In early 1995 I took my
amazing $300 tax return and blew it in Mecca ('REI', for the uninitiated). Bought a sleeping bag, tent, and 2 bananas ('bandanas', again, for the uninitiated).
Being the crazy rebel that I am, I refused to purchase common red bandanas, but instead opted for a light-blue and a tan bandana, which would ensure I always know which ones are mine (there's nothing worse than having a big bandana party with all of your friends and not knowing which ones to take home at the end of the night).
Ol' Blu (that's the blue one's name) was a faithful chap. Served in whatever capacity needed at the moment: a sweat rag, dew-rag, tourniquet, blanket, ear-warmer, snot-rag, dish-rag (this list is not necessarily in chronological order), food-prep station, strainer, way to meet the ladies ("
Wow, that's a nice light-blue bandana you've got half hanging out of your pocket. I bet you can tell a few stories about him." "
Why yes, I can."). There has hardly been a time in 15 years that I have not taken Old Blu with me on any trip of length or into the great wide open. The roughness of the cheap cotton had worn as smooth as a baby's bottom. I had even contemplated making a pair of underwear out of him.
Today, just a moment ago, my 2nd child walked in to show me a picture she made, which turns out was composed of a number of pieces of cloth cut up and taped together to in simple beauty. Ol' Blu played his final role, one he shall never return from, as the cut up front door, sidewalk and chimney smoke of my daughter's craftsmanship.
There was a moment I was tempted to react, to cry out in loss at Ol' Blu, to exclaim words of sorrow and anger at the senseless butchery. But how is a 7-year old to understand, and what can I do now to repair him anyway. He died as he lived, a servant to all. I will miss him.
