{Prompt: How would you describe your childhood bedroom?}
There is little that I remember about my bedroom. Only two things really. I remember the bunk bed that I shared with my brother — my older brother — and I remember the window to the backyard — the translucent portal to the outdoor world and the insufferable heat of summer in the North Carolina Piedmont.
The bunk bed was nothing special. It was a bunk of two twin beds, built with wood too thin to withstand a modern Consumer Product Safety inspection — wood smoothly finished with a light honey-colored stain that perfectly reflected the warm amber glow of the incandescent lighting of the ‘60s.
Both of us on the top bunk - circa 1968
The bed rails held only 3 or 4 bare wooden slats. And they in turn supported a thin bed mattress with springs that showed from the underside. It was great sport, at night, to stick your feet up, from the bunk below to the bunk above, and poke the mattress springs firmly, or kick the wooden slats provocatively, to see what effect all this might have on the occupant of the upper bunk.
And I was the occupant of the upper bunk for some time — maybe more than one span of time. You see, our parents may have switched us around once or twice, hoping to find a harmonious arrangement. I think that they erred on the side of safety, by putting the smaller child in the lower bunk. Less chance of a mishap — of having the younger child roll over and off of the bed in the middle of the night. And less likelihood that a small child could reach the bunk above with his feet.
But I could. Of course I had to lift up my hips, and push my butt up at least 6 inches, to get my feet onto the slats, but once I got my feet up there, it was just a matter of leverage to keep myself inverted for quite some time. Long enough to create a disturbance. This was how a lot of pillow fights began.
Eventually rules were laid down — a decree was issued — that we should lie quietly in bed, at least long enough to give our weariness a fighting chance to overwhelm us with sleep.
No actual photos exist of the hijinks. (Credit: Xanthe Berkeley)
But sleep was so difficult when temperatures at night were in the 90s. You see, there was no air conditioning during the summers. We couldn’t sleep in pajamas, because of the heat. Even a t-shirt was too hot at times. We often slept in our underwear — “tighty-whities” — half covered, with a sheet over one leg, on those hot summer nights. We were sweaty when we went to bed, and lucky if we fell asleep at all.
The window was opened as far as possible, and a box fan was placed somewhere, elsewhere in the house, in another window, with the direction of airflow pointing outward. The reasoning was, “The fan blows the hot air out of the house, and the cool air comes in the other windows… including yours.” This seemed like highly dubious reasoning to me at the time, and I think that we successfully lobbied to have the fan placed in our window, and the direction of airflow reversed, so that the hypothetically cooler air would flow into our room, and the hot air would subsequently be pushed out of the other windows. If there was any cool air to be had, we wanted access to that cool breeze to begin in our bedroom. The condition of the rest of the house be damned!
Two particularly decorative vintage box fans.
Later, a rotating fan (instead of the accursed box fan), was introduced to the center of our room. It stood about 3 feet off the floor, and for a few seconds the fan created a lukewarm, or perhaps a cool, breeze, before the airflow passed by with the rotation of the fan.
Winters were little better, as the bulk of the heat came from a central furnace in the hallway in the middle of the house. As a matter of fact, a folding wooden drying rack was placed above the grille of the furnace on the floor at least once a week to dry the laundry! There were many mornings when I unabashedly straddled that floor grate after the morning shower, wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, to dry myself off and warm myself up.
Although it was toasty warm in that chamber, where all the warm air was discharged from the furnace, there was blessed little circulation of the heat from one room to another. No radiators and no floor or ceiling vents that I can recall. The door to the hallway had to be opened, at the sacrifice of your privacy, if the heat was to be enjoyed.
It looked a little like this.
Besides the bunk bed and the window, nothing memorable was found in the bedroom. I’m sure there was a dresser of clothes, and a child-sized desk. There was certainly a set of the Chronicles of Narnia, and perhaps a few other books. There was probably a children’s record player, with some 45s of children’s music and stories, and some record albums (33s), as I got older.
There must have been some games and some toys, but I think for the most part the bedroom was designed to be slept in, and for dressing. Nothing more. Play… and especially horseplay… was not in keeping with the primary purpose of our confinement, at bedtime.
A rare moment of fraternity (circa 1969)
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