Becoming orange blankets

It’s early Sunday morning and a cool, rainy breeze has sent my chubby cat, Claire, seeking refuge in my lap under our prized orange blanket.

My son, Chris and I love that old blanket mainly because it belonged to my husband, Terry, who brought it from New Zealand.

It is spun from the softest wool, yet as ugly as it gets. Red with orange swirls, it bears unsightly little holes from the wear of a 30-year lifespan.

On cold nights I throw the orange blanket in the dryer, get it toasty and wrap myself in it before bed. If the house is chilly in the morning, I heat it up for Chris and tuck it around...