Bedfellows

It occurred to me, while struggling to fold yet another fitted sheet, that there is a remarkable number of beds in my life. At least ten in high season, which is where we find ourselves. Five in the city, six at the cottage. Most are in use, as we have house guests, with more on their way next weekend. I am fussy about these things, as I believe that, along with good meals, comfy beds are the tenets of decent hospitality. As such, the laundry basket is always half full, and never empty.

The cottage situation is a bit tricky this year, as we are building an addition that will house a new principal bedroom and ensuite bathroom. It won’t be ready until next season, so we have also built a tent platform and installed a bell tent with two glampy extra long twin beds. This is in addition to three existing bedrooms, two with queen beds and one with two doubles. Throw in a long sofa, a day bed on the screened in porch, and two futons, and we can, at absolute max, accommodate 14 people. The kids have had house parties - without us - with as many as 17, which I shudderingly envision as the second panel of Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.

I have had a roommate of some kind or other since I was a child, sharing space with my younger sister, then a dorm room with teenage girls in boarding school, then a roommate in university, followed by a live-in boyfriend and then a husband. For a while, when I was going through cancer treatment and the boys were feeling intense anxiety, we all slept in the same room, John and me in our bed, Aidan on a cot, and little Ronan in two chairs pulled together to form a makeshift bunk. This lasted longer than anyone would care to admit, but the wagons had to be circled. Communal sleep is comforting, despite the occasional snoring or thrashing. John and I still share a queen-sized bed, much to the consternation of our married children, who can’t imagine anything less than their own king, where one can arguably go to bed and wake up without knowing the other is there. It makes me wonder about prospective grandchildren.

A decent sized personal sleeping space is a late modern prerogative. Historically, entire families would sleep together on a large mat, or mattress, sometimes with their servants, if they had any. Strangers might share beds at inns while traveling. In Ireland, where large families were the norm, members might sleep head to foot in the same bed. And in colonial North America, where young men would sometimes travel long distances to court their potential mates, the prospective couple, due to lack of space, would be put together in the same bed, but with a bundling board locked into place between them to prevent any serious canoodling. A little weird, but seriously sexy, when you think about it.

One of my sons just returned from a bachelor party in New York City. A dozen young men with relatively modest budgets agreed to split three rooms at a big chain hotel off Times Square. Four fellows to a room, sharing two double beds. To avoid unnecessary skin contact, I imagine they employed the time honoured over/under system, with one party above the top sheet, and the other under. Or maybe they just didn’t give a damn. I do know that when I try to assign rooms to house or cottage guests, the notion of unattached guys sharing a bed is a deal breaker. No point in even suggesting it.

Which brings me back to the approportioning of sleeping spaces to our nine to ten guests this coming weekend. Couples will naturally share beds, ideally queen sized. But should they share a room with their cousins, or teenaged children? We’re an unconventional family, with kids generations apart. Some of us are legendary snorers. Others have continence and/or mobility issues. There is only one bathroom, on the ground floor, although we recently built a biffy, which deserves its own story. I have tossed and turned over various scenarios, and suggested solutions that I’m told will please no one. There are low murmured conversations, and great unrest in the village.

I should mention that of late we have also been enduring biblical rains. The young teenagers have been chased out of their tent, which appears to be leaking, and installed in an upstairs bedroom, newly vacated by those that had to go back to town for work this week. Everyone is high and dry, and relatively happy, although my 14 year old nephew is making it clear that his boredom is intolerable, pacing around the place asking when the rain might let off. I love the idea of extended family, if not the actual experience.

As of press time, I have yet to resolve the accommodations. We still have a few days. The sun has finally appeared, the tent is drying out, and a few alternatives are presenting themselves: the hammock? The tool shed? The biffy?? The villagers are content, for now, and the nephew has discovered fishing.