My Room

As a boy, I kept a rather interesting room.  By interesting, I mean totally cluttered.  My sisters were totally repulsed by my room.

I was a busy boy and a collector of all things.  I fancied myself as a naturalist, chemist, geologist, archivist, and any otherist you might envision.  My room served as a showplace filled with every relic you can imagine and at least a dozen you can’t.  In my room you would find rocks, sticks, birds’ nests, a paper wasp nest, bones, old bottles, insect specimens, fragments of rusty metal, and all requisite toys.

I didn’t keep my room particularly orderly and I did a poor enough job at changing my bedding, one of my sisters was often charged with that task.  I recall my sister, Debbie, objecting one day after Mother told her she needed to change my sheets.  “Mitch’s room is disgusting,” she carped.  “And his bed is filled with sand and dirt!”

She was not wrong.

At this stage of my life, my room is orderly and free of clutter and collections.  My bedding is crisp.  But in certain corners of my den, you will still find rocks, bones, old bottles, and all manner of odds and ends.  The boy in me still thrives there and I am glad for it.  

—Mitchell Hegman