The Blanket
When I moved to Scotland, I really didn’t have an elaborate plan, I was going there to escape not only my family; well, not my kids, but what was left of a childhood full of both good times and honorable times that somehow, and for some reasons had turned so ugly that I really didn’t even recognize it let alone call it “family” anymore. I love my kids; I won’t make excuses about any of them when people ask me about them or want to know more. I’ll just pause a second and let my heart fill up with overwhelming joy; joy warm enough to light a fire. I was going to need a good fire; it was colder in Edinburgh than I had actually imagined it was. Oh, yeah, I saw the photos and watched videos. I did my homework before moving, but that wind took me by surprise and weirdly reminded me of the very place I had left; Oklahoma.
I found myself quickly volunteering for just about anything and everything I could in order to find new friends, meet new people, and be a part of the newest of new communities that in reality, if you think about it, are ancient by my standards of what is new. In Oklahoma, we thought the buildings being renovated downtown were “old” because they were built at the turn of the 20th century, I didn’t know what old was, I guess. I was just about to walk into a building over two and half centuries old, and it was sitting squarely in a place the locals refer to as “New Town”. Yeah, there’s that. I walked into the Thrift Store; aptly named “The Thrift Store”, you gotta love a good catchy name for a storefront. At least I found it easily enough.
As I walked around the store taking in all the new smells from both newly sprayed disinfectant and old clothes that could probably have been washed another round before being hung out to be sold, I realized that there must also be a cat in the little building and even though the smell of a two- or three-day-old litter box was evident, it didn’t seem to bother me. In fact, I’d say it had a calming effect on my soul; I knew if nothing else were to come of the day, I would at least count on meeting at least one new friend. Cats aren’t dogs, but anything friendly would be great. So far, I had managed to track down and meet a few online acquaintances who agreed to meet me once I landed in their neck of the woods. We had been cordial enough, and the coffee was good – one of them told me about the Thrift Store needing help, and sure, I know it’s volunteer work and I won’t be paid, but I will be paid another way, right? I will make friends, I will be a part of the community, I will see things, learn things, know things, and just maybe someday actually fit into my new surroundings. This was a starting point.
I wasn’t in the store very long before meeting the first level of administration, a chap called Lucas, he was a regular volunteer, one who had been nearly knighted for his hours of servitude. One could only dream of one day being so revered by the others; I nodded to Lucas, and he showed me to my position, explaining to me along the aisles that things didn’t put themselves back onto the shelves after “visitors” (that’s what we were to call customers) had their moments with the “bits and bobs” as he called them. He was fairly certain after years of experience working at the Thrift Store that I would have no problems folding t-shirts, linen, and rehanging coats or jackets that had been removed; some of which he assured me I would find in the oddest of places. He was not wrong.
Somewhere in the third hour of my employment, I reached to the well-swept floor to pick up what appeared to be an unfolded and tossed about dull colored blanket that was either knocked to the floor unwittingly, or perhaps someone had picked it up and opened it thinking they’d possibly buy it, but when they realized it had holes in it and it was a bit oddly shaped, they set it down and forgot about it. I walked past it myself, saying I would come back to redeem it after I had my afternoon break; a bit of coffee from the Wee Café. Again, I loved the name. It was in fact, yes, a very small café - - great name for it.
When I returned to the Thrift Store, I found the floor where the blanket had been was empty; or rather it was clean, there was no longer an older rough blanket lying about. I thought nothing of it, but my heart pricked a bit thinking it had been sold and I had not presented it well to my new visitors. I had possibly failed them. That wasn’t the case at all; no, the blanket had been tossed to the bin and was laying out on the open dusty black pavement just outside the back door of the Thrift Store, not quite fully out of sight, and sort of hanging halfway in and halfway out of the dumpster outback. Again, I really should have just thought nothing of it, but my heart would not leave me alone about this damn blanket. There was something about it. What?
Before asking Lucas what he may have thought about it, I walked to the back door of the store, propped open the door so it wouldn’t close on me (I had heard a rumor about that) and I reached into the big blue metal dumpster and retrieved the old, torn, misshaped cloth. Surely, it would have some worth to someone, wasn’t it donated? Where did it come from? Was it now just too old perhaps, too worn? I don’t think I thought about that when I had examined it; sure, it was tattered but nothing a bit of mending wouldn’t fix. Maybe it was dirty. I hadn’t actually taken the time to smell it or give it a real look; I just walked away – well, I guess like others had done before me. It just wasn’t all that impressive to anyone, perhaps that is why Lucas had decided to finally rid the store of it; it wasn’t worth much to anyone.
I remember taking the garment back to the front of the store and finding my new boss to see if he would mind if I gave the blanket a bit of fixing. His words were harsh, but not necessarily wrong; he said it was not worth my time but if I wanted to do it I could and he didn’t even mind if I did it while working at the store because it would give me something to do during those lull hours when nothing much is happening. Believe me, volunteering at a community thrift store can be a bit dull at times. You see the merchandise a few dozen times and you walk the aisles over and over again helping or assisting visitors, it doesn’t take one very long to learn the layout and know just about everything under the roof!
When there wasn’t anyone to help, and I didn’t have anything really else to do, I decided to pull the old blanket out from under the desk where I had kept it safe from being discarded again. I held its long and thick mass up as far as my hands could reach above me. It seemed to be a double-sized bed cover, one that was good at one time and probably kept at least two people warm simultaneously. I allowed myself a bit of a free for all when it came to thinking about where the blanket originated, what its real purpose was, where it was purchased, who purchased it and how long did they own it before either giving it to someone else to use or more likely just storing it in a cupboard for years before deciding to donate it to the Thrift Store.
I ran my fingers along the edges again wondering and asking questions in my head about how the tears were made and why no one tried to patch them; they were literally just left to grow bigger. Everyone knows if you leave a tear long enough it will just fray out and eventually become impossible to mend; was this the fate of my new...wait, was I just about to consider a worn-out blanket a “friend”? I guess so, I hadn’t found hide nor hair of a cat! I knew I was going to ask Lucas about something but I got so busy, and then the break, and now the blanket - I know there’s a cat hiding in the store somewhere, but right now my thought was with the possibility of possibly mending the old cover and making it, I don’t know, somewhat useful?
It did stink. I could smell it now, now that it was closer to me, and I was holding it up against my face. There was a smell to it, and maybe the owners didn’t wash it because they thought to do so would leave it worse for wear; literally causing it to unravel and then they couldn’t even donate it. Best to just hand it over to the clerk when you drop things off, no questions asked, maybe it was at the bottom of a paper sack and no one would even know about it until it was either too late to reject it or maybe too late in the day to make the trash run – whatever the reason, it couldn’t have been at the Thrift Store very long or Lucas would have found it by its odor and tossed it, which is probably exactly what happened now that I think about it, and yeah, I thought about it.
I decided that this was my new mission. I don’t even know why I decided that. I think it had something to do with the sad way it was discarded onto the floor when I first found it; or maybe it was just something calling to me from inside the woolen fibers saying “Hey, we used to be on the back of really cool sheep (or two) and we walked this Earth! Save us! We spread our love over people, unknown people, and we kept them warm from the weather, safe from the storms outside. We deserve more than this!” OK, you can see that being a writer and working in a super eclectic place like a Thrift Store, where memories and history collide, could be a bit of a playhouse for one with such an imaginative imagination. I thought so; it was fun. Just me and blanket getting to know one another. I was all he had left now; wait, I just called it he. I was getting into this, wasn’t I?
I counted 11 holes and a torn corner. The corner that was torn was also the corner that seemingly was tugged and pulled out of shape, causing the entire blanket to appear to be mangled in a way. God help me, I was going to accept this new assignment. I'd need God I'm sure. I thought to myself that a good cold wash would set that but first, these holes would need to be mended and repaired. I set my detective skills in motion and went about the store, through each aisle, up and down each row and shelf trying to find perhaps a sewing machine that someone had donated, but the best I could come up with was a repair kit, from the Scottish Army in fact, and from World War II. This store was nothing if not amazingly surprising with its strange mishaps of properties once belonging to so many people and now resting for various amounts of time on clean organized shelves lending themselves to “visitors” who may or may not wish to acquire said items. A Scottish Army mending kit was in my opinion something perhaps a college drama club could have in their prop collection; I would want one if I were a stage manager. Who knows?
The blanket had a little tag sewn to the back of it and in the opposite corner of the torn pulled corner. The tag read 1980; it was blue and had white letters, well, numbers. I suppose with this new clue, I was to assume that the blanket was about 40 years old; quite old for a blanket but not necessarily so since it was first made of remarkably pure material, to begin with. God, Himself had made the sheep you know, and man had sheared them, carrying the fibrous fluff to the manufacturer who then stripped it, dyed it, blended it with strengtheners, and wove it into the miraculous masterpiece that I’m absolutely sure it was at one point. It had to be. It was just too something to be anything else, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, even though all of my fingers and thumbs were completely lost in it now as I found new thread from yet another box of do-dads, and began making my way through the dense plush wool with my ever so interesting needle; I can call it a needle since that’s the closest thing it resembles, can’t I?
Oh, the resourcefulness in me! I found a bit of steel, and I took almost the rest of the afternoon trying to fashion it into what would be used as a guide to lace the new threads through. Though the new thread wasn’t the same color as the blanket, it would lend a bit or reason as a conversation starter whenever someone asked me about it. I fully intended now to keep the damn thing. I had grown not only used to it being in my hands, but now I was fond of it for some reason. God help me, I am such a romantic at times, and this blanket was my patient in terms of me healing it and restoring it back to usefulness.
Fashioning the needle took a long time, and it wasn’t easy either as I had to find something to file the thickness of it down to a sharper point; a point that would be very dangerous indeed if someone were to prick themselves with its tip, but for me I wanted it to be smooth so it could carry the thread through the wool without snagging it causing yet another tear or perhaps worsening one that I was working on to begin with. It was imperative that the needle be able to do the job correctly; I saw to that. I took great and steady aim when I bore a hole at the top of the hammered top of it; I literally used an old wooden handled ball hammer to flatten the top and then a small nail to bore a hole so I could thread it. Was I really this mad? What the hell had come over me; it’s an old worn-out blanket and I was giving it the attention Florence Nightingale gave to one of her wounded patients on the battlefield – that’s it, this was a hero; it must be. I was devoting too much time for it to be anything else. My mind was made up; this blanket would answer questions once it felt better about itself. I knew it.
Lucas called from the back of the store to thank me for my time as a new volunteer and he told me to leave a bit earlier than the actual closing time because he was the only one, he trusted with the finances and he’d see to it that the doors were locked. I could come back he said if I wanted to. I made my leave, waving good night to his back as he turned to lock up the rear door. I made some mention about taking the blanket and his wave or gesture let me know he was OK with me taking it and his chuckle let me know he thinks this American could use a few more screws in her head. Well, he’s not wrong. I do seem to obsess when I get something in my skull that I just can’t shake. I don’t know if I’d call it a pit bull with a bone, but I’d go with Chihuahua any day. I don’t give up easily; that’s for sure.
At home, where I had more light, more thread, a real needle, and a good pair of cutting scissors, I was able to make a bit more headway with the repairs. I turned on the “telly” as they call it here, and started watching a “football” game, which of course, you may have guessed, is actually soccer, but yeah, when in Rome. I’m not about to try and convince anyone that the sport they call football isn’t really football because I’m not in my own backyard now, am I? Nope, just grin, laugh with them, walk away, asking questions about it to myself, that’s the plan. Meanwhile, back on the couch, the blanket and I were beginning to get a little chummy. He was keeping my feet and legs warm while I was poking him and drawing my hap-hazard needle through his skin. I didn’t find a strong enough needle in my belongings to do the job, so I just stuck with what I had made. It was working, and it sort of gave me a satisfaction of sorts to know I had made this actually happen in the first place.
Eleven holes. Done. Eleven various shaped, various pulled, variously various holes that could have been explained if my new friend could talk, but one was definitely caused by being burned. That was unmistakable. Someone had either fallen asleep with the blanket and burned it, or maybe they were just too close to someone who was smoking and things got rough, whatever happened the blanket took the brunt of it, and weirdly (I do say that word often) the burned hole was the one hole that really didn’t need mending as it was cauterized and wasn’t spreading; it was just there. In fact, I couldn’t really fix that one without pulling the material and causing a gather or pucker, so that one was left as it is, tattooed if you will, forever into the flesh of the blanket close to the tag that bore his age. Tattooed. Interesting re-thought.
I was finished with the repairs and the commentators were just about to end their rants on Scotland’s national team at the same time. I will never understand how a 90-minute game can go on for an hour after it’s over and the deciding goals or points can be determined by penalties rather than actual play on the field. In REAL football, a penalty is dealt with right then and there, you move the ball back a few yards and you move on; none of this time added and bickering over who gets a yellow warning and who gets a red card. In our game of football, the only cards being played are the aces up the sleeves of the quarterback as he steps into his pocket to see where he’ll end up throwing the damn ball – with his HANDS! Hands all over the ball; you know, football. Never mind. No amount of complaining was ever going to change anything.
With the brightly colored mending thread laying across and inside the older duller colored blanket, I had to ask myself if I should have waited to find a closer matching thread to make my repairs. I mean, given the time and effort I put into it, there’s no way I would undo the work and start over, it was going to have to be OK the way it was – something inside me said the blanket really wouldn’t work less, feel less, be less, or even care less if I had used rainbow thread; it was fixed! It was useful now, or it would be after I gave it a good soaking in some cold soapy water. I decided to hand wash it in the tub rather than chance it being damaged in the washing machine. Besides, having my hands all over it, rubbing it, feeling it, and actually loving it, made me realize that it really was mine now. I hadn’t actually paid for it, but it was tossed out, thrown away, and I had been allowed to redeem it. Redeem. I thought about that word. Hadn't I been redeemed? In fact, I was.
The dirt and filth that came off that blanket when I drained the bathtub! I decided to give it another bath just for good measure. God only knows where it had laid and on what surfaces. There must have been at least a half-pound of dust and dirt hidden within the woven stitches, unseen, but detected by my nostrils to a degree. I knew something was there, but I had no idea. I was both surprised and pleased when I lifted it out of the final rinse and began the process of slowly wringing it, massaging all of the water from its grip - - massage, that’s an odd word to use, but that’s exactly what I was doing to it. I was massaging it.
Being an American, I had determined not to use a “green line”, what we call a clothesline when I knew I was moving to Scotland over a year ago. I had made plans to buy a dryer at their equivalent to Home Depot, a store called ScrewFix, and buy a dryer I did! I bought a big, fat, heavy-duty, expensive dryer that I knew I would put to use every single week if I needed to, but I was not about to be someone getting caught in an unexpected serial rainstorm and have to bring my laundry in after having hung it out only 15 minutes beforehand. This being winter, and the skies deciding not only to rain but to snow and blow wind at the same time, I knew I had made the right decision.
Throwing in a few scented dryer sheets was a given for this project. The blanket’s fluff would be restored soon enough, and to be honest with you I was looking forward to seeing just how wonderful it could be given the love and care it deserved. I wondered how much it may change (if at all) with the heat from the dryer – I decided to turn the temperature down a smidge, but I wanted the blanket to feel fresh and toasty since it would be sleeping with me, in fact laying on top of me tonight. That wasn’t my initial plan, it wasn’t like I ran out to the dumpster and grabbed the old thing to force it to do my bidding, but something told me that the blanket, once returned to health would want to repay me with kindness; the type of kindness he was created to give. I was right.
When the bell from the dryer dinged to let me know my charge was finished, I looked up at the clock. I don’t know why I did that, just maybe the bell sounded a bit like a chime. I looked up and it was actually one o’clock in the morning. One ding, one o’clock. How fitting. The blanket and I made ourselves newly acquainted; me with hardly any clothes on mind you, and he with his freshly stitched scars being amply displayed for anyone to see and notice. There was no hiding the fact, the truth, that he was in fact broken, hurt, marred from years of abuse and wear; and he may have been thrilled to be given a new assignment, or maybe he was feeling a bit open and exposed because everyone would see his painful past being covered up and maybe I was overthinking this a bit!
My bedroom was upstairs and it was time to say goodnight to the house plants, put the coffee in the maker, and prepare the alarms for the night to secure my house. I think I should have done that when I first came home, but the blanket kept my mind from routine thinking. It was going to be OK I told him. He would be with friends and he would never be discarded again; never sleep rough again, not if I had anything to say about it, and I did have a say in the matter. He had a home now. He was loved and even though I don’t know everything about his past and he certainly has no idea how many blankets I’ve slept with - - I don’t think he really gave a damn; he fit right in on top of my other comforters and no, I didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was patched up; I let my night-light light up the colors on him, and on everything new about him - - and now, well, everything glows.
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