Jed Clampett, Edna Lewis and Remembrance of Tomatoes Past

Natalia Ginzburg was an Italian writer known for her incisive essays and novels that often explored family life, memory and the quiet struggles of everyday existence. In one of her essays about English cooking, she wrote, “A dull sadness weighs on every place where food is served or sold.” It’s a line that struck us recently—not because we found ourselves standing, awash in that special kind of white dust found only on graveled roads, in front of a family farm stand, somewhere between hope and resignation.

We didn’t grow up with sad food, exactly—just food that was dutiful, functional and guided by the best intentions and worst recipes.

Between the two of us—partners raised on opposite ends of the culinary spectrum—we had two mothers. One had the credentials—a dietitian trained in the 1940s—and she cooked like someone who had learned nutrition by way of ration cards, postwar pamphlets and pressure cookers. She was even trained cooking spaghetti using that tiny boiler room that thinks it’s a rocket ship, if you can imagine. Meals were neatly balanced, relentlessly beige and always approved by a father, whose palate never fully left the Dodge City train station diners of his childhood. He liked what he liked—salt, starch and seasoning that meant nothing more than salt and pepper, never straying from his memory of meatloaf on a divided plate.

The other mother was an adventurous spirit, but not in the kitchen. She was trapped in the age of convenience cooking, where dinner was assembled more than made. She cooked the life and flavor out of almost everything—except baked goods, which somehow escaped that fate. Her casseroles were a different story: determined and dutiful, constructed from instructions on the backs of soup cans and cereal boxes—cream of mushroom, dried onion mix, crushed saltines, frozen spinach—ingredients with more shelf life than flavor. She trusted the recipes, followed them faithfully. And we paid the price at the table.

Though she never said so, we suspect now that she may have felt outmatched, maybe even a little cowed, by a Dad’s side of the family. That was where great-grandmother Myrtle May held what we would now call a “side hustle,” working a few days a month at the local diner. Those were the days advertised for her chicken ’n dumplings and “Myrt’s pies,” which drew fanboys and fangirls who came just for her cooking. She was famous thereabouts, and she delivered that same appeal at family gatherings.

John T. Edge, founder of the Southern Foodways Alliance, once wrote that “the kitchen is where memory and identity simmer together.” Myrtle May’s chicken ’n dumplings weren’t just a recipe but a living story, passed down through family time and shared love. Her dumpling recipe was never properly documented—no handwritten 3x5 card with her secrets survived her estate. Some of us have spent a lifetime chasing that magic, but we should probably lay down the quest. What’s missing isn’t just the technique for dumplings as soft as pillows yet never mushy—it’s her love and time with the family that made them unforgettable.

Maybe that’s why we drive now—out into the hills, into the fields, down the gravel roads—to find food that feels different. Food that feels like ours.

We’d made the trip this week to find heirloom tomatoes.

Eating seasonally, we’ve looked forward to tomato season all year. Around here on Snob Hill, it’s not “tomato” or “tomahto.” We say ta-may-ter—just for the fun of it, you understand. After all, with a master’s degree in English, we’re fully qualified to mess with pronunciation whenever we please. Why settle for boring when you can sound like you’re ordering something fancy at the county fair?

Fresh sliced Black Krims, Brandywines, Green Zebras or Cherokee Purples—or whatever beauties the soil yields—paired with fresh mozzarella, drizzled with a good balsamic, olive oil high in the acids that give it that unmistakable olive taste, scattered with fresh basil, coarse salt and cracked pepper. This isn’t innovative cooking—though we seek that too, in quiet rebellion against the casseroles and calorie counts of our mothers. No, this is honest food. Simple. Dreamed of. A brief seasonal ritual. One plate, five ingredients and a moment that tastes like memory.

But this year may be the dream deferred, we thought, standing before a tomato-less table, staring at zucchini the size of green zeppelins. Corn whose tassels were crawling with ants. And tucked among the summer’s overgrowth, a sign—handwritten in the familiar script of someone trying to sound optimistic: “Tomatoes, maybe next week. Be patient.”

And so, we must wait.

Because eating seasonally isn’t just about what’s available. It’s about what’s possible. It’s about restraint, rhythm and the pleasure of anticipation. Our gardening friends have warned us recently—“Too much rain.” “They’re slow this year.” “It’s not a good tomato season.”

Still, we return. We believe. Not in abundance—but in the quiet promise of arrival. Tomatoes don’t appear on demand. They show up when they’re ready, and only then. So we’ll keep making the drive. Maybe next week. Maybe the one after. We believe in tomatoes the way some people believe in miracles, or Mercury in retrograde.

Because when they do arrive—when they’re soft and strange and sweet in the way only a late July tomato can be—we’ll remember why we waited. And when the oil hits the cut side of a Black Krim, and the juice runs just a little too far across the plate, there won’t be any sadness at all.

Edna Lewis, the great Southern cook and author, said, “Real flavor comes from time and patience, and from knowing the earth that gave it birth.” Ginzburg and Lewis never met, but we like to imagine them sharing a meal—one that might convince Ginzburg to never render the same disdain for our blended Midwestern and Southern food as she did on the English.
Around here, food is patient and particular, steeped in memory and stubborn love—never dull, never rushed. And Lewis would certainly have appreciated Jed Clampett’s parting wisdom:

“Y’all come back now, y’hear?”

“Roadside Stand” — a silver gelatin black-and-white photograph by CB Adams, made during his many excursions to Cairo, Ill. Shot with a vintage medium format Rolleiflex, this image evokes the complex spirit of the town Huck Finn described as “a good place to be, but... a low-down place to live.”

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Life On Snob Hill: Ballad of the Sunflower, the Swarm and Princess Pumpkin

“To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, / One clover, and a bee. / And revery. / The revery alone will do, / If bees are few.” — Emily Dickinson

We’re not ones to curate perfection on Snob Hill. Nature has its own aesthetic, and frankly, we find it far more compelling than anything we could plan. That’s why we were both amused and amazed when a volunteer sunflower recently sprang up in one of the least likely spots imaginable—a patch of dry, unimpressive earth that we hadn’t so much as looked at twice. Yet here it is: tall, determined, and just today, blooming with a sunny, audacious face that seems to say, “I’m here, and I meant to be.”

This season has brought another unexpected gift: bees. While we had planned to purchase two packages, life on Snob Hill had other plans. One colony arrived via swarm trap—buzzing in and making themselves right at home. The second simply showed up and settled into one of our empty hives as if they had RSVP’d to a party we didn’t know we were hosting. Now, both colonies are thriving. Like the volunteer plants, the bees seem drawn to this place. And like us, they’ve decided to stay.

It’s not the first time this hill has surprised us. Each year, morning glories crop up like old friends, weaving themselves around our more “intentional” plants and adding their own flair to the garden party. We’ve never had the heart—or the nerve—to stop them.

This season, a plucky little cherry tomato plant has joined the mix—growing precariously from the side of one of our composters, as if it simply couldn’t resist the challenge. It’s now locked in a gentle battle with an ambitious young morning glory, the two of them twisting and reaching around each other in a slow-motion scramble for sun and space. We’re staying out of it. Whatever will be, will vine.

Our favorite tale of garden tenacity, though, has to be the pumpkin we came to call Princess Pumpkin. She arrived via a renegade vine that slipped through the front fence, across the patio, and onto our wrought iron table—where she proceeded to drop a single fruit in the very center, like a centerpiece chosen by nature herself. We watched her grow from a curious orb to a proper pumpkin, flat and elegant, as though she were born knowing how to pose.

Not everyone embraces such randomness. Some prefer tidiness and symmetry and plants that stay politely where they’re put. We get it. But here on Snob Hill, we find joy in the wild surprises—the volunteers, the scramblers, the uninvited guests who make themselves right at home.

“Wildflowers don’t care where they grow.”

— Dolly Parton

Here’s to the sunflowers that bloom where they shouldn’t, the tomatoes that tangle with poets, the bees that choose us, and every Princess Pumpkin waiting to be discovered.

One Tree (Snob) Hill

For centuries, philosophers have wrestled with a deceptively simple question: what is humanity’s place in nature? Are we caretakers? Conquerors? Cosmic accidents with delusions of grandeur? From the serene balance of Taoist teachings to Genesis’s thunderous declarations of dominion, we’ve long debated whether nature is our companion or our quarry. These worldviews—man and nature versus man versus nature—still shape our choices more than we’d like to admit. And they echo, rather disturbingly, in that ancient catalogue of vices: the Seven Deadly Sins—pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth.

But let’s set aside their biblical branding for a moment. Strip off the ecclesiastical robes and you’ll find something deeply human underneath—something almost genetic. These so-called “sins” aren’t just dusty moral scoldings; they’re evolutionary potholes, behavioural defaults that, if left unexamined, prove deadly. Yes, deadly— for our communities, economies, ecosystems and entire civilizations. Pride poisons leadership. Envy corrodes collaboration. Greed? Oh, don’t get us started.

Greed, in particular, has had a stunning PR makeover—recoded as greed-is-good ambition, innovation or just the market doing its thing. But a vice in a power suit is still a vice. And now that vice is accelerating climate change.

Which brings us—perhaps faster than we’re comfortable with—to the warming world outside our double-paned windows. The science isn’t just in; it’s been laminated, peer-reviewed and politely screaming for decades. The planet is hotter, storms are wilder and whole regions are slowly sinking, burning, or drying up. And yet, somehow, large swaths of the population continue to “debate” whether climate change is real, as if melting glaciers were a matter of opinion.

We know many “deniers” really aren’t confused—they’re arrogantly complicit. It’s not that they don’t believe the climate is changing; it’s that they believe they’ll be fine. That their big-assed pickups, bass boats and goosenecked glamping buses (or their gated communities, private jets, and platinum portfolio brethren) will outlast the consequences.

We cannot abide their wink-wink, nudge-nudge hypocrisy. Because in the end, it’s easier—and far more profitable—to let the world burn than to question whether our lives might need to change. As one now-viral observation puts it: “Humans are the only species that will choose extinction because it’s cost effective.”

Imagine that. We’re the only species clever enough to engineer our own demise—and cynical enough to call it a business model. Or, in the immortal words of George Carlin: “The planet is fine. The people are fucked.” We know better. We’ve always known better. But knowing isn’t enough. As Oscar Wilde quipped, “I can resist everything except temptation.”

Fiddle-dee-dee tomorrow is another day is killing us. Which raises the question: what does any of this have to do with planting a tree on Snob Hill?

We took a hint from David Bowie: “Tomorrow belongs to those who can hear it coming.” And, as poet Alexander Smith wisely observed, “A man does not plant a tree for himself. He plants it for posterity.” So, if we want a tomorrow worth hearing, maybe it starts with something as simple—and as stubbornly hopeful—as planting a tree right here.

This morning, we planted a Saucer Magnolia on the crown of Snob Hill—a place as self-important as its name suggests, but not without its... opportunities: a bit more shade, a bit less erosion, and maybe, with time, a whisper of Southern charm. The Saucer Magnolia, ubiquitous around here but never unwelcome, is all drama and grace—those blousy, tulip-shaped blooms arriving in a flurry of pink and white just when winter has overstayed its welcome. It’s the kind of tree that doesn’t just grow; it poses. Perfectly at home with Snob Hill’s own flair for the dramatic, the Magnolia fits right in—elegant, a little showy, and unapologetically distinctive.

Experts estimate there are approximately a trillion trees on our planet, a staggering number that underscores both the scale of nature and the fragility of what we risk losing. While this single, “little” tree might seem like a small gesture against the overwhelming tide of climate change, it’s one of the few choices firmly within our grasp. After all, from the tiniest acorn grows the mightiest oak — and every mighty forest begins somewhere. Based on something a local “old timer” told us, 100 or so years ago, our property was a cherry orchard. We find that a little hard to believe — cherries in Missouri? But we love the idea.

Finding the tree, however, turned into a minor quest. We made the “mistake” of asking for help on a native plants social media group, assuming—naively—that plant people were, you know, helpful. Instead, we were met with a chorus of strident responses, dripping with condescension and composted outrage. Apparently, suggesting a Saucer Magnolia is tantamount to ecological treason. Keyboard botanists (read: dilettantes with strong, albeit sometimes well-intentioned, opinions) lined up to scold us for daring to covet a tree that wasn’t born and raised in our zip code.

But guess what? These so-called “destable invaders” flourish in our area, bloom like a Mardi Gras parade float and are exactly the sort of botanical drama that Snob Hill demands—native or not. In the end, we found a glorious specimen on Etsy, of all places. That’s right: The same place you buy ironic tote bags and artisanal beard oil came through with a tree worthy of center stage. Delivered. In. The. Mail!

Side note: In defense of the native plant people, we understand and seek to make good plant choices. That’s why we spent no small amount of money to remove the four Bradford Pears we planted on the streetside hill. They truly were “trash trees” and we sorely regret planting them.

So, yeah, it’s only one tree in a trillion, but that’s one more tree than we had on Snob Hill before. And, true confessions, we planted three other trees this year, in what we hope are the last trees we’ll ever be planting. Realistically, though, it’s only a matter of (too-soon) time before at least one tree—the pin oak—gets the axe. And if we’re being brutally honest, we’re probably looking at a triple feature of arboreal tragedy once you factor in the two Chinese elms, both of which have been slapped around by ice storms like they owe winter money. Those brittle little drama queens snap under pressure—literally.

As for the pin oak, it’s already circling the drain, thanks to a charming little scourge known as gouty oak gall and its evil twin, horned oak gall. These were brought to us by microscopic wasps from the Cynipidae family, which inject their eggs into the tree’s branches like tiny tattoo artists with a death wish. The tree reacts by forming grotesque little growths—galls—that slowly choke off its own limbs. So unless we’re ready to commit to years of pruning, expensive injections and, ultimately, the cathartic, galling roar of a chainsaw, that pin oak is a goner. But hey, we’re planting trees faster than we’re losing them—so far. Snob Hill: come for the pretension, stay for the arboreal attrition. Our arborist says the pin oak has several, somewhat healthy years in it before we have to euthanize it.

To hedge our bets (and possibly our property line), we also planted three native redbuds—because nothing says “we care about the environment” like driving two hours round-trip in a gas-powered vehicle to pick up Earth-saving trees from a nursery in the middle of the state. Sustainability, but make it scenic. The third redbud just showed up one day, sprouting defiantly through a tear in the landscape fabric and gravel by the back gate like a tiny green middle finger to our garden plans. Naturally, we yanked it out of its scrappy little birth canal and gave it a new home, fully expecting it to perish out of spite or botanical stubbornness. Every expert warns redbuds hate being transplanted, especially when you go poking at their precious taproots. But this one? It’s thriving. Possibly out of spite. And yet, we respect that energy.

For the past 30 years, our stewardship of Snob Hill has been the contribution of a walnut tree, delicate Japanese maples and four (now down to three) heirloom apple trees that somehow survived our well-intentioned chaos. Among the legends of our arboreal empire is the Lady Apple tree—a sapling planted when our oldest son was just about his height. We have a photo to prove it: tiny kid standing next to a tiny tree, both awkwardly gangly and full of promise. Now? Despite being branded a “semi-dwarf” (which apparently means “surprisingly tall”), that Lady Apple is pushing 20 feet into the sky. That’s one heck of a growth chart for both kid and tree.

Planting trees is more than landscaping; it’s a vote for the future. Lucy Larcom nailed it best: “He who plants a tree plants hope.” It’s poetic, optimistic and honestly, a little stubborn—just like us. Because in a world where our one trillion tree friends are fighting pests, storms and climate chaos, every seedling we shove into the dirt is a middle finger to despair and a soft promise that maybe, just maybe, the future will be greener.

So, here’s to trees: our leafy, stubborn little symbols of hope, standing tall (or semi-dwarf) on Snob Hill, daring whatever comes next to try and knock them (and us) down.

Our new Saucer Magnolia: a bright, stubborn promise that despite storms and pests, hope grows here—and tomorrow just might be greener.

Life On Snob Hill: A Messy Slate

I will forget these things, but I’d like to forget them more slowly, more surely.

—Joe Wenderoth, Letters to Wendy’s

There is a piece of slate now hanging by the front door here on Snob Hill. Upon the slate is a statement of love, written and decorated with hearts by Father, who carved a frame to hold the slate. The slate is a piece of a rescued blackboard from the Cape Girardeau High School where two grandmothers, on paternal, one maternal, attended — both must surely have sat at attention and viewed this very same blackboard — this black board.

The blackboard came to us this weekend, complete with the message of love, now somewhat degraded. Years ago, when Father gave this framed piece of slate to Mother, he decorated it with his message of love. They hung it over a fireplace in the kitchen and never erased the message, as it were a painting. So we have inherited both a physical object and something far less tangible and more precarious. We wanted this to hang by the front door, with a piece of chalk tethered by a thin cotton braid, so visitors, if so inspired, could leave us a message. But with the handmade message of love to a departed Mother, isn’t something we can bear to replace.

Sometimes what we remember and what we feel is painful, and it’s difficult to express, and so we have to find ways to put language on impossible feelings that we never anticipated we’d go through.

— Venita Blackburn

“According to Wikipedia, “Marshak, Stephen in his Essentials of Geology, slate is a fine-grained, foliated, homogeneous, metamorphic rock derived from an original shale-type sedimentary rock composed of clay or volcanic ash through low-grade, regional metamorphism. It is the finest-grained foliated metamorphic rock. The etymology of slate also tells us that it was traditionally a small, smooth piece of the rock, often framed in wood, used with chalk as a notepad or notice board, and especially for recording charges in pubs and inns. The phrases "clean slate" and "blank slate" come from this usage.

So, one of us writes: Yet our slate — as well as our own, more metaphorical slates — are neither clean nor blank. I hung the framed slate by the front door, but now I cannot bear to wipe it in preparation for another message. Just as chalk has touched the slate, I see — I know — that my parents touched. They marked each other. That touching created me and I still feel the contours of their marking upon me. I’ve lately become a bit obsessed with collecting examples of actual writing by my grand- and great-grandparents, and especially from my Mother.

Dad recently gave me thick folder of recipes that included a precious few written by her hand. I may never make the old casserole (she was not an inspired cook, much less a foody), but I could stare at her handwriting for a long time, trying to imagine her concentrating on transferring the directions onto a notecard. She wanted so desperately to be a good wife, mother, housekeeper and hostess.

There are many ways to divide, to demarcate one’s life. I’ve lately realized that I went for a long time wrestling with my daddy issues. Then transitioned to my mommy issues. I see now that really, all along, these have been merely me issues.

I’m obsessed with that part of life — these confined spaces where there’s no acceptance, there’s no big healing. You’re just right there in the crack of a catastrophe.

— Venita Blackburn

I grew up in the days of schoolroom chalkboards. Sometimes I was tasked by a teacher to wipe the board. There was a long tray beneath each large slate for holding chalk — white and pale green, blue and yellow. I don’t recall red, pale or otherwise. I remember the boxes of chalk, usually at the far ends of tray, with the word “dustless.” There’s really no such thing as dustless chalk because chalk is dust laid upon slate, just waiting to wiped away to make black space for another message.

So what to do? Should I allow Dad’s chalk dust to remain, still proclaiming the mark he and Mom made, but knowing the message will slowly fall from the slate. Do I shellac it in a sad attempt at preserving it, if just for a bit longer? I worry that would be like looking at the same sentiment carved into the trunk of tree, wondering who the hell the people behind the initials were. Or do I, let others do the dirty work for me, waiting for some visitors to drop by, wipe it clean and leaving the message: Sorry we missed you!

To which, I would be compelled to add: You have no idea.

Quoting Wenderoth again:

Yes, our homes are dust. Don’t pretend you are surprised.

Life On Snob Hill: A Christmas Elegy

By CB Adams

The season is turning to Christmas

I'm longing to be by my dear mother's side

So…

I'm coming home for Christmas

To be with my family

And loved ones so dear

—Manny, Cabral, Mathus

We have always loved the song “I’m Coming Home for Christmas” on the Squirrel Nut Zippers’ Christmas Caravan album. Years ago, it felt depressing. Now it seems nostalgically prescient.

2023 has been a year of elegies of Proustian proportions, remembering things past. Seeing that phrase — Proustian proportions — suddenly seems hyperbolic, but isn’t that what profound emotions often feel like — outsized, hyperbolic, compared to the the situation that evokes them?

It’s in the feeling that’s Proustian, the recognition that memories are all that’s left us. The time is gone, and so, too, should be the expectations that things like the holidays are repeatable, immutable. We are not good at change, and learning to embrace change — the reality of it — is a painful process.

This is about the notion of home and Christmas — of an internal Christmas compass that has always pointed true-north homeward. But that cardinal direction points to somewhere else now. Growing up, home and holiday were a given, just part of the unexamined family life. As we grew and matured, the holidays had their touchstones — Granny’s angel food cake, Grandpa’s cigarette smoke, Mee Ma’s divinity and bourbon balls, Mom’s pressed cookies. They all are sense memories, including a sense of being safe and happy and intensely loved.

Even after we moved out, first to college, then to marriage, early careers and then our own children — our Christmas compass still pointed to that “other” home, the one in which our memory mothers still shuffle through our memory houses, preparing the usual Christmas memory-cheer.

Our mothers are gone now, and with them, those times and that version of our family. We struggle this year to put into words how or why we felt this small, but profound, shift in our compasses. Our mothers worked hard to create those special holiday memories, and we have always turned — internally — to the comfort that they represented. Thus, Christmas was always “back there.” It was a time and place, though we didn’t acknowledge it at the time.

Now we are reminded of the song “Bookends” by Paul Simon: “…Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you.” Our mothers exist only in memories now. The phrase “yehi zichra baruch” that our Jewish friends have shared, resonates with use because those memories are a blessing. And with their passing is a waning magnetic energy. Our compass has swung to a new true north — here on Snob Hill. Or maybe it swung years ago and we’re just now noticing it. We worry about becoming the middle-aged version of what we call the younger generation’s obsessive navel gazing. We may notice the wrinkles around our navels, but it’s the gazing that’s the issue.

As Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová wrote in “Falling Slowly,”:

…Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You'll make it now…

This shift is perhaps small yet certainly profound. We think of the place — now memory bound — of where we point when we point to home. We now think of that home as being our own home. And we certainly hope that we created — sometimes intentionally and sometimes inadvertently — that sense of home and holiday for our sons. We hope they have a Christmas compass that points to Snob Hill.

Yes, it’s about the changing of generations. It’s about the passage of time and worrying that we weren’t present enough in the past. We hope that past is now prologue for the family now. True north may have shifted, but we know it is still true. And yes, it’s about loss. You can’t have an elegy about the future, that honor goes to the past…and memory.

We end, thinking of “Homeward Bound,” another song by Paul Simon:

…I wish I was

Homeward bound

Home, where my thought's escaping

Home, where my music's playing

Home, where my love lies waiting

Silently for me…

Bedding Down on Snob Hill

The irony did not escape us recently when Parents phoned to inquire whether we had any interest in accepting the offer of their king-sized, extra-long (Dad has long legs), four-poster bed. We said we needed to think about it, which is to say, with more than a little artistic license, that we needed to “sleep on it,” which is often a euphemism for something along the lines of, “No, but we don’t want to hurt your feelings.” We should be clear also – by bed they meant bed frame, not the bedding, mattress, and box springs.

While we were sleeping on it that night, we realized something: So much history from one little fact. We have never purchased a bed – either had to, wanted to, or otherwise. Not for ourselves individually. Not for ourselves as a couple. Not for either son (cribs not included). And neither new nor used. We have bought mattresses, box springs, sheets fitted and flat, and egg crate and memory foam toppers, but never the bed. How’s that for intelligent design?

Childhood beds do not count because our wonder years were featured like apartments with furniture included, so starting in college, we slept in the dorm bunk, imported a bed from home, or slept on a life raft mattress on the floor (aka the faux-futon). Our first apartment as a couple was furnished with her childhood bed because it was a double, compared to his frameless single life raft, but the name-brand solid cherry bed did not survive more than a few years of service, no doubt because it was neither purchased or designed for the vaults, tumbles, and hard athleticism of early married life.

Fortuitously, yet sadly, around the time that we could no longer tighten the bolts and screws of the old cherry bed, a cherished grandmother died and left to Her the antique that was – and still is – known as The Lincoln Bed. It’s the kind of bed that inspired us to imagine donning bed clothes, night caps, and curly toed slippers (shades not of grey but, “And Ma in her kerchief. And I in my cap”).

This was, to borrow a phrase from tea time, a proppa bedda, befitting our then new-found status of first time homeowners. It anchored the euphemistically referenced Master Suite in our new ranch-style starter home, described by an inebriated father on his first visit as “Nice and new and all, though it does resemble a double-wide from the front and the butt (he said ‘rear’). In retrospect, we wish we could take back our needlessly apologetic reply, “Well, we had to start somewhere. But home alone, to be as honest as Abe, we had fun referring to it as The Lincoln Bedroom – Missouri Annex.

Eight years on, and we were planning on taking The Lincoln Bed here to Snob Hill. We were trying to negotiate that rare occurrence, the door-to-door move, and we were being batted about by the mortgage company like a shuttlecock during a game of drunken badminton. Before the closing, we secured an additional private visit. We measured and diagrammed (oh, the joys of graph paper) the placement of our bedroom furniture, including The Lincoln Bed.

We still appreciated the walnut behemoth, Boyone was five and Boytwo was due in a few months, and this patch of double bed real estate was beginning to experience, not quite border wars, but certainly lines of scrimmage. Into this moving mix, a Mother unexpectedly offered to give us her nearly new, recently acquired king-sized four-poster bed with what seemed to us to be fancy, almost high-tech mattress composed of a series of water tubes. After months of visiting bedroom stores and mattress retailers, Mother had chosen this bed as the cure for her sleeplessness and fibro myalgia. Six months after delivery, neither condition had improved – plus she didn’t like using a small step stool to ascend/access the bed. To borrow an analogy that could not have been made at that time – getting into this bed felt to her like assailing The Wall in Game of Thrones (nor was she a fan of Pink Floyd).

So we inherited the four-poster. Boytwo would graduate to the Lincoln Bed in a few years after he graduated from his crib. We learned to love spreading out. Besides many good nights of sleep, there is really only one story related to this bed. While hosting the annual Snob Hill Christmas Party a few years after we moved in, our neighbor the Death Star heaved herself upstairs rather than send her obedient lackey and sycophant husband, Sam, just to nose around the second floor of the house, ostensibly to retrieve her coat.

Her husband was code named (by us, anyway) Sam for Secret Agent Man because he had “retired” from some sort of other job while in his 50s to become a real estate agent for the company co-owned by our next-door neighbor. He never seemed to sell anything. We think he just liked to see his name planted on signs throughout town like toadstools after a heavy rain. Still, he seems to still have captured the soon-to-be deceased widow market—those little old ladies to shed their mortal coils as well as their earthly abodes—an always diminishing but ever sustaining segment of the local housing economy.

The coats were piled on our four-poster. And, yes, we did—and still do—have a brass chandelier above the bed, a perhaps extravagant touch, except we had acquired it during a silly bitof aggressive bidding – fueled by the double trouble of competitive bidding and an open bar at our sons’ school’s annual dinner auction. It was for a good cause we told ourselves, but the truth lay elsewhere, hung-over. The morning after (there’s got to be one and there’s no pill for it), as the boozy fog lifted, we stared at it – the chandelier – wondering what we were ever going to do with an extra chandelier (and reciting the morning-after mantra “What were we thinking. What WERE we thinking?”) an answer appeared – the bedroom.

Out of breath, and thinking they were unobserved, the Death Star said to Sam, the almost code-like, “To the manor born.” They nodded to each other, as long-established married persons often do in the nearly silent, private language, created during their years together. We could only ponder her assessment of our boudoir and recall the scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail when King of Swamp Castle says, “One day, lad, this will all be yours.” To which his son Prince Herbert replies, “What, the curtains?”

The next bed we did not purchase sits now in pieces in the living room. The four poster this spring let us down finally – and literally. The footboard suddenly split one night when we were sleeping, no athleticism required.  The jokes have abounded about whose side was the one that collapsed. Thanks to the dust ruffle, the temporary repair we made with lag bolts and sistering boards, we were able to make the repair, but it bothered us knowing it was there and not knowing when next it would fail. Then a Father called the offer of his four-poster king-sized bed. He was reluctantly downgrading to a single bed so a Mother could continue to make it for him. The king-sized bed had become for her a painful, herculean task to change the sheeting.

And so, almost 20 years from the receipt of our last gifted place of repose, we have avoided again the opportunity to buy a bed. Yet, there are still consequences. The bed has been sitting in pieces in the living room for more than two months with a deadline of Thanksgiving to install it in our upstairs master bedroom. It’s not as easy as it may seem, but that, as they say, is another story.

For now, we will ponder all of this history from just unpurchased beds. We’ll sleep on that...for a bit longer.