When I was in first and second grade, a little blue T-shirt anchored my wardrobe, de facto school uniform at a school without uniforms.
Money was always a bit tight for our large family, no different than for any of the other hard-working dairy-farming families that colonized British Columbia’s beautiful Fraser Valley. Fortunately, clothing was built to last back in the day, sturdy even in the face of perpetual assault by the activities of a busy little boy.
Emblazoned in vivid color across the front of my T-shirt was this bold proclamation: “Good things come in small packages”.
Whether the erstwhile inhabitant of that sturdy shirt deserved the “good” label is debatable, but I was assuredly small, the tiniest kid in my class outside of an equally pint-sized lad named Timmy. Tiny Tim and little Eddie summed together added up to one regular-sized kid, just barely.