Sometimes “things” are the best anchors we have in the seemingly endless turbulence of contemporary life. As my wife and I approach retirement, life seems more frenetic, not less. The political environment is poisonous and frightening, here and abroad. Climate change is terrifying and it seems some existential threat lurks in every sector of life. Our own mortality, once a theoretical possibility, is now a pretty likely eventuality, despite my (not her) frequent inclination to act like a teenager.
I don’t mean “things” as in constant material acquisition. I mean “things” as the treasured possessions that move with us through life or disappear for a few decades and then re-emerge, carrying with them the memories, stains, blemishes and wear marks of our lives.
This week my wife and I traveled from New York City to Windsor, Ontario, 1,500 uncomfortable miles, to retrieve a bed (and companion dresser). We navigated customs, ate junk food, slept uncomfortably and suffered the inevitable cramps, stiffness and general malaise that come with long trips in a stiff cargo van. The bed is unremarkable — not particularly valuable, and less stylish than many other pieces of furniture we’ve acquired over 47 years of marriage. It was a lot of work for a bit of inexpensive furniture.
But this is not any ordinary bed. It has an extraordinary past and an extraordinary future. No, George Washington didn’t sleep in it. It has lived its life in relative obscurity in Windsor, an industrial city just south of Detroit. Look in your atlas. Canada is our southern neighbor in this part of the country.
The bed belonged to my wife’s grandmother. She, like many Canadians and Americans of her generation, was part of a large immigrant wave arriving from Scotland, Ireland and England in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Her husband worked for the railroad and they had seven children, all of whom are now gone. The bed became part of my mother-in-law’s household and my wife slept in it as a child. It entertained guests (including me) for many decades until my mother-in-law’s death several years ago. Dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, friends and distant relatives left their fingerprints on the turned posts of the mahogany headboard. The oil of five generations is in the pores of that wood. I suspect children were conceived and dreams were hatched in that bed. I know it felt its share of tears and held firm when its occupants stirred in restless worry.
When the family home of nearly 50 years was emptied, things went here and there, according to the needs and wants of my wife and her five brothers. No one needed the bed. My wife, being loving and wise, knew better than to discard the bed — or allow it to be sold or auctioned to someone who might see the uneven varnish, perhaps caused by a spill, or a tear, and sand away the memories. For a few years now our niece, who lives in a small town near Windsor, has safely stored the bed and dresser, but with no use for it.
We brought the bed (and dresser) back to New York City, where we have neither room nor use for it either. But not for long.
In June, when I retire and we move away from New York City, the bed will be shipped to Erie, Colo.. It will be our 5- (and ½! she insists) year-old granddaughter Maddie’s new bed. Maddie is really excited. She calls my wife “Goomy,” her toddler interpretation of grandmother, and she thinks it’s really cool that she will sleep in the same bed that Goomy slept in. Her grandmother, her great grandmother and her great-great grandmother all slept in that small, unremarkable bed. Even more important, her 16-year-old cousin, Quinn, whom she idolizes, slept in it too. Quinn could sleep on the floor and Maddie would think it a perfect choice.
This continuity adds more meaning than you might imagine to our lives. So many things in life come and go. We are more transient and less connected. Our things can help make sense of it all, if there is sense to be made.
I’m not a religious person, but I believe objects that have been part of life experience may carry an essence with them. I suppose it’s like anthropomorphizing about furniture! I want to believe that Maddie, as she sleeps in the bed, will know something in her unconscious about the family in her life over five generations. She will wrap her fingers around the beautifully turned posts, or look with curiosity at the faded rails and slats, imagining the weight they carried, the hushed giggles and whispers they absorbed. The stories they could tell! The fevers soothed, the sharp pains of labor, the moments of ecstasy and a century of memories.
I hope many years from now Maddie will see to it that another child touches the smooth, worn surfaces, once again connecting all that went before with all that is yet to come.
Steve Nelson lives in Sharon and New York City, where he is the head of the Calhoun School, a private school. He can be reached at steve.nelson@calhoun.org.