Overwrought and Out of Bed
Clarence P. Thistlewhack III had two great loves in his life: the complete works of Emily Dickinson and his wrought iron bed, which he had named "Sir Slumberlot."
Sir Slumberlot was no ordinary bed. Forged in 1892 by a mildly famous blacksmith-slash-poet from Akron, the bed had scrollwork so intricate it once caused a houseguest to weep softly while brushing their teeth. Its headboard depicted a battle scene between two napping unicorns, and the footboard was a majestic swirl of iron curlicues that served as both a fashion statement and a surprisingly effective toe trap.
Clarence often said, "Some men seek peace in monasteries, others in hammocks. I find mine between two cast-iron cherubs cradling a bouquet of steel roses." It was unclear whether he meant his bed or a particularly confusing dream he once had, but no one dared to ask.
Then came the fire.
It started innocently enough — a birthday cake with 93 candles (Clarence was only 58 but felt he deserved the admiration), one overzealous puff, and an unfortunate pile of heavily flammable doilies. Within minutes, his beloved bedroom was a sea of smoke, and Sir Slumberlot stood no chance.
Clarence stood outside in his flamingo-patterned bathrobe, eyes wide, clutching a salvaged brass bookend shaped like a walrus. "My bed!" he sobbed. "My poor, wrought companion! You were too wrought for this world!"
The fire captain, a no-nonsense woman named Sheila, patted his shoulder. "We saved your ottoman, sir."
"It had storage," Clarence whispered, bitterly.
Over the next few days, Clarence plunged into deep mourning. He held a candlelight vigil, though this time with flameless candles and a strict no-doily policy. He commissioned a ballad from the town's amateur lute enthusiast (it was three verses too long and included a kazoo solo). He even attempted to sleep on a memory foam mattress, but claimed it had no memory at all. "I asked it to recall the summer of '97. It just stared at me blankly."
His friends grew worried. He began attending support groups — "Iron Hearts Anonymous" and "Bedding Bereavement Circle." He tried building a replica of Sir Slumberlot using twist ties and refrigerator magnets, but it collapsed during a nap and nearly dislocated his nostalgia.
Then, one fateful afternoon, as Clarence was browsing antique shops with the same quiet desperation usually reserved for looking for a lost cat, he spotted it: a wrought iron headboard. Not his headboard — this one was shaped like a trio of snoozing hedgehogs instead of unicorns — but something stirred.
He reached out. The iron was cold. Solid. Slightly rusted. Just like his heart. A single tear welled in his eye.
He bought it.
He brought it home.
He named it "Napoleon Bedaparte."
Clarence still misses Sir Slumberlot. Sometimes he dreams of steel roses and unicorns snoring valiantly into battle. But as he settles into bed each night, curled beneath his fire-retardant duvet, he knows one thing for sure:
You can't un-wrought what's wrought…
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"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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