One of life’s pleasures…the well-made bed.  A weekend at the Charles Street Inn (formerly known as Gaslight Inn) in Atlanta, GA, reminded me that good bedding is a true art form. The room itself was taupe-colored, airy with large windows and Roman shades, and clean, dark wood. The furnishings, a comfortable mix of period and contemporary. But it was the bed I loved, looking at it, and getting into it with my husband, for a quick nap or for the evening: the wrought metal headboard; plain white sheets, quality, but not fussy; the bedspread, an off-white matelasse weave, good for warm Atlanta nights. a couple of pillows each, and the queen mattress, firm, but not military. Such pleasure.

 I know I’m not alone in the cult of the bed. And by this, I mean a certain fussiness about the linens without being over-the-top indulgent; coverings coordinated to the room and to the season; a rotated mattress, and the selection of pillows.  For winter, flannels from Germany that I order end-of-season from The Company Store. The winter comforter is Croscill’s  “Madrid” , a deep red with gold medallions, a kind of Moorish influence.  I’ve picked up Charisma sheets for the summer, so lightweight and billowy; and sometimes on sale at Homegoods, like their other hit or miss selections, sometimes quite wonderful. Our bedframe itself is dark-wood stained, Canadian-made from birch, an elegant, lightweight wood, but nonetheless sturdy. When I told the salesman I wanted a “lighter” look, he told me that we were old enough to buy furniture that would last and be classic; and I’m glad we did.

 Beyond the look of the bed, and how well it functions, is the ritual of bedmaking. I know: some people do; some don’t. But I have always lived in homes where the beds are made, both habit and symbolism.  From my mother, I learned hospital corners, and making sure the bottoms stay in. My mother-in-law had the habit of pinning sheets to blankets with diaper pins to make the job easier, but I could never go for that: too much work on washing days.  As it happens, making the bed is a task that my husband and I do together, because we’re ready at the same time, and it’s a nice job for two people.  And, as it also happens, because the full/queen sheets are so large, folding the sheets is also a two person job, for my self and one of the boys. 

For a time, I drooled over the catalogs of high quality linens and bedding, fantasizing what our bedrooms might look like, not so dissimilar to the changing fashions of clothes.  In fact, it occurred to me one day that the trend to fancier, more regal bed coverings might in some ways be a substitute for elegant clothing, for the ladies who’ve lost their waist lines, but still like to look good – somehow, in a way that matters. Now, after time, I see that so much of what is offered is just the same, not necessarily made to last, disposable, like so much else. I am content, for the time being, in my own sheets and blankets.

 But I do see how, for me and maybe for others, that bed is the substitute for the womb, a warm, safe place, in the dark, a place of comfort, oblivion, and perhaps dreams of life to come.