The Mystery of Used Furniture

The nice thing about acquiring used furniture is knowing that each has a story. I had a wooden kitchen table and discovered the four cardinal directions painted on its underside. How had this table been used? I asked the woman who owned it originally, and she had no idea something was painted underneath it.  By whom?  By college boys who had rented rooms in her house?  Had they played a game on it?  What kind?  Cards?  Or held a seance?  Or did it simply feel better when situated with the cardinal corners facing the proper direction?

Then there was a wooden trundle-bed, which didn’t trundle. That is, the lower bed that should have slipped under the higher bed didn’t because a previous owner repaired the frames to the same length. It was among some furniture I’d accumulated from a house I once owned as part of a Christian house ministry.  Once the girl who slept in it complained of an evil spirit inhabiting it.  We passed our hands over the bed, and I felt something.  A density in the air.  I asked the others with me if they felt it, and they did.  We prayed and the spirit left.  The girl could now sleep peacefully in the bed.  After the ministry ended, I kept the higher bed because I enjoyed leaping up into it–it was waist high.  When I married, I hated to part with it because it was narrow, and I loved my husband more.

Some years back, I bought an old-fashioned wooden desk from a friend. My husband and I moved it into our new home.  He sawed the legs short, so we could use the desk with a computer.  That’s the only thing we did to modernize it.  It’s battered and reminds me of a teacher’s desk.  Who owned it before?  My only hint is something written in the bottom of the top drawer.  Whenever I open it up, I see, “Write, you fool.”

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