I had three very different bedrooms.
The first was a small room in my grandmother’s old farmhouse with a large print colonial wallpaper featuring soldiers, a holdover from one of my older brothers, and an assortment of hand me down furniture.
It was a very scary room for me because there was a hatch to the attic in the ceiling and I was sure that something awful waited on the other side of that hatch.
As far as I know, my oldest brother was the only person slim enough to squeeze through the opening. The only thing in the huge old attic room was a dome topped Victorian tin trunk that remained there until the dilapidated old house was burned down by the local volunteer fire company as a practice drill.
Next was a tiny room in a sketchy $75.00/month apartment, landlord white with many of the familiar old hand me downs.
The third was a small room in my stepfather’s house that was furnished with inexpensive new Colonial style maple furniture, sort of a peace offering/welcome to the new family.
The stuff wasn’t as important to me as having my own private sanctuary, not much has changed over the years.


