My childhood bedroom was about the size of my current bedroom, but a bit more square. A closet faced with two bifold doors, I think, was bumped out from the wall that also held the entry door. I suppose the room must have been about fifteen feet square. In the center of the wall to one’s right, on entering, was a single dual-frame sash window, double-paned, with faux multi-pane inserts delicately mounted onto the window’s frames.

The wood used to construct these multi-pane inserts was a light wood, such as pine, stained transparently brown and dried to a featherweight after twenty years of central heat in the face of Indiana’s increasingly brutal winters. I recall taking the struts out and being puzzled, and little bothered, by the fakeness of the inserts. Today, I rather imagine I will require some sort of faux multi-pane inset when we replace the singlepane aluminum frame windows that predominate in our new house. The wood in the inserts in my childhood home rang like a bell when tapped, in consequence of their perfectly dry state.

The walls of my room were a pale blue, as I believe the carpet was. My single bed ran along the wall farthest from the door. On the wall containing the window, my dresser was between the corner and the window, with about three wall-mounted shelves above the dresser.

I have no clear memory of the blank wall opposite the window, the wall I faced if I sat up in bed. I think I must have changed the arrangement of this wall relatively frequently. I had a desk in the room, at which I did homework, and several three-cove portable shelves that my father had made when I was about seven. Therefore I assume these furnishings were ranged against this wall. I believe a reader of this blog possesses both desk and shelves.

As a teen, the walls of the room were quite nearly covered with posters of musicians and shows, only some of which I still have. I do not recall to whom I gave my large collection of large-size photo posters but was surprised when we moved this winter to fond that I had not taken them with me to Seattle.

On occasion, in my teens, I left the house by my bedroom window after feigning sleep, returning after a night out. I do not recall if my parents ever discovered this. I’m reasonably certain that they will only learn that I also surreptitiously brought a girlfriend over one night and spent the night in my bed with her should they chance to read this. I hasten to assure the reader, parental or otherwise, that I did not ask her to engage in such monkeyshines as entering or exiting via the window.

I have a small woven rug from Latin America in my current bedroom which has traveled with me from my childhood room to this one. On first thought, I think it may be the only thing in my bedroom that was also in that one, over twenty years past.