The Pinky Swear - - It's a Thang.

 If you have daughters, you'll understand the Pinky Swear. If you only have boys, you're one of the very lucky and/or chosen ones whom God Himself has smiled upon, and Who has crowned you with many blessings, holding you harmless from the cruel and unusually strong punishing (ever so eternal damning) of the Pinky Swear. It is, by far, the strongest swearing that can be sworn. It is, by far, the ultimate, the one and the only thing that cannot willfully be broken without such depth of betrayal, and justly, if it is broken, the one breaking it will suffer a deserved eternal damnation in Hell.  Everyone knows this. 

    When I was a little girl my sister Lindsay was the Pinky Swear keeper in our family - don't ask me why, I was never quite clear on the matter as to how it was that she became so important, or what must have happened to other Pinky Swear keepers in our lineage. Surely, there would have been more than just one.  I can't tell you how many times yours truly was banned from the backyard, thrown out of the treehouse by the scruff of my neck, down an 8-foot wooden ladder that my dad had made and had attached thankfully at an angle so I would sort of roll down it on my way to the pit of Hell, which was my due punishment as I was cast out of Lindsay's sights.  
 

    My mother, for her part, a solid and devote Baptist Christian woman, absolutely assured me over and over again that since I had already (at the age of 6) given my heart and soul to Jesus, I was not going to actually really go to Hell and burn but Lindsay may cause me to feel like the outcast that I apparently was. Why was I being cast out of the tent, the treehouse, the woods, the creek, the room, the porch, or any other place where all of us kids could gather and play together? Because I had at some point in my life, whether knowingly or not, engaged in a Pinky Swear with my older sister not to betray her trust, or not to tell something about her to someone who she hadn't said I could talk to, and low and behold, it only took a few minutes of me being a part of their group before I was picked up and shoved off or out of wherever it was that we were. Me, the damned. 
 

    A Pinky Swear is, if you do it correctly, designed to bring out the best in two souls who have decided to spend quality time together and do so in utter honesty. It was created by little girls obviously, and no boy is even allowed to Pinky Swear, but a man can Pinky Swear with his own daughter. He is forbidden, by Pinky Swear Code, to try and Pink Swear with anyone who isn't his daughter, or with someone who doesn't have their own daughters. There must be rules, there must be codes, and everyone knows that.  It just is what it is, and you don't try and change things; OK? It's a thang. 
 

    Why am I bringing up an ancient and ever-so-immeasurably important ritual? Because my own granddaughter is old enough now to be initiated into the Pinky Swear world of truth-telling; and I just want her to understand that she is never (and I do mean EVER) to feel that she will be utterly banned to Hell for anything she may or may not do after she has taken the grand oath of the Pinky Swear. It's a schtick, we get it, it's not really damning, but it is to a degree in that I won't trust you ever again if you actually break a Pinky Swear with me. You may not die, burn, toast, or rot in an everlasting flame but you will be forever banished to the laundry room during family dinners. I mean, there has to be some sort of penalty, right? Makes me wonder if that's why Gramma Edwards kept the pies out in the laundry room so Papa would have something to eat should she point her fierce index finger into the air and force him to stay out back during supper; that or it could be because he lit up a cigarette in her house and knew the consequences of his actions - - Papa was smart like that. He liked pie. He knew he could have supper, light up, and be thrown out faster than a gnat can blink. PIE! 
 

    To this day, and I mean this, I have no idea if I ever actually swore with my big sister what she swears we swore. I really can't tell you if we did or didn't. In our house, if Lindsay said it happened, then it happened up until the minute you could prove otherwise. She was the say, and that's all that was said. I wasn't allowed to like the singers or actors I wanted to like if she liked them. I wasn't allowed to breathe the air she was breathing if she wanted me to stop breathing. Big sisters have the power and the only power I had over Lindsay was our even bigger sister Annie -- I would get put out of the treehouse and make my way to Annie as fast as possible; rules are rules, you abide by them. I had an ACE! Annie liked me. Mike was no help, he was my big brother, but Lindsay was bigger and he was a boy. 
 

    To this day, and I mean this too, I don't believe I've ever broken a real Pinky Swear. If I have, I hope I have sufficiently been forgiven and that I won't find myself begging St. Peter to let me into the gates of Heaven after the Rapture -- I'm told Pinky Swears are one thing that can keep you out, but also unpaid Library fines. I made fast and sure to pay those off whenever they came about. Again, Mom assured me it would be OK, but hey, you just need to cover your ass from time to time, don't ya? Sometimes I think that the court systems would be so much more honest if they just made all the women who were going to testify or ask questions to Pinky Swear that the things they were about to say were/would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but then again, they do say "So help me, God" don't they? That should be enough. 

Photo Credit: Times of India

Dating Takes FAR Too Long

 Warning: I get a little pissy. 

Yep, the whole dating scheme is just a bunch of overrated exaggerated hoopla that typically ends up being a waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of effort, and you have to wear shoes most of the time, which really places dating into the same category as grinding teeth or being caught in a rainstorm with someone who just had their hair done and all they can do is bitch about it. No wait, I would rather get caught in a rainstorm with my best friend Jeannie and listen to her bitch about her damn hair than to go on a date. At least with Jeannie, I don't have to wear shoes, I don't have to be polite. I don't have to pretend to laugh at her jokes. I don't have to compliment her, talk about her job, ask her questions about things I don't really give a damn about, and oh yeah, I don't have to end up calling Jeannie to have her come running up to me in a cafe where I preplanned to have the date meet me so she can pretend she's my sister and there's a family emergency that simply can't wait - - with Jeannie I can fart and not even apologize; I won't be dating anytime soon.

    You read my blog, so you know I like to people watch. I plop myself down with a cup of coffee and a bagel sometimes and just watch the people at the cafe, at the store, at the lake, wherever. This weekend I decided to go to a pizza restaurant, a pretty popular one, and yeah, I took Jeannie because I didn't want to stare at people too openly or too obviously. She can carry on a conversation with a napkin or a fork if she has to, and she knows I'll at least glance over once or twice, nod my head and pretend I'm listening.  Today's experiment was to find a couple who were on their first or second date, to watch them, to see if they were bothered by one another, what was bothering them, what they had to overcome in order to make it to "the next level" and/or whether or not either of them cared really, and there was just some sort of an understanding that the dinner was just part of the routine, with the end of the evening being the end of their relationship for whatever reason.  Cynical? No, not really, I've been watching people for a very long time and it all boils down to about the same four or five patterns in the beginning - - now the third, fourth, or fifth date may bring about more gifting, more laughing, less questioning, and more cell phones. Yeah, by the fifth date both sides are pulling out the cell every five minutes to check on something.

    Take this couple over on the right; he's about 40 she's about 27 and both of them have kids. I can tell because he's checked his watch a couple of times and she's checked her cell phone, but both are trying to hide the fact that they either need to check on the kids, or they have a limited amount of time to actually be out without having to overpay the sitter. These days some people are lucky enough to have parents or siblings to watch their kids for the all-too-important getting back out there sort of date, you know.  What happens when it becomes obvious that these two may actually start liking one another and want to spend weekends and evenings together? Family ties fall off, babysitters become so much harder to come by, and those fantasies of spending quality time together fly out the window if either of them thought they would be sharing it alone, just the two of them. Nope. Not with "every-other-weekend" duty and/or drop-offs, family, ex-inlaws, unpaid bills that don't and won't care if you want to have a nice dinner once in a while, and then there's the question of who actually knows anyone who will be willing to watch the kids on a consistent basis so the two of you can get to know each other? It's no wonder the 2nd (3rd and 4th) marriages are usually rushed into, and usually end up in the toilet. Cynical? No, not really, same answer as before.

    So back to the couple on the right. He had to work a bit later than he expected so he rushed home, kissed his mom on the top of the head thanking her for coming over early and watching his two kids, threw on a new shirt, kept on the same jeans he wore to work, the same boots and socks. He ran a comb through his hair, checked his beard, and stache and gave a sigh. She'll either take it or she won't. He's paying for dinner, right? If she doesn't like him the way he is, she can date someone else. That's what he's thinking anyway, but he has to hurry and get out to Hideaway Pizza, he told her he'd meet her there at 6:00 p.m. and it's Friday. If he wants to get in the joint he needs to be at least 15 minutes early.  

    She was waiting when he pulled into the drive, but she didn't know what he drove. She had only seen his picture online and they had zoomed once, but her camera wasn't really working. He looked like a blurry bear sort of; she was hoping he wouldn't be as thick as he looked on camera, she had been working pretty diligently at keeping herself in shape. She never really thought about it until just now, but what if he's really fat? She saw him stepping out of his truck and thought almost out loud that she had no idea he was a conservative and this evening may or may not be their last encounter. He saw her and thought the blue streak in her hair would probably go away in time; it's just hair, right? (and just so you know sweetheart, he's not fat, he's perfectly round! There is a difference. He's a man, not a boy.)

    You see where that scenario is going - - it's just one of countless (endless really) things that can and do occur when you decide to "get back out there" and date again. Maybe you have friends who will set you up with their friends, or you found someone the old-fashioned way; in a chat room online! You decide that this is it! You're going to get out there, mingle, mix it up, get to know what your options are, and be yourself this time. Does that really happen?  Let me know if it does because so far I'm the only person I know who would act the way I do on any given day - - I won't bathe, dress up, slather on makeup and pretend I like you just so you'll pay for a $15.00 meal; I have my own credit card, thank you. Those poor souls who are dating today must have the patience of Job; something I definitely do not have. I wouldn't date again if YOUR life depended on it, let alone my own.

    The thing is, people who are dating have already been dating, and wherever it is that you step into their frame with your first date scenario, you're just that, a first date. You're automatically on probation, you're interrogated (hopefully politely), and you're sized up, given an assessment if you will, and then you're either allowed to move forward, where you'll be competing with those others she/he have been dating longer, i.e. the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th time, and what if, what if you are championed and rewarded that all-too-exciting 2nd encounter? Do you step up your game to enter the competition for affection? Do you bring gifts? Do you act more this or that? Do you take her/him somewhere different and unique to prove you're worthy of yet a third trial by fire? God forbid you  jump the gun and end up the only person the other person is dating because you will be compared to the last failure over and over again rather than just being one of the potential successes - - now you're a target waiting for the shoe to drop. (it always drops)

    Dating today takes too long, it costs too much, it is a failed investment at every turn and on every level. You start out with a lie, pretending you are more than you are, more than you could be, and you pretend you care when you don't.  If I'm wrong, please, please tell me - - that would be so refreshing. The truth is, I am the lucky one and I know it. I may be the meanest woman on the face of God's green Earth, but at least I'm honest, I don't have STDs, and I've not been lying about my height, weight, job, family, sex life, favorite team, or the fact that my horse will spend more time with me than you ever will because my horse never once lies about his height, weight, job, family, food habits, riding abilities, or his lack of interest in whatever it is that I do with the rest of the time when he doesn't see me. He never once not once has he EVER asked me if I rode another horse before him. He hasn't and doesn't care if I ride another horse tomorrow. He wouldn't give one rat's ass if I chose to kiss another horse right in front of his face as long as I had an apple for him, a scoop of grain in his stall, and I remembered to brush him out after I rode him pretty hard -- you never want to leave a horse sweaty. Just FYI.

    Dating is for the rest of the world but not for me. I don't have kids to worry about now, but damn, can you just imagine the stress and wear on one's soul and brain, the constant taxing of one's wits if they had to deal with not only their brood but the other people's kids too? Trying to blend, trying to make things work, and there's the whole thing about not introducing them to you until you're sure it's going to last, but how in the hell can you be sure of that unless you meet them and get along with them first? It's a cycle, it's a nasty-nasty cycle, and I thank God every day for the barn - - for my horse. He may have kids, I don't know, he never told me, I never asked. He knows I have one or two, but again, he just doesn't blink - - we get it. We know our roles. 

    Friday night, after the pizza, after an hour or so of watching the couple to my right, I did decide that she would have given him another shot at it had he taken the time to change out of his work clothes altogether. Being clean was too important to her. She made some sort of comment about his beard needing to be shaved, or she wondered what he would look like without it.  I'm not lying, I almost walked over to their table, offering to pay for the dinner and then inviting the poor man over to our table so he could fart, burp, tell us about his stupid co-workers and how great his mom is for taking the girls off his hands so he could meet someone new; even if she did turn out to be a bit too liberal for his taste. I restrained myself, but that beard was working me over.  To think she wanted him to cut it - - I wanted to scream. Jeannie nodded at me, picked up her fork, pretended to be Ariel, and comb her hair with it for a second, just to see if I was paying attention to her - - she's such a girl sometimes.

    I won't date. I may marry someone, but I will never date them. 

    

Photo Credit: Litehouse Foods

    

The Wee Cafe - Edinburgh

 There are places you seem to be drawn to, at least I am, and I am absolutely taken by a small (wee) cafe by the apt name of "The Wee Cafe" in the city of Edinburgh. I know there are other locations, it's a chain of modest restaurants in the area, but there is just something about the Edinburgh location that has my mind thinking that as soon as I hit the ground at the airport, have my bags secured in my hotel room, and have a fresh breath to draw, my first thing to do is to walk the new and older streets of the city of Edinburgh to reach my destination. It's not as if it's elaborate, ornate, or even overtly decorated in a manner that would cry out to all tourists to bring their bellies and thirst. I am just drawn to it, and so I'm going to go. 

    I have literally dreamed of walking through the doors of the cafe, but not in a manner that is even the least bit fantastical or mysterious; no, I just see myself in a booth, and I see myself eating waffles with bananas, and I see myself drinking coffee there. I see myself crossing over the threshold, and maybe it's just a clear sign that I will in fact be in the city soon, but whatever it is I find it assuring and lovely. I feel as if I could quote the menu back to anyone interested. I get on the site and read it. I look at the photos of the staff, the layout of the cafe itself, the food, the guests, even the streets outside of it. I Google-drive the streets coming from the Scotsman hotel, going back to it, and then when I decide that maybe I want to stay at the Caledonia or the Holiday Inn, I "drive" myself back to The Wee Cafe in my little imaginary car that we all use when we use Google maps to "get around" wherever it is that we're going - - aren't we the most peculiar of species? 

    Some of the foods you'll find at The Wee Cafe are such that you could make at home without any problem; it's just that going out to the cafe, sitting in an airy pretty place, and socializing with good-natured people is such a draw these days.  The prices are good, there's nothing stopping me from going, and it's more or less just something I want to say I do, not did, but do. The Wee Cafe may very well end up being where I go to write, to study, to people watch - - to be me; which is exactly why I think my heart and head chose it. I saw it online and thought to myself, "Yep, that's the place." It's exactly like what I would open if I opened a cafe, and they serve what I would serve, they welcome people like I would welcome people, and you don't have to be fancy-schmancy to come in and just enjoy a good hot cup of coffee and banana waffle with chocolate syrup drizzled all over it - - don't forget the whipped cream, please, no, never forget that!

    Waffles with fruit on them, drizzled as I said, in chocolate (probably Hershey's if I had to guess) and dosed with a topping of whipped cream. You can find that. You can find beans, sausages, eggs, toast, and honey.  You can find chocolate raspberry coconut bars, you can find cheese rolls, cinnamon toast, and green tea too. You can order off the menu, the standing whiteboard that tells you what is served, how much it costs, and maybe gives you a hint as to what they've run out of so you won't order it if you don't see it - - I don't know, but it makes sense to do it that way. Maybe an entire football team and their coaching staff have just left the joint having ordered every last chip in the place; there are no more chips at The Wee Cafe until another shipment comes in, so you erase that particular food item from the whiteboard - - makes perfect sense. I would do that. 

    I'm going. I've made up my mind, I'm going to The Wee Cafe, and I'm bringing my journal. I may end up making it a habit and bring my laptop as well, but the first few visits will be a writing experience. I know that taking the bus from Inverkeithing every day or so maybe a bit of an annoyance for some, but for me it will be that leg of the adventure where I listen to music on my headphones, write actual letters to my friends in the States and pretend I'm being carriaged about by a horse-drawn buggy on my way to this or that castle to meet this or that person to say this or that thing, or do this or that with them for however long it is I choose to do this or that. I am, after all, my own.  The Wee Cafe will be my "base" to cling to, hide out in, and write from wherever it is in my soul that decides to exhale from on any given day.  It will happen.

    Carry on people - - nothing to see here; just a woman and her mind playing tricks on her soul until she can one day put her hand on the jamb of the door before crossing the threshold of an ordinary oasis and know she is safely harboured. 

Photo Credit: The Wee Cafe 

    

The Blanket - A Story

 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. 

Photo Credit: Two Sisters Quilting