In 1983, my dad—a serious woodworker in the second half of his life—made me this platform bed frame with four storage drawers.
I moved it into my first apartment after graduating from college. It was my cozy retreat for the next decade as I moved from grad school in upstate New York to a series of Boston-area apartments.
It was so handy! I never needed a separate dresser.
After gracing the guest room in the first house I shared with my husband in Southern California, the bed retired to storage in our crawlspace when we bought our home in the San Francisco bay area. At the time I thought my as-of-then-only-imaginary kids might want it.
Thirty-one years later, my adult kids are gone from the house.
We are downsizing and don't have a permanent abode yet, so most of our furniture is going into storage. I assumed we would relegate the bed to storage as well—until my husband confessed, after all this time, that he never really liked it.
"It's bulky and it has sharp corners," he said. (Don't we all?)
His confession caused me to regard the bed with the eyes of someone who harbors no emotional attachment to the strips of wood and screws.
Yet how could I give away an object that represents so much more than a place to sleep?
It's a piece of my dad I’ve carried with me all these years. He created something that’s beautiful in the way those we love are beautiful despite their physical shortcomings. I look at it and see my father's large and capable hands laboring lovingly: measuring, sawing, drilling, and sanding oak boards into a cleverly constructed, practical piece of furniture.
I decided I could part with it if it went to a friend.
"I'll put the word out," I told my husband. "But if I can't find someone who needs it and will appreciate it, we'll put it in the storage unit."
I began making inquiries.
My niece said she might want it, until she measured her existing mattress and discovered it wouldn't fit. The founder of an after school science club both my kids attended in elementary school, and with whom I've formed a friendship in the intervening years, let me know she had always wanted a bed with storage drawers. She was thrilled! I was thrilled! She had been an important part of the kids' lives and she'd be willing to serve as temporary caretaker rather than permanent owner in case either of my sons were to want or need it.
We got to the point of her sending her son to pick it up.
He stood eyeballing it in our garage. "Hmmmm," he said. "I know my mom's really excited about this, but I don't think it will fit in her bedroom." He measured it again and went back to his mom’s house to check the dimensions.
She called an hour later, sounding guilt-ridden and crestfallen. "I'm really, really sorry. But there's only one place it can go, and if I put it there, I won't be able to open the drawers."
I immediately cast a slightly wider net and put out a Facebook post to friends. Within hours, an email came from someone I've volunteered with for years. The subject line read: MY SON COULD USE THE BED.
“Great!” I emailed back “Let's talk logistics.”
Minutes later she emailed again to let me know her son didn’t want the bed after all, but hoped I would find someone appreciative to give it a good home.
I sighed and crossed another possibility from the list.
Then I had a revelation. I was ready to let the bed go, but the bed was not ready to let me go.
The next night, I had a little talk with the bed. I stood in the cold garage under the glare from the fluorescent fixture and laid my hands on the disassembled wood.
“You're free to go,” I said to the bed. “I won’t forget you. But I want you to be in a home where someone will put you back together and sleep in you.”
Then I addressed my dad, gone more than twenty years ago to the great workshop in the sky. “This doesn't mean I'm forgetting you, either. Besides,” I added, “I still have the dining room table you made me. And about a gazillion wooden boxes.”
I returned inside, took a deep breath, and created a listing on my local neighborhood electronic bulletin board.
Now the bed's story now circulates in the wider world beyond my intimate circle.
Since the bed and became comfortable parting ways, I hope it will find its next home. If it doesn't, plan B is still the storage unit, because I'm not willing to let it go to landfill.
P.S. If you happen to live in the San Francisco area and are interested in a beautiful, handmade-with-love double bed frame with storage drawers and a long backstory, let me know!
I can identify. When my mom came to live with us, she brought her bedroom set dating back to the 1930's. When she moved to assisted living some ten years later, she brought it with her. When she died, my daughter, who loves, antiques wanted it. I was thrilled. Alas, now she has moved to the Sierra foothills, living off the grid and yet...the bedroom set sits in storage. She, too, was unable to part with it.
Such a lovely story connecting your love of your Dad to the love of what his hands had made. But, then, that describes you! Thank you for sharing! Carole