He bought it at the Sav-On Drugstore for $4.97.

It was an unassuming wool blanket--red tartan plaid with fringe on each end. When new, it was starchy and its colors vivid; but after nearly 20 years of service, the colors were faded and so threadbare in places you could see right through it. I thought the blanket itchy and hot, but Dad stubbornly defended its merits.

"This is no ordinary blanket," he would say.

Commonly known as a stadium blanket, we called it our "car blanket" because that's where it resided between outings and vacations. It lay folded neatly in the back of our '68 Chevy station wagon, ready and waiting to be called into service. Most of its use came as a picnic blanket, a groundcover over the rocks, sand, and pine needles of my childhood.

My father's blanket began its distinguished career shortly after he and my mother were married. They were driving along a wooded highway when they noticed smoke rising in the distance. What my parents assumed was a harmless campfire turned out to be a smoldering brushfire threatening a nearby trailer home. With no one around and no time to spare, they fought the small fire--just Dad, Mom, and the car blanket. After that, it was a little worse for the wear, but Dad just said the discolorations gave the blanket "character."

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