Alderney-French Blue

Taking Your Subconscious Shopping

I suddenly had an urge to buy a new bedspread. The urge—specifically—was for a bedspread: not a duvet cover, not a comforter. I wanted a classic, old school bedspread.

I once had a collection of chenille bedspreads from the 1950s and ‘60s, scored over time from rummage sales. I cut them into 6 inch squares and made patchwork quilts: delightful (I thought) mismatches of pastels with bumpy spirals and interrupted flower patterns. I was picturing these cozy relics when I started my bedspread hunt.

Turns out, classic bedspreads are not easy to find these days. I don’t think of bedding as being subject to the whims of fashion, but of course it is. Everything is.

I headed down to the Low Dez—what we in Joshua Tree call the Palm Springs/Palm Desert/Rancho Mirage sprawl 3000 feet in elevation below us—because there are many more shopping options. Being limited by my austerity budget, however, I stuck to the discount stores.

Maybe it was because it was that bleak retail window between Christmas and New Year—when everything’s been picked over and not restocked—but I found the options to be downright dismal: tan and gray plaid Burberry ripoffs, “fun” designs that looked like 1990s clip art, colors that were neither here nor there. Of course there were things in the $300+ range that I liked, but I don’t spend that kind of money on clothes for myself these days; certainly not going to for “bed clothes,” as my grandmother called them.

Before it got cold, I’d been sleeping with a two flannel top sheets I’d sewn together and tucked inside a duvet cover over. That was a perfect weight, perfect warmth on a 70 degree night, and oh so dreamy.

In early December, when the nighttime temps crept down, I started sleeping badly. I’m a sleep champ, so this was annoying. For a few nights, I slept with the heat on. Too noisy. So then I used the heater’s timer to turn it on at three in the morning. Still noisy and also too hot. I turned off the heat, and added a couple of fleece throws on top of my covers. All night, I would wake up and be like, Am I still covered? Am I still covered? I just couldn't get it right.

(Yes, I understand this is a crazy level of detail. Bear with me.)

Finding nothing in the Low Dez, I came back to the Hi Dez and went to Marshall’s. Good old always-reliable Marshall’s; that ever-changing garage sale of new stuff. There was a gray and white floral thing—that I thought was a bedspread—made by a pretentious-sounding brand, Cabbages and Roses. It was very high quality—100 percent cotton percale shell (hard to find!) and the best thing I’d seen in my now five stores of looking. Only problem was it was kind of an old lady style—which was fine when I was young, but now it’s a bit on the nose. However, the vintage-y flowers were gray—the theme color of my bedroom—so I went with it.

I washed it immediately because everything from Marshall’s carries a scent somewhere between perfume and insecticide. The inner filling was polyester, so I figured it would be a quick wash and dry. Nope. The thing poofed up to triple its size, filling the entire washing machine. It was not a bedspread after all; it was the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man of down alternative comforters!

Oh well, I thought, at least it will be warm.

I slept with it that night, and I'm telling you, it was the best night of sleep I've had in years. I had dream after dream after dream. I was so cozy. I felt safe. It was perfect.

Then, by the light of day, I realized those gray flowers were actually blue. Dammit. Sure looked gray under Marshall’s fluorescent lights. According to the discarded overly-fancy cardboard and ribbon packaging, they were Alderney-French Blue. Dammit.

Disappointed, I wrestled it back into the silly packaging—even though it had been washed—knowing Marshall’s is extremely generous with returns. It had cost more than I’d wanted to spend, so I wanted it to be right.

They took it back no problem.

Feeling resigned and tired of the whole bed makeover idea, I dug out my old Ikea down comforter, which is too heavy and tortures you all night with pokey feather quills, but oh well.

A few days later, I found myself at Marshall’s again to get a set of measuring spoons. I did a fly-by of the bedding section. Another Cabbages and Roses Alderney-French Blue flowered comforter was on the shelf—all neat and tidy—and there, a few items down, was my Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, 3x the size of the other, straining against the ribbons like a chubby teen in tight jeans, muffin top bulging adorably. Oh dear, I thought. They don’t just send the returned items back? Suddenly, I felt guilty. Even though it had given me the best night of sleep in years, I’d abandoned it to a lonely life of sitting on that shelf forever because—of course—the skinny one will get picked first. It’s always the case, in my experience.

I bought it back and lugged it home.

The next day was New Year's Eve. I have a made-up ritual—bastardized from other cultures—of sweeping my floors and washing or replacing curtains before the new year arrives. Last year, I did all of the drapes in the house, but for some reason, skipped my bedroom curtains. This year, these were my sole focus.

Taking a good look at them, I realized this task was long overdue. They were gray, yes, though sun damage had turned them almost brown in the middle. No question, they had to be replaced.

I’d gotten into the habit of never opening the curtains behind my bed’s headboard. I soon realized they couldn’t be opened. At some point, I’d sewn two sets of curtains together and then pinned them shut. Odd. Upon unpinning them, I found that the window itself had been taped shut with several layers of packing tape. Sure, the old metal framed windows in this house tend to rattle in the wind—and I’d put tape on a few of them—but this was overkill.

I had no memory of even doing it.

With the curtains down and the window open, I saw that this is one of the prettiest windows in the whole house. It looks out onto a giant, very old creosote bush. Why on earth did I barricade…

Just then, my eyes wandered to the left and I saw my armed felon neighbor’s gate. Golly, it’s so close, I thought. Why, just beyond that gate was where the eight-hour SWAT standoff that put him back in jail took place. He fought the law and the law won. While I was right here in this bed…

…with only a taped window and double curtains…

…to protect me.

It was suddenly so clear—all of it: why I hadn’t slept well since early December (the standoff was December 8), why I’d spent a week fussing over making myself the perfect bed, the perfect safe bedroom. I’d lived across from a dangerous criminal for five years—after he’d come home from a fifteen year super max prison stint—and the best I could hope for was that when the shit finally hit the fan, it would be blowing away from me. Luckily, that’s exactly what happened.

I slept through New Year's Eve for the first time since 2020 because there was no one shooting a rifle up into the air at midnight. I’d forgotten it was coming last year and jumped a foot in bed, awakened from a deep slumber. It took hours to calm down enough to go back to sleep.

When I hung the new gray curtains, something magical happened: I realized they’re really a gray blue.

Some might say Alderney-French Blue. Perfect.