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In the winter, certainly. In the summer, never have the air set below 78.
This jacket is one of my most treasured possessions – the lining is shot, the buttons are all loose and ready to fall off, the zipper barely works – but I love it because my dad bought it for me. My dad and I were very different people – he was an outgoing bank vice-president, and I was an introverted college kid studying to be an historian. I know my dad would have loved it if I had studied business or finance in college, but that just wasn’t what I was called to do, and my dad respected that. One day back in the late 1980’s we were at the local mall and my dad spotted this jacket – knowing that I loved all things military related, he bought it for me, and I have been wearing it ever since. The jacket may be well-worn, but she still has a lot of life left in her, and I am planning a major overhaul in the near future – new lining, re-sew the buttons, the works. My dad passed away in 2006, but every time I see this jacket, I think of him and it makes me happy.
My wife (to be) and I got a picnic blanket 54 years ago when we were dating. I am now sleeping under it every night on the sofa downstairs so I can keep our old deerhound company – she is afraid/unable now to go up and down the stairs.
I think about its history every night when I pull it up. I also have a quilt that my wife quilted on the top. Lots of memories.
My wife and I will probably switch roles next week.
Does it have a blood chit on the back?
That would be cool.
@jeffgiambrone, what a sweet story. I can just imagine how soft that leather is with those many years of love and wear. Don’t “fix” it too much–it’s so very special just as it is. Thanks.
@willowspring, you bring tears to my eyes. What a treasure you are–you and your wife. I know that kind of attachment to a dog–you want them to feel safe and not alone. Bless you.
It does:
Alright. When I read the headline I was expecting a lot more.
A lot more.
It could also be the name of a pub or a folk song, meaning a real, collected folk song that developed over hundreds of years.
Well, @susanquinn, you know what you need to do now.
I love it!! My very own @ejhill cover! Woo-hoo!!
In all fairness, I didn’t call it “The Mystery of the Tattered Black Shawl.” Thanks, EJ!
Uh-oh! Any suggestions for plots, @josepluma?
Well, first a body needs to be discovered. Perhaps the body is wrapped in a tattered black shawl. Possibly it comes in later. But if the body is wrapped in it, it’s the only clue to who the murder victim is, who the killer is, or both.
Remember, even in something labeled a murder mystery, the murderer doesn’t have to be unknown, it’s the journey of how the murderer is brought to justice that is important. (Says the guy who has a murder mystery on the back burner where the protagonist is killed in the middle of the book.)
Gee, if you didn’t have something already brewing, I’d ask if you’d like to write it! I’m a little intimidated about writing a short story with guidance from the master. Once I get past my nervousness about it, I’ll mull over how the story goes . . . @ejhill has given me permission to use his cover illustration!
I’ll be happy to help.
You are sweet. But I just realized something–it’s for a mystery, not necessarily a murder mystery. Phew. Gives me a little more latitude!
Heh, heh, heh. What fun is that?
Of course, you could have a little old lady misplacing her shawl and her grandkids go on a quest to find it. (And stumble across skeletons in the closets.)
Sounds like a Hardy Boys story.
I still have the first tank top I bought when I was 16. My high school sweetheart thought I looked cool and muscular in it (I didn’t), and it was fun driving around wearing it after I got my license in the summer of ’71.
Needless to say, I don’t fit in it now, and if I did manage to squeeze into it, the laughter from my family would cut me to the quick. No, it stays in the bottom of one of my dresser drawers . . .
Why hang onto it?
A painting by a Korean artist that I bought at the Big E a few months ago. My parents have gone every year since before I was born, and we went as usual a few days before I had to leave for college in England again. I’ve always been a big fan of traditional East Asian art (I have Hiroshige and Hokusai books that a friend brought as a present from Japan in my dorm and a traditional Chinese calligraphy set, which I unfortunately only get to practice at infrequently these days), and I was really struck by one of the painting he displayed. And in need of something to brighten up my room. It was a rocky cliff face shrouded in mist, spattered with little rivers and trees, that seemed both intimately familiar and completely foreign. My parents agreed to buy it for me, and my mom (who is far more social than I am) began chatting with the artist. He was amused when I tapped her in the leg with my foot for mentioned where I went to school, and very excitedly enquired of the places I had traveled around there (France, Austria, etc.). It turns out that he had once been fairly high up in the Red Cross, and traveled extensively around Europe before making a final move to the US. He also expressed admiration of the fact that I had chosen to go so far from home, which he felt too few kids chose to do now a days, so he asked if he could see my painting again. Already he had signed the back, but he added the Chinese characters and Korean words for courage and good luck, so that I would have much of both on my journey, and asked for a hug. I can’t imagine, now, ever giving up my painting, because it’s both a reminder of such a wonderful and totally unexpected experience, and a heartening reminder when I lose faith in myself to keep pushing forwards. And it’s still stunningly beautiful.
Memories . . .
Please turn this into a post!