A Place

My bedroom was round. There was no ceiling. It had a straw thatched roof. It was so cool. Lying on the bed looking up into this canopy I was mesmerized by the intricate patterns of layered bundles of straw called “yelms”. Thirty two black painted wooden poles extended from the top of the walls to the roof’s pinnacle like longitudinal lines divide the earth into time zones. Rings of poles five feet apart ran around the structure and were fixed to each longitudinal pole. These lines of latitude grew smaller as they approached the pinnacle. It was on this conical like framework that the yelms rested. They were tied together with staples made from twisted hazel sticks, barely visible to the naked eye. Often I tried counting them only to be frustrated by the repetitive images of straw where one looked like the next.

The underbelly of the thatched roof was a few shades darker than the light yellow of a sheaf of wheat, a warming colour. In natural light the pinnacle appeared a little darker than the base of the cone and at night the bedside lamp cast shadows over the congregation of straw. The pinnacle drew the most of this light into it’s zenith.

The bedroom’s north facing window looked onto a paved courtyard. Daylight sun streamed into the room stimulating a get-up-and-go feeling. In summer the tiled floor, warm to the touch, was made for bare feet. The morning chill of winter did require a small red bedside carpet to cover the tiles endothermic characteristics. An extra blanket was a necessity to keep snug.

Hanging from the poles were a few model airplanes. The one that always drew my attention was a replica of the Fokker DR1 tri wing Red Barron plane. The deep red of the wings lent it authority in the skies above my head. Imagine the swoops and rolls as it engaged the Sopwith in battle. Suddenly the room was filled with the rat-a-tat of the synchronized LMG machine guns. Smoke and the smell of cordite filled the room as the Sopwith spiraled downwards in flames. FIRE! with a thatched roof and the daydreaming evaporated long before the heart rate normalized. Another one for the Red Barron.

A bookshelf stood opposite to the window. It was filled with an assortment of books like The Hardy Boys series, Robinson Crusoe and Don Quito which I never understood. On the far side of the room opposite the bed stood an inherited antique chest of drawers. The intricate carvings and claw shaped feet lent to the notion that it did not belong here.

That bedroom grounded me. The 360 degrees of intersecting longitudes and latitudes in the roof’s framework told me where I was. Time was endless. It was a sanctuary for my first ten years.