The Bedroom

*** My voice is the color of blue. The blue of quiet, misty early mornings and the blue of dusk in the lingerings of the day.

The scraped color of periwinkle blue catches my eyes as I take a first view of the long-legged rambling house called Riversleigh Manor. Counting straight up I venture to guess the triple windows are on what must be the third floor.

I walk around the side of the house and make my way through over grown lilac brushes to the front entrance. Arriving early, I have many options of endless rooms. I find my way upstairs. On the first landing are sets of keys tied to colorful old tags. I search the pile until I find the periwinkle tag. The key is worn, smooth. It fits in complete harmony with my hand, so accommodating.

There are many more stairs to climb and finally I reach the third floor. A long hall is filled with different hues of doors like tall, wide crayons in a pack of eight. The blue door is in the middle on the left side. My hand shakes as I carefully place the key into the lock.

I think of all the rooms I’ve lived in through my life - never comfortable, or fitting in and the memories flood across me like a blue, gray winter sky being moved by winter wind. The same winter sky moves my feelings into acceptance of new circumstances. I feel the shift of starting over in this place.

The key is turned and the door creeks open with a slight push. I like the sound - it is the sound of new or unused.

Rooms can be funny places when not occupied for long periods of time. They take on a famiiar odor of newsprint, and cardboard boxes that mingle over time with sunlit dust. Dust has a neatness about it - falling perfectly over everything, remaining as a cover of sorts. Almost a protection for the tenants past.

I have chosen a room with length, stretching north and south, but slim with width. There are the three windows, much larger than I had imagined. In front of the windows is a wood box with an attached lid almost the length of the window. One could sit and daydream on a hand-made cushion and I find myself already making mental notes.

The bed is single in size, it’s head and foot missing. There is an old enamel table and hutch, two kitchen chairs, in need of a fresh coat of paint, an odd shaped table. A wood stove hides in a nook, along side a few other pieces of odd furniture. A rolled up braided rug frames the discarded remnants of perhaps the others who have stayed here.

I am brought back to reality by the sound of a sad violin and the music speaks to me.

All I need to set up house keeping is within reach. I find a closet full of cleaning supplies, a broom, a mop, a bucket, dust cloths, furniture polish, etc… I drag all of it out - I want to get started . I clean and sweep and the act of physical work invigorates me to finish.

I slip back down stairs and find my way to the kitchen. I help myself to peanut butter and apple jelly that I spread on fresh bread. I pour a large glass of milk. I am starving. I gobble and review my mental notes of ‘things to do.’

Returning to my precious new space I feel up for adventure and decide to look into the window box. I find  a blue quilt, a set of white sheets and pillow cases, A sham of batten-burg lace, a hand knitted coverlet, some hand made doilies and panels of material I can use for curtains.I lay everything on the mattress. It smells of lavender and moth balls.

The rug is rolled out. I adore braided rugs - twisted, tight with  an oblong shape. All shades of blue roll out before me with just some touches of cream. It centers the room and warmth is spread out.

Moving over to the furniture pile, I keep the old enamel table and scrub the two wood chairs. I leave them by the old wood stove - the peeling wood hutch is moved against the wall. What a lovely place for art supplies and books. A chandelier hangs over the table, some cleaning of the delicate glass pieces will bring added light.

The daylight from the window is changing and there is a closet to explore. What I think is a clothing closet turns out to be a small pantry with a tiny gas stove, a deep chipped sink, some cupboards for dishes and food. A tiny ice box sets by the sink, the handle all metal and worn appears too large for the icebox, like an airplane ascending upwards.

What comforts of perfection I have been graced with and I stop to be thankful on another one of those mental lists I keep.

A knock is just a few steps away. By the time I reach the door, I find my trunks have arrived.

I feel complete on this day - all bubbling with a new hope and unafraid as I have found a safe place, a shield, here at Riversleigh.

~ by Patricia Hine Stewart on December 13, 2006.