The Night the Bunk Beds Arrived

Mom’s October 1, 1979 entry:

“Today Keith had off so we went to Dad’s and got my old bunk bed set that Kenny and I had when we were very little… We got new mattresses and a Superman blanket for Donny and Mickey Mouse sheets and blanket [for Helen]. Boy were they excited. They got into their pajamas about 6:00 p.m., so they could lay in their beds. Donny sleeps in the top bunk and Helen in the bottom.”

This is one of those memories where my mind and the journal line up perfectly.

The bunk beds felt like a promotion.

Before that, bedrooms were fluid—cribs in different corners, mattresses migrating from den to parlor. The farm was always being rearranged around animals, budgets, and whatever project Dad was in the middle of.

The bunk beds said: this is where you sleep now. This is your spot.

What I remember:

• The smell of new mattresses, sharp and plastic, mixed with the familiar must of the old wooden frame.
• The thrill of climbing the ladder for the first time and looking down at our small bedroom from a new height.
• Helen below me, wrapped in Mickey Mouse, talking up through the slats.

The Superman blanket was more than just warm. It was a kind of permission:

• I was already watching Super Friends and Superman on TV, racing around the house in a makeshift cape.
• Now the emblem came to bed with me, printed large and confident.
• It felt like being tucked in by the idea of heroism itself.

I didn’t have the language then, but the whole setup—Superman on top, Mickey on the bottom—quietly mapped the way our parents saw us:

• Me as the big brother, expected to be brave, strong, a little responsible.
• Helen as the imaginative, tender one, with a bed anchored closer to the floor.

Most nights, though, the hierarchy collapsed into giggles. We’d talk until Mom or Dad called up the stairs. Sometimes Dori would come nose around, looking for whichever kid smelled like dropped crumbs.

Looking back, those bunk beds were as formative as any church sermon. They taught:

• How to share space.
• How to whisper after lights out.
• How to inhabit our own corners of the same small room and still feel like we were on the same adventure.

The frame is long gone now, but some nights, when my son calls out from his bedroom, I hear an echo of those little voices through the slats.