A Tale of Three Blankies

In my life many things have brought me comfort. Your friendship. My kids. The thought that, no matter I’ve had to endure in my life, I’ve survived and overcome it. My blankies.

Yes, I have blankies. Each of them has a special meaning and, in one case a very long history. I’ll start by telling you of that one.

When I was fourteen, my mother suddenly decided she and I belonged in Berlin, Germany. Abandoning my siblings to her second husband, she and I left sunny Florida and went back to where she felt comfortable. I was lonely, missing my sibs. I had no friends until Marjorie made a reappearance in my life, but that’s another story. Because my mother was no longer attached to a military person – her husband, I had to attend a German school and thus was forced to learn German in a matter of weeks, or I would get kicked out of the only school that agreed to allow me to matriculate. In short, it was a very difficult time in my life.

To say nothing of the fact that I was fourteen, traditionally a hard age to live through.

My mother rented a small room from an elderly couple and we called that our home for several months. There was only one bed and, not being particularly close to my mother, coupled with the fact that I had already attained my lifetime height of 6’, I was not comfortable sharing a bed with her. She bought me one of those foam mattress beds that, during the day looks like a chair but converts to a sleeping mat at night by the mere act of unfolding it. You could say it was the forerunner to the futon.

For those of you that don’t know it, it does get cold in Berlin, especially if you are sleeping only inches from the floor. My mother bought me a red and white blankie. Somewhere I have a picture of me, on my floor bound bed with this blankie covering me.

When I married, my blankie came with me. Ditto for the divorce. For a short while it covered my daughter’s bed, and then my son’s. When they fought over it, I reclaimed it. This amazing blankie even survived the house fire that reduced everything I owned to ash because I had lent it to my oldest brother, a long-haul trucker. He had it in his cab somewhere on one of America’s interstates while everything else I had burned to the ground. He gave it back when he found out I owned nothing.

When deciding what to keep and what to give away in preparation for my move to China, keeping my blankie was a no-brainer. It had been with me through everything; of course it was going to China with me. We separated briefly, my blankie and me. I had to pack it in one of the footlockers and mail it to myself. When I opened that footlocker last year, upon arrival in Wuhan, my blankie was one of the first things I saw. I cradled my face in it and cried (see Welcome Home entry, posted in September of last year).

When moving into this new apartment one of the movers wanted to make use of my blankie to wrap something in it. Not on your life, Buster! That is when I gave him the drape. Now that the weather is turning cooler, my blankie covers my bed and still does a great job of keeping me warm.

I’ve had Red Blankie for 35 years, almost as long as Marjorie and I have been friends. It is still just as plush today as it was years ago. The only things wrong with it is that the red nylon trim is coming off and my brother burned a hole in it with his cigarette. Now THAT is one durable blankie, wouldn’t you say?

My second blankie is also red and white. And red, white and blue. One side is red with white stars and the other side has an American flag motif on it. I’ve only had this blankie for 4 years but the sentiment attached to it is timeless.

When I graduated college my friends threw me a party and showered me with gifts. It was a wonderful time. First the accomplishment of graduating college, a feat I thought was never meant for the likes of me, and then all of those parties. Not just my ‘civilian’ friends, but also my work friends threw me a party and gave me gifts. I’m looking at one of their gifts right now: a picture frame elegantly constructed: two panes of glass with the picture trapped between in, wedged in a metal base shaped in the likeness of 2008, the year I graduated. In it I have a photo of Gabriel, dressed in my graduation regalia and holding my diploma. Yes, I took that gift to China with me too, and yes it does bring back warm memories of the good friends I left behind. But it is not a blankie.

The graduation blankie is just as special. Handmade by Cathy, a friend who battles very serious health issues, it originally came with an indelible marker. At the party, each person got to write a message on the blankie and when the party was over, Cathy folded it and handed it to me. She told me I should take it to China with me and let my new friends sign it. What a great gift, and from such a wonderful woman!

I still have this blankie too. It covers the window bench in my bedroom. It was in the same footlocker as Red Blankie, and it too will be an ongoing part of my travels.

And then, there’s my sister’s blankie. Just when you thought all of the important blankies in my life would be red, this one turns out blue and white. After that first long, overnight ride on the Greyhound, I found I needed a blankie to cover up with. Granted the buses were plenty warm during the day, but at night, when ambient temperature dropped, it got downright cold. That first trip into Denver, I actually used my faithful black bag to cover up with (see Death of a Companion entry, posted in July of this year). I opened up the flap and covered my torso with it. If I had to, I could have traveled across the States covered by my bag, but why be uncomfortable when a small fleece blanket is only a few dollars at the Dollar Store?

As I was hanging out with Anita the latter part of my Denver trip, I mentioned going somewhere to buy a blankie. She consulted briefly with her husband, who went to their linen closet. He brought back exactly the kind of blankie I had envisioned buying for myself. “If this would work, we’ll just give it to you. We have so many of them.” Gratefully I accepted it.

Every night I had to ride on a bus I wrapped myself in my sister’s blankie. It felt like she was giving me a gentle hug, keeping me warm all through my travels. At the end of that monstrous road trip I thought about giving that blankie to my precious Gabriel, but in the end decided to take it back to China with me, in spite of weight concerns. It now functions as my pillow, or I should say a booster to my pillow which, in itself is not quite of satisfactory height.

And there you have it: a tale of three blankies. They will be my lifelong companions, as already attested to by the first red blankie that has been with me so long.

My son has a tale of three too, except his is a tale of three tables.

When he graduated from JobCorps he and I combed pawnshops and thrift stores to outfit his new apartment. Of the householdful of things we bought, only three end tables survived his tumultuous time in Oklahoma. Imagine my dismay when he moved back to Texas, driving a U-Haul truck. I anticipated my garage filled with his belongings, but when he opened the back of the truck, there were only those three tables. It became a running joke between us: he would be a lifelong vagabond, carrying his three tables on his back.

Funny: of the two of us, I turned out to be the vagabond. At least I chose blankies: they’re easier to carry. Darrell should learn to travel lighter!