was saved by a great body of knowledge. Luckily for her, the most significant events of the twentieth century, catalogued chronologically and contemporaneously, were stored carefully beneath the century-old artifact. The first man on the moon, the coronation of Queen Elizabeth and the discovery of King Tut’s tomb all contributed equally to break what would otherwise have been a nasty fall.
The bed was so old that two of its legs just broke unceremoniously like Snyder’s pretzels when inadvertently sat upon. Snapping and crackling loudly the pine pallet tipped, attempting to suddenly spill its dozing dweller to the floor far below. Were it not for the fifty-year compendium of Nat Geo mags stored under the bed for some future undefined generation, she would have had a rash awakening. Could it be more fitting than to be supported by such a bedrock institution?
(My daughter was happy to spend the night at her grandmother’s. Apparently, the bed was an heirloom, crafted from some dodgy wood a century before, probably when a five-foot tall protein-deprived populous weighed in at less than 100 pounds. Luckily the Nat Geo stash was under that bed and the China was stored in the other room.)