I’m a great fan of comfort things. Some of these include my puppy (who is technically not “real,” but remember Woody and Buzz). Whinnie-the-Pooh books. Mashed potatoes. And since I was two, my yellow blanket.
Soft, like woven fuzz. Synthetic, but more instantly snuggly than Great-grandmother’s smooth quilts I now love in a different way. My blanket was edged for a while with a silky border, I think, which gradually loosed itself and dragged about still attached. I had to have it to sleep. It was cozy for watching movies, for cold days of reading ensconced in the brown Ronald Reagan chair, for making multi-chambered tents over tables and chairs to store books and pillows and Playmobile and brothers.
At night, especially when wearing sweats or fuzzy pajamas, it was exciting to move and rub against the blanket, to see tiny sparks of light in the dark. I went to sleep with the light on back then, but under the comforter, or if I woke later on when the house was dark, I could see the electricity flash. Threadlike. As though my blanket came alive.
Sam had a yellow blanket. I think his was a paler yellow. He probably had his from when he was a baby, but the story is that little two-year-old Rael wanted to have a blanket like big brother. His fell apart first, and the remains had to be smuggled out to the dumpster and not mentioned for a time. I think I was older, maybe eleven, when I realized mine had the same symptoms as Sam’s mysteriously raptured blanket. Or maybe I knew where it had gone. Knowing that it would only keep falling to shreds before my eyes, I bravely volunteered it up, keeping only a few small remnants.
During the day, it was the greatest thing for wild hair. It would slip off the yellow monster’s head, and my day-old braid gave up frizzy strands like sunbeams. Only they were brown; the blanket was sunny.
I still like blankets and their flexabilities, as you can see in this picture of me wearing one my Grandmother wove on her huge loom. For a recent birthday, I recieved the snuggest of blankets from my other Grandma. It has a fleece-like side and a brushed suede-like side, and though it’s not big, it’s one of the warmest things. Great for Lord of the Rings marathons, or warm quiet-times with Bible and journal at the dinner table, or for wearing about the house with a pin, pretending it’s a Britain-woman’s fur cloak, my hair thrown about in wild cascades. (It's much longer now than in this picture.)
I think a soft blanket is the childish cousin of grown-up quilts. They don’t always know how to behave, to lie flat and trim and proper. Their fluff can stick with you. So untidy! Yet for story time, play, or simple comfort, they are quite at home.
Eplanation of our presidential chair: My mom bought it at a junk store the day Reagan (her favorite modern-day president) was first inaugurated. It's quite the family heirloom now! Here’s an oldish picture, though with no yellow blanket.
No idea what I'm reading there, but if you look closely, you can see the nose of my ever-faithful pup who is reading along. I'll have to do a piece on her someday: she's a facinating character, and has had many adventures.