Blanket season starts with a Hudson’s Bay bang!

If you were at the thrift store power-shopping through the linens rack that’s usually jammed with ugly modern comforters and floral curtains in weird colors, flipping the hangers fast because you’ve never seen anything worth getting on that rack, but you just never know. . . and then you spied this:


Would you make a noise that sounded like a startled elephant? And simultaneously lunge for the hanger this thing was on, just in case the person standing 20 feet away completely mesmerized by the moving electric Santa dolls decided to grab it instead?

Well, wouldja? Click to find out what *I* did!

Vintage finds in Fall colors heading to Sage Farm

I’ve been hot on the trail of warm Fall colors to take to Sage Farm’s November show. First up, an 1920’s orange compote (or comport) with a wide gold rim. The glass is clear, the orange is a layer applied on the outside.

1920s orange and gold compote

Can’t you just picture this fiery piece on your Thanksgiving buffet?

The more I look at it the more I’m tempted to keep it for myself! I’ll have to wrap it up and tuck it in a tote now.   Click here for more!

My blanket solution for fuzzy thinking


This vintage twin-size Esmond Slumberest blanket has been languishing in my “mend it” pile for three years now.


Its nicest feature? It’s Canada-mint pink on one side, and Wedgwood blue on the other. (My camera is having trouble getting the colors right! It’s really pink. Not peach.) The two layers of color are meshed together through the entire fabric, not just sewn together at the edges. I’m not quite sure how they did that!


It’s wool, I think. Perhaps very slightly shrunken wool, to judge from the way the label doesn’t lie flat. Maybe part wool and part rayon? The label doesn’t say. But not a modern acrylic for sure. I believe Esmond got bought out by Bates sometime in the ’40s, before acrylic blankets were a thing. Don’t quote me on that!


Alas, the original blanket binding is long gone. You can see the pinked edges there, and the stitching holes where the binding used to be.

And why has this lusciously fuzzy and warm blanket been languishing forlornly in my mending pile for three cold New England winters in a row?

I’m embarrassed to tell you, but here goes.