A visit to the attic.

When Junior was born, he received three handmade quilts and a number of afghans. There's the Soft Blankie, the Music Blankie, and the Tractor Blankie among others. Now that the cold weather is here, he asks for at least one every evening. I'm right behind him.

Having lost twenty pounds, I find myself in greater need of insulation as winter approaches. More than once, I've considered climbing into one of the many boxes of wool stashed about the house. Since I don't own stock in a lint brush company, I've refrained. I can, however, increase the family blankie supply. The question is, "How?"

With barely enough time during a typical day to get the laundry through a complete dryer cycle (pity me in my pantsicles this December), it's highly unlikely that I'll knock out a knitted or crocheted afghan before swimsuit season returns. I thought about quilting. A "cheater" quilt perhaps, using a printed fabric that looks like squares that doesn't actually have to be cut up... HEY!

I actually HAVE a quilt top, just waiting to be put together with a backing and some batting. It's like, ten zillion little squares that I cut out and sewed together all by myself! Let's see, where did I put that thing?

Oh.

It's in the attic.

Here's the thing about the attic. It's kinda cobwebby, no big deal. An assortment of spiders, not a problem. Not on the main floor of the house, saints preserve us. I have to climb the ladder.

I'm afraid of heights.

Being the supportive spouse that he is, Himself came to my rescue. He offered to hold the ladder. He would have gone into the attic himself, but he had no idea what I was looking for, and he didn't want to make an unnecessary mess by digging through a bunch of unknown boxes, and... Yeah. Thanks, dear. Just hold the ladder and I'll go.

I got about halfway up the ladder before hyperventilating; a personal record. Okay, Old Yeller, get a grip. It's a ladder to the attic, not the horseshoe observation deck at the Grand Canyon. I bullied myself into taking another step and opening the trapdoor.

Well, this isn't so bad. Lights, familiar boxes, the friendly furnace looming in the corner. I turned to the first pile of boxes and started to dig. Spider, yarn, yarn, yarn, spider, knitting needles. The next two piles were the same, as was the fourth pile. I was covered with dust, itchy with stray wool fibers, and being sworn at by disgruntled spiders. No quilt top. I re-stacked the boxes, thoroughly dejected, but laden with yarn I'd forgotten about until this moment and now desperately needed.

"Hey, Honey! I'm ready to come down now!"

I tossed him skein after skein of rediscovered yarn that I'd stacked on... another box? Was this here when I came up? I don't remember this box, what's in...

Seriously? This big, inviting box standing in the middle of the attic is THE ONE WITH MY QUILT TOP?! Right on top, no less. If the spiders were watching, they'd no doubt take to swimming in my coffee for revenge. I dropped the quilt top down to Larry and (eventually) made a successful descent to the floor.

As I admired my handiwork over coffee (See the fine stitches! The beautiful colors! A quilt for the ages!), I thought about the old saw that says, "It's always in the last place you look". Well, yeah. I suppose that's true. After all, once you find it, why would you keep looking?