Once again we come to that time of the year when I get out the old wool Indian blanket. And I have the windows open in the house. And after breakfast I lie here on the sofa, cup of coffee at hand, laptop computer running, and most of all the old wool Indian blanket covering me.
A cool breeze blowing in through open windows. Hot coffee. A streak of morning sunlight across the living room floor. And the warmth of a wool blanket, which frankly is unlike any other warmth on earth, though perhaps distantly related to the warmth from a wood burning cast iron stove.
No substitute for wool. Nothing quite like it. There are joys on earth, and then there are wool Indian blankets, as an early hint of fall tinges the air.
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