A bed is not just a bed; depending on where it came from and the road it chose. My bed is simple in design but made of beautiful Maple; it is over 60 years old. It has been my bed since I was in the third grade. I have not been able to give it up.

It is as important to me as the finest china and expensive crystal that I own. It is family; it comforts me, brings dreams in the form of slumber and continues a tradtion of family. My Mother’s bed is now my bed. I inherited this bed from her and given to me by two turn of the century Victorians who purchased the bed for their only adopted child in a time when hope and prosperity reigned over the nation and dreams became reality. Their hope was that this child would have better opportunities; go to college and live in the honesty and truth of God. It was the first bedroom suite that they could purchase for her; she was in high school.

The craftsmanship, dovetailing ad finish remind me of those people; calm, quiet, gracious and timeless. Their dreams created a masterpiece and legacy of family; my family. This bed can’t be replaced; family can’t be replaced. You can roam, run, travel or drive, but you cannot escape the pull; the magnetism of the bed. But seriously, even using this as a metaphor, you can’t escape that which you are. I am the woman who is dependent and independent of thought; strong with fortitude and childlike in her complexities of spirit, who thrives in the inherited bed of my mothers parent’s dreams.