There is a line in the Allman Brothers’ song "Melissa" that hits harder the older I get... “There are no blankets where he lies.”
It is written about a drifter, a man who sleeps wherever he lands, with nothing but the cold ground and whatever thoughts keep him company. Good line, great song, but that has never been my life. I’m no gypsy soul roaming from town to town. I don’t drift and I never wander aimlessly. My compass doesn’t spin in circles, but lines up on lighted streets near a lake.
I’m grounded by home, by work, by the Shepkids, by the streets and sidewalks that grid this city and hold my memories like stitching. My blanket isn’t something I pack in a knapsack. My blanket is everything that built me, raised me, and still puts its hand on my shoulder when the world gets loud.
Blankets aren’t just cloth. they are the things we wrap around ourselves emotionally:
home
love
routine
faith
family
friends
a warm bed
a familiar kitchen
a transistor radio
a Shepkid's voice in the next room
In the grabber corner on today’s Chalkboard sits the birthdate of the man who gave me one of my first blankets. My Oldman, Donald Joseph Aloysius Shepley, born November 16th, 1935. That man was my first shelter. My first sense of safety. My first understanding that the world may be cold, but you don’t have to sleep in it alone.
He taught me how to stand up straight, how to work, how to pray, how to carry my last name with pride and how to see through the noise.
He taught me that a man doesn’t need to run to find himself. He just needs to show up, day after day, where he is supposed to be. He showed me that familiarity isn’t weakness... it is strength. Routine isn’t dull... it is the structure that holds the roof up. Home isn’t walls, but the feeling you get when you open the door and step into the life you have built.
... And to all you Chalkheads out there on this crisp November morning. If you are looking for a little comfort, a little stability, a little warmth... grab your blanket.
My blanket was seeing the tiny crescent moon outside my bedroom window and smelling coffee percolate on the stove top.
Halfway through November and getting close to the Gobble-Gobble......... Gusto and astonishment await.
