a sinuous curve and was beautifully proportioned. I wanted that umbrella so very much!

My mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas that year, and all I could think of was that umbrella. It was a bit pricey for an umbrella, but not pricey for a Christmas present. I felt fairly confident that I would get it. I mean, it wasn't as if I was asking for an expensive gift! I described it. I showed it to her in the store. I remember walking her right by it, and saying, "See, Mom--there it is. That's the one."

You know where this is going, don't you?

Yep. Come Christmas morning, I opened the package. It was an umbrella, all right, but not mine. It was bright, day-glow yellow, with a clear acrylic knobby handle. It was ugly. It was cheap. It was a "bargain." I was stuck with it. In our family, we smiled, said thank you, and kept it. I never knew my parents to ever return a present (except for the copy of "Catch 22" that Uncle Eric sent my dad, and my dad thought was obscene, but that's another story). I was well and truly stuck with my yellow umbrella.

I carried it (when I had to) through the rest of my Senior year. I didn't go to college until the second semester, so I had kept the damn thing a whole year by the time I left Chemainus for Simon Fraser University. Once away from Mom's gimlet eye, I did my best to lose it.

I left it in class. I left it in the cafeteria. I left it in the Rotunda.

Every time, some nice person would come running after me with it, calling, "Miss? Miss...you left your umbrella!"

It was the colour, you see. Being such a very bright yellow, it stood out. Way out.

Finally, I had had enough. When some poor, hapless stranger actually followed me off a bus with it, I took it from him and slammed it into the nearest trash bin.

The look on his face? Priceless.

I felt bad, later, for my ungraciousness, but the Damned Thing was gone.

*Insert correct name of store.