Grandma's Stick Bed
Perhaps I should call it Grandpa's stick bed, or even, Uncle Gary's stick bed, because it probably belonged to one of them first. It was a simple, army-green cot, just a wooden frame with a canvas sling suspended from one side to the other. No one would call it a comfortable bed, by any means, but thousands of army privates, and undoubtedly some officers, too, had used one like it when their only other choice was the cold, hard ground.
I'm not sure who first brought it to Grandma's house, but my brother and sister and I often argued about who got to sleep in a sleeping bag on the stick bed, and who had to sleep on the living room couch or share Aunt Ellen's double bed.
When we spent a week with Grandma and Grandpa in Bloomfield every summer, Laura and I usually shared the bed in Ellen's room, and Dan usually got Uncle Gary's bed to himself. But, if Mom came to spend a few days, too, or if Aunt Ellen joined us for the week, as she often did, someone got to sleep on the stick bed. And, when the whole family gathered for Thanksgiving and Christmas, Gary was shunted to the couch so Mom and Dad could have his bed, and either Laura or I shared Aunt Ellen's bed, while the other slept in the same room, on the stick bed, and Dan ended up in a sleeping bag on the floor somewhere.
Dan wasn't shy about telling us he preferred the stick bed, but the girls always got the beds, while the only boy got the floor. And truthfully, Dan could sleep anywhere (a closet shelf comes to mind, but that's another story) so it wasn't as big of an issue as he liked to make it.
I don't know why the stick bed held such fascination for us. It had a distinctive, musty smell, and no real room to toss and turn. The few times I slept on it, I woke up off and on, all night long.
After Grandpa died, Grandma sold many of her household goods and moved to Seward, to be closer to the rest of us. I suppose the stick bed was sold, too, to some family who needed extra holiday sleeping space or, perhaps, to some adventurous tent camper.
Back then, in the sixties, I never expected the stick bed to become a treasured memory. But now, when I think of the stick bed, I remember that cozy house in Bloomfield that my grandparents bought when I was six, the only house they ever owned. And I remember the holidays we celebrated there, year after year, gathered around the dining room table to eat and play cards, or a rousing game of Scrabble, or sitting on the front porch on a warm summer evening, listening to the chirping crickets and watching for fireflies.
I wonder, if I had inherited that stick bed, would my grandchildren love it as much as we did? I'll never know. But I'm quite sure that they are making holiday memories of their own and, someday, I might be surprised to find out which of those memories stand out for them.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven... Ecclesiastes 3:1
When we spent a week with Grandma and Grandpa in Bloomfield every summer, Laura and I usually shared the bed in Ellen's room, and Dan usually got Uncle Gary's bed to himself. But, if Mom came to spend a few days, too, or if Aunt Ellen joined us for the week, as she often did, someone got to sleep on the stick bed. And, when the whole family gathered for Thanksgiving and Christmas, Gary was shunted to the couch so Mom and Dad could have his bed, and either Laura or I shared Aunt Ellen's bed, while the other slept in the same room, on the stick bed, and Dan ended up in a sleeping bag on the floor somewhere.
Dan wasn't shy about telling us he preferred the stick bed, but the girls always got the beds, while the only boy got the floor. And truthfully, Dan could sleep anywhere (a closet shelf comes to mind, but that's another story) so it wasn't as big of an issue as he liked to make it.
I don't know why the stick bed held such fascination for us. It had a distinctive, musty smell, and no real room to toss and turn. The few times I slept on it, I woke up off and on, all night long.
After Grandpa died, Grandma sold many of her household goods and moved to Seward, to be closer to the rest of us. I suppose the stick bed was sold, too, to some family who needed extra holiday sleeping space or, perhaps, to some adventurous tent camper.
Back then, in the sixties, I never expected the stick bed to become a treasured memory. But now, when I think of the stick bed, I remember that cozy house in Bloomfield that my grandparents bought when I was six, the only house they ever owned. And I remember the holidays we celebrated there, year after year, gathered around the dining room table to eat and play cards, or a rousing game of Scrabble, or sitting on the front porch on a warm summer evening, listening to the chirping crickets and watching for fireflies.
I wonder, if I had inherited that stick bed, would my grandchildren love it as much as we did? I'll never know. But I'm quite sure that they are making holiday memories of their own and, someday, I might be surprised to find out which of those memories stand out for them.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven... Ecclesiastes 3:1
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