About A Boy’s Room
A boy
should have a room. A boy should have
some privacy. A boy should have a place
where he can keep his important things:
GI Joe, books, loose change, a piggy bank, posters of Batman and Robin
and Superman, Karen Carpenter standing in front of their band’s van with
Richard standing aside her like he’d just come off a coke high, Cass Elliot surrounded
by lush gardens - my Matchbox cars – a VW bus with working doors, hood, and
sliding moon roof, a Ford Mustang with mag wheels, an ambulance with a working
rear door, and about 75 others, all gifts, mostly from my Aunt Maxine. And a million found things that are too
precious to toss into the trash. I was 17
years old before I had a real bedroom with a proper dresser, a closet, and
shelving to display all these terribly important adolescent rarities. I shared the room with one of my brothers
after the older one finally moved out of our house. But before that I found a place that was all
my own…that I made all my own.
The
house I grew up in is the same house my mother grew up in. When built it had one bedroom. One.
My mother had three sisters and a brother, and a crazy, divorced mother. They all lived in that house with the one
bedroom. My grandmother was in the
bedroom, and so my mother and aunts shared a bed stuffed into a tiny room off
the living room. And when I say tiny, I
mean the door would not even open all the way without hitting the bed. The door had panes of glass, so forget
privacy. Before my grandparents
divorced, my grandfather built a tiny closet in the corner of that tiny
room. We called it the library. Never mind that it never held any books and
was always used as a bedroom; it was meant to be a library, so we called it a
library. That is where my mother grew up
– in the library. My uncle Donnie slept
on the couch in the living room.
When my
parents married, which was just after my grandmother died, they bought the
house from my grandmother’s estate and Mom didn’t even have to move her
things…except to the one, real bedroom. At
first my two older brothers shared that tiny room off the living room,
continuing what was by then a family tradition in which I, too, would
participate. When I was born my father
built two rooms onto the back of our house: a den, or what for some reason we
called the “back room” (seems our family just could not come up with proper
names for rooms – although the bathroom really was the bathroom, thank God),
and a bedroom for my brothers. Those two
rooms were, and are, the cheapest, draftiest, coldest rooms I have ever
experienced, and I have lived in a non-heated farmhouse in Italy, so that’s
saying something. My father hired Uncle
Donnie to put a gas heater in the bedroom, and it helped, but not much. My brothers, and eventually I, slept in that
room, and in the winter sometimes wearing a coat and gloves. My mother was forever berating my father for
hiring “some guys off the street” to build the addition. And that’s exactly what he did. He drove to the railroad yard in downtown
Louisville and asked around for a couple of guys to build the addition.
“Can you build a couple of rooms
onto the back of my house?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, get in the car.”
For the first three years of my
life I was at first in a crib in my parents’ room, of course, then I am told I
was put in the tiny room off the living room – the library. That is, until my sister arrived. Then she moved in with me and that’s how it
was until I was 12 years old. And let me
tell you, girls get more attention than boys – at least in the living
arrangements. It was understood that
boys didn’t need their own space, or bed, or dresser, or place to hang all
their frilly clothes. But girls do. We shared a bed. It was white, with gold trim, with a lovely
pink canopy. The matching dresser
couldn’t fit in the room, so it was placed in my parents’ room until I was 12
and when it was deemed that my sister needed a larger room and society deemed
we should not be sharing a bed any longer.
So my parents moved into the library, my sister took the bedroom, and I
had a single bed placed in the corner of the den, or back room.
The back room was full of windows,
without curtains, and so all the neighbors could see inside. I would take my night clothes to the bathroom
at the other end of the house, change into them, then return to the back room
for bed. The back door of the house was
in that room, so everyone was always coming and going. A TV was in that room, so my father often sat
in the back room watching TV while my Mother was watching in the living room. How is it that my father had his own room,
but I didn’t even have a quiet place to sleep? “Because I work and pay the bills around here,
that’s why.”
I was usually the second one up
each morning, after my mother, because as soon as she came into the kitchen,
which was adjacent to the back room, I was forced awake. And I was the last to go to sleep. I mean, who can go to sleep with everybody trudging
through the room, out the back door, or into my brothers’ bedroom or in and out
of the kitchen looking for a snack? By
the time I was 15 I had had it.
The one good thing about the house
addition, at least to me, was that it was built right on the ground on concrete
blocks. So underneath the new bedroom
and back room was a crawl space that my parents used for storage. We kept the yard tools and lawn mower in
there. It was always damp and dank
smelling, and a strong odor of gasoline permeated the space, which sometimes
wafted up through the floorboards into the back room. There was a small door to the crawl space,
about three feet high, that gave access to the space and allowed for
locking. When I was looking for a space in
our house to call my own, I turned to that crawl space.
In our basement I found a couple of
plywood sheets that I used to divide off the crawl space into two separate
little “rooms”. Now why I wanted two
rooms I cannot remember, but that’s what I did.
One was my “bedroom”, and the other was my “den”. My father sold carpeting for Sears, so I was
able to get hold of a lot of old carpet samples he kept in the trunk of the car
and place them on top of the dirt floor and voilĂ , I had my own, private room
that no one else could, would, or even want to invade.
I spent hours and hours in that
space. It looked like something a
homeless person might live in. The walls
were concrete block and the plywood. I loved it.
I would do my homework there. I
drilled a small hole in the floor above so I could shove an extension cord down
to light up the space, the whole time my mother warning me, “don’t you burn
this house down”. In time I even put a
small TV down there and although the signal to the antenna wasn’t the best, I
watched the old Saturday night lineup down there: All in the Family, M*A*S*H*, The Mary Tyler
Moore Show, The Bob Newhart Show, and The Carol Burnett Show. When I was in that space, I was for all
intents and purposes outside, so I spent a lot of time in that space in my
winter clothing, including a winter coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. In summer I would sometimes sleep there.
I used the space for about two
years, when, as I said, my oldest brother moved out and I inherited his bed in
the room he had shared with my other brother for 17 years. They each have some great stories to tell of
that tumultuous relationship.
When I
was about 23 I was helping clear out the crawl space. Everything had to go because I was about to build a deck off the
back room for my parents, which would effectively shut off access to the crawl space. My mother wanted the lawn mower and gasoline
out of there, anyway. “You can smell
that gasoline in the back room; it’s gonna’ blow up the house someday.” She got worried about it after 30 years of
storing it there.
I crawled into the space and found
my old rooms and it all came flooding back to me. The hours spent doing homework (what homework
I actually did), watching TV, or lying there and thinking about nothing. I missed those rooms.
The memories of my time spent in
that crawl space have stayed with me my entire life. Even today they are more vivid than the time
I spent in the real bedroom. It was
great, but somehow not as sweet as that little crawl space under the
house. Perhaps because I had made it on my
own, I don’t really know. I only know a
boy should have a room.