My father was proud of his Ontario roots. He’d tell us stories of his family in Owen Sound and how his father left home with seventeen dollars to go to B.C., only returning to Ontario to claim his bride. Ontario was far away when we were kids, and never did I think we’d actually get to Owen Sound one day. There was more though. On a visit to Upper Canada Village, we discovered that he was also related to the Loukes family whose remains are in the cemetery there, and who were the original owners of the farmhouse. Dad was pretty emotional when we walked the streets of Upper Canada Village where he felt the tie of family so close.

We loved the Village, seeing the woodworker, riding the canal boat, and especially the woollen mill. It was a noisy place: clanging looms, water rushing, and the constant hum of activity. The aroma of lanolin hung in the air as the wool was spun and finally put on the giant loom, creamy white and royal blue yarn ready to be woven into thick blankets.

During a day’s visit we returned several times to see the progress of the weaving. It first looked like a scarf, then a lap robe, and then finally a full-sized blanket. It looked stiff and scratchy, and I couldn’t imagine it being at all comfortable sleeping with that next to the skin. The weaver assured me it wasn’t finished yet and proceeded to run it through rollers padded with dried teasel heads that fluffed the blanket to a soft finish fit for a king.

Our afternoon was winding down, but I couldn’t get enough of that blanket. The miller told me the blanket would go up for sale, and by then I was obsessed! Before anyone else had a chance to claim it, I had the weaver sew on its label, and followed it to the shop, where we proudly took possession of the very one we’d watched all day. That being about 1976 or so, I can’t imagine we paid more than $200 for it. I’ve long ago lost the bill. It seemed like a lot at the time, but what a treasure we had!

For years that blanket was our bedspread, a warm and welcoming reminder of the Village, a connection to ancestors, and a craft worth celebrating. Even in the summer the blanket was folded at the foot of the bed.

But times changed and we moved. New décor meant that quilts and blankets were relegated to storage boxes. Occasionally I’d take them all out and air them on the clothesline, and vow to use them. They’d sit on a shelf for a week or two, before I’d reluctantly return them to the storage boxes. We thought our kids might want them, but they have their own style and it certainly isn’t antique quilts or blankets. It seemed the Village blanket would remain an antique — preciously preserved, but not used as it should have been.

You might recall that I’m pretty good at tossing things. I give most things about five years to rest unused, and after that their days are numbered: clothing, books, china and linens live in fear of the black plastic bags. However, the blanket and quilts were secure in the knowledge they were safe. Still, I felt the blanket deserved better. I couldn’t sell it, I couldn’t give it away, so what to do?

In a moment of curiosity, I wrote to the curator at Upper Canada Village, laying out my plight and wondering if by any chance our blanket could be returned. I didn’t want any sort of payment or even recognition, just the knowledge that it was back where it belonged. I knew it was monetarily worth a lot more than the amount we’d paid, but money isn’t everything. Peace of mind counts for a lot. To my great relief, he replied that even though they never take donations of items, this one they would gladly accept.

So we packed our lovely blanket, and off we went to take it home. A group from the curator’s office who’d been on the committee to accept it was there to meet us as we lovingly turned it over to their care. I felt like I was leaving a family heirloom, and I guess we really were. Come summer, we will go to the Village to see it again on public display at the mill where it will be enjoyed by visitors from far and wide. We’ll be happy that we are leaving this legacy to the Village — and in some respects to our own ancestry, whose ties are there too.