Relics

It was a simple job, unpacking storage boxes posted with labels that said “BEDDING.”  Rote. Perfunctory.

I couldn't remember exactly what these boxes contained – they’d been stored for four years - but  ripped the wide packing tape and lifted out a couple of disinteresting sets of bed sheets.  Beneath the slick sheets lay several rough, ugly-green but beautiful army blankets made of wool - scratchy and patched and absolutely priceless.  

When I was a child, these blankets belonged at our lake cottage, and were my salvation when summer nights occasionally turned damp-cold.  I’d pick one and head down the hill into the deep night - edges held high so as not to drag on the dewy grass - toward the pier to stargaze.  There I wrapped myself burrito-style in the blanket, and when I’d had my fill of shooting stars and the Big Dipper, I carried it (which seemed very heavy to my small arms) back up the hill to spread over my cot on the sleeping porch.

But that was a long time ago.  In 1980 when I had a family of my own, I began using these old woolen blankets during our farmer friend’s annual hayrides.  Each year his tractor pulled a couple of wagons filled with dusty straw and jovial riders beneath star-studded autumn skies.  Our kids looked forward to Dick’s hayride every year, and still attend it all these years later with their children whenever possible.  It is an event that continues to tie us to a simpler era when we flourished without technological aids or conveniences.  You know, the good old days.

Cumulative memories replayed this afternoon as I shook the top blanket and a few bits of leftover straw slowly wafted to the floor. I could easily envision the tractor chugging its husky mechanical song while coughing out diesel fumes - its white spotlights blaring, red ones blinking.  I recalled the delight and wonder in my kids’ eyes, and how we excitedly passed around the traditional sack of Tootsie Roll Pops.  Bumpy, rough terrain jarred our spines.  Sometimes songs erupted. Jostled babies fell asleep in their parents’ arms as wheat straws flew through the air like soft missiles of playful war.  

These aged army blankets saw it all.

Today I shook the blankets outside, snapping them hard until no trace of straw remained.  Now refolded, they’re stacked on the top shelf of our spare bedroom closet.  They’ll probably sit there patiently, unused and holding precious memories, until some day in the future.  Then, when another person is in charge of them, he or she may wonder if there's any reason for such tired old relics to be kept.