A few nights ago, I climbed into my bed and felt this utter sense of belonging. Sometimes, I'll stay up and watch TV, or more likely, fall asleep while watching TV and then end up in bed, only to lie awake for hours. I gingerly crawled into bed on this particular night. I wondered why I didn't come to bed sooner when memories of this inherent feeling of belonging and comfort swelled my mind.

I was fortunate to have a grandmother who lived not too far away. During my earliest years, she lived on Long Island, then in the 70s she moved to Brooklyn, New York. If you don’t or can’t live in Norway, then it must be Brooklyn!

She was the epitome, at least to my generation, of what a grandmother should look like. Now, a grandmother looks- more like me. I loved spending time with her and occasionally slept over at her house. It was anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half by car, and my mother had to drop me off, which meant two round trips for her. What a trooper! I do not remember everything, but a profound sense of how I felt lingers.

My time spent at my Grandmother's was nothing more than routine. There were no special fanfare or outings except a possible visit with a neighbor or a Tante. The day was simple. It would start with the wafting of bacon creeping down the hall, a complete breakfast followed by a leisurely morning. I probably curled up in an oversized chair and watched cartoons while she cleaned the breakfast dishes. Not much later, we would head out for a brisk walk to two different bakeries, one Danish and one Norwegian. She would buy bread from one bakery and cake from another. On the way back, there would be a stop at the newspaper shop for essentials, a newspaper, naturally, and candy, of course! I remember the shop near her home as very small, narrow, and dark, with a high counter that I could not reach. Here, she made her nominal purchase, necessities for her purse, likely some butterscotch or perhaps a package of Lunden's cough drops. These simple tasks were all it took to feel a part of her life. Today's kids would likely be bored out of their minds, but for me, I was utterly content. When evening came, we would sit and enjoy a large bowl of Howard Johnsghon's ice cream- either vanilla or chocolate chip. Once 10:00 struck, the announcer of the nighttime news said, "Do you know where your children are?" would signal that it was time to go to bed. Bedtime is where my recent memory landed.

I remember pulling back the heavy bedspread with woolen blankets below the surface. Everything was taught, tight and tucked. It required effort to crawl into bed. But oh, the feeling once I arrived. I felt so snug and secure as I lulled myself to sleep in the warmth and protection of my Grandmother and her home. It's the essence of what I felt the other night when I escaped into my bed and captured this memory. As fleeting as that memory was, another one entered my thoughts. It was a similar feeling that leaped into my mind. In the stillness of the night, I went far away—this time, across the Atlantic to my grandparent's home in Norway.

Both sets of grandparents were Norwegian, but my dad's folks lived in Norway. I am deeply rooted in my ancestral home. Each summer, not long after I arrived at the farmhouse, and immediately after a brief and often awkward greeting with my grandparents, (mainly a language barrier), I would race my brothers upstairs and claim my room. Since I was the only girl, I had a room all to myself. It probably was a little smaller, but that was fine with me. If the bed were tucked under the eve of the roof, I would move it so I could be by the window and look out to the barn. I would unpack my suitcase and set up my room as if it were my own, and I suppose it was while I lived there those summer months. There would be other moments of excitement, running to the barn, exploring the fields and the creek down below, but this inescapable feeling would come upon me at night.

This bed, my bed, was not laden with heavy blankets and tucked-in sheets as it was in my Brooklyn Grandmother’s house. This bed was light, fluffy, and very loose. There was a bottom sheet that had no elastic, so you would have to do your best to tuck it under the mattress. The only covering was a fluffy down comforter with a cotton duvet tied at one end to keep the down comforter intact. It was very possible that a foot would escape the warmth of the covering, but a quick retraction of your leg would bring you back into the heat of the down feathers. At night, I would crack the window open to smell the hay from the barn and inhale the night air as I pulled the comforter to my chin. As I nestled in an old bed in a drafty room with wooden walls and wooden floor beams from 1900, I would feel completely at home. This place was so far away and yet so near. I knew I was meant to be there; it was a part of me, and I belonged.

Here too, as the sun rose, so did the smell of bacon. The lingering comfort I felt was expressed in provision. There was no walking to the store, but most of my shared time with my BesteMor was in the kitchen watching her bake Norwegian rolls, waffles, and many, many meals for all of us and anyone else that came through the door to enjoy. Everyone belonged here.

It’s a wonderful feeling to belong. The warmth and comfort of a bed are just one feeling of belonging. Another is being a part of a family, whether near or far. It's a beautiful feeling to be included and ultimately wanted. Sometimes, we need to allow ourselves to wander into memories. I'm sure they're all not as bright and vivid as a technicolor movie, but if you can garner up the emotion you felt, maybe it will bring you back to a place that once was special and made you feel like you belonged.