At the top of the stairs and straight ahead, was the guest bedroom in my grandparent's home. It was a small, but cozy room that my mother shared with her sister when they were growing up. The bed was on the right when you walked into the room. It had a white iron decorative frame, and a flat spring which supported a thick feather mattress. The bed was covered with flannel sheets and several handmade quilts. It was topped with a beautiful white bedspread, with mauve, pink, blue and yellow flowers embroidered in the middle, and was trimmed with a light mauve cotton border.
On the left, and in the far corner of the room, there was a washstand, with a tilting mirror, and side rails that held two guest towels. A small drawer held an assortment of soaps and other toiletries. I can still remember the bouquet of floral and lavender scents when I opened the drawer. A porcelain jug and bowl sat on top of the washstand. Beside it, there was a cream-colored covered soap dish, and a matching vase-shaped comb holder, with a pink floral design on it. The set also included a matching chamber pot which was kept in the shelf below, and covered by a crisp linen cloth. White lace curtains covered the window, and a room-darkening shade was pulled down at night, even when nobody slept there.
I didn't play in that room. I pretended it belonged to a princess who would someday come to visit and sleep in the big beautiful bed. Sometimes, I would go in just to sit on top of the bed for a few minutes (with my shoes off, of course). The room seemed magical with the scent of bath soaps and body powder lingering in the air, and the clean, outdoor smell of the fresh bedding surrounding me. In the hallway, outside the bedroom door, there was an old trunk where the linens were kept. My grandmother would tell me not to lift the cover of the trunk because it was heavy, it had very sharp edges, and could fall on my hands. A floral bath towel, used as a runner, covered the top. I thought the old trunk had to have secrets if I wasn't allowed to open it, but I never did find out.
My grandfather finished a beautiful bedroom for me. It was painted pale pink with white trim around the window and door. The brick chimney extended up the wall of my room from the kitchen and, it too, was painted white. But, when I was old enough to invite a friend over, we were allowed to sleep in the guest bedroom. There were so many handmade quilts on the bed, we couldn't move. If you have ever slept on a feather bed, you know when you make your dent in it, you're there for the night. We soon found out it was very important to determine which side you wanted to sleep on when you first climbed into the bed. Before drifting off into a very comfortable and snug sleep, we would pretend we were the visiting guests and would lie awake telling stories about our imaginary lives. In the morning, I would climb out of bed and open the blind to let warm sunlight fill the room, and then crawl back in and snuggle down under the covers for awhile longer to stay warm. In the stillness, I waited until I could hear the fire crackling in the stove downstairs to know when it was time to get up and dressed for breakfast.
I loved the decorative white spindle railing and bannister on the stairs leading to my room. I found all sorts of interesting ways to climb them, like climbing up as far as I could on the edge of the steps, outside the handrail. It didn't take long to learn a fast way to get down again. The stairs were covered in a rather slippery, canvas runner, held in place at the back of each step by a brass rod. If I sat on the top step, lifted both feet and arched my back just right, I found, with a good fright the first time, that I could slide all the way to the bottom. My grandparents were not impressed, but held me in their arms and explained the dangers.
At night, whenever I visited alone, I would fall asleep on the kitchen couch, facing the back of it, and hugging a doll my grandmother had made from nylon stockings. The pattern on the back of the rolled-back couch consisted of a collage of tiny, brightly colored houses on a yellow background, and in my dreams they would float around. My grandfather would wait until they were ready to go to bed and carry me in his arms up the stairs. On very cold nights, my grandmother climbed into bed with me, to wait until it warmed up and I had settled comfortably to sleep, before going to her own room.
The house is no longer there, but I will always treasure those memories, and the old washstand which now stands in the corner of my bedroom.
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