When you're a kid, everything at your Grandmother's house is cool and fascinating.  For as long as I can remember one of the things that always fascinated me was the afghan that my Grandmother crocheted. I loved the multi colors it had. I always called it the "African" since that's what I thought it was called. Obviously, I misunderstood when some grown up said it was an "afghan" and it sounded like "African" to me. (Pssst – don't repeat this, but I thought they were called "Africans" for years afterward. I can only asume that "afghan" is the afghan word for blanket.

 

Grama's "African"  was always draped over the back of the sofa, accept when we kids had it wrapped around us crawling on the floor, or bundled up with it in the winter. It was just the thing for wrapping yourself up in and being toasty during the winter or even when it was blistering hot during the summer. It also served as a tent, fort, mountain, road, cave, and limitless other objects that a kid's rich imagination could conger up. I always looked forward to playing with it when we went to "Ma's house". My maternal grandmother's name was Arlie, so calling her "Ma" was no doubt doing her a favor.  One of the highlights was using it as a cover when staying overnight at "Ma's" house in Norwalk. Having it all night was the epitome of satisfaction.

 

After she died, I was hoping that she had included a line in her will that would endow her old "African" to me. I never did know whatever happened to it, but I'd sure like to see it again. If I actually found it and was able to keep it, it would have an eternal resting place folded up on the back of my sofa, accept of course, when no one was around and I could wrap myself up in it whether it was the dead of winter or the zenith of summer on a hot muggy August day. I would also plan visits to the old cave, the old fort, and the old tent, and the many other things it became during those magical times of childhood.