18 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} built one large one. In that room was the little rocking chair, and the same nightstand between their beds that had separated Danny’s and my beds. And underneath that same nightstand—reminiscent of our 1960s-bedroom set-up—was the slightly beat-up cowboy trash can. I appreciated the resemblance of the room to that of my childhood, even if my sons did not. I thought having my children at home would be a forever thing, but I was wrong—I guess happily. My boys grew up, moved away and have their own homes—their old room empty and longing. By then, the trashcan had grown a bit wearier, with more rust and more dents after another generation of Citron boys had abused it, whether as a basket for a ball game or from an accidental kicking. One day, after the boys were long gone—though their room stayed exactly the same—I looked at the poor little trash can, and the cowboy seemed sad. Two generations had given him much enjoyment, and now he was just a lonely old ranch hand. I decided that he needed a new home. And while the nightstand and rocking chair are now in my grandson Evan’s room, I moved the trashcan to my study. And there the slightly rusty, dented, old (vintage, now?) trashcan sits, chipped paint and all, in a prominent spot where I can see it whenever I’m in the room. With many grandchildren running through my study and with me spending a fair amount of time there, I’m happy to report that the cowboy’s spirits have been lifted considerably, his smile has broadened, and he seems ready for some new western adventures. When I was three years old, my parents moved me from the small room next to their downstairs bedroom to our upstairs. There I shared a rather large room with my brother who was five years older. Danny, being a sweet, kind boy (and a sweet, kind man today) welcomed me into his room without a moment’s hesitation. In our large Southern-style home in Amarillo, Texas, the upstairs was the province of us children, with two large bedrooms with walk-in closets, a spacious play area and a bathroom for us all to share. Our older sister Shelley had her own room, and Danny and I had the other. The three of us got along as well then as we do now: in sincere harmony. I, of course, did drive my brother crazy at times, like when he was napping on the playroom couch, and I shot a small cap gun into his ear and scared him half to death. I remember with some clarity Danny chasing me through our home before tackling me and calling me some inhospitable names. Remarkably, he never threw a punch, which he rightly deserved to do. Sharing the bathroom was never an issue, partly because Danny and I spent as little time in there as possible. We had to be yelled at by our father to take a shower and we did not spend much time brushing our teeth or hair. Shelley had the bathroom mostly to herself and the drawers were filled with girl stuff. I suppose that made her glad that I wasn’t a girl though I’m sure she had hoped differently when I was born. Our room had two beds, with carefully matching bedspreads, separated by a small wooden nightstand. Alongside the far wall were two dressers, one cabinet and a desk, all matching. Near the beds was a chaise lounge, perfect for tossing our clothes and other belongings. Next to the foot of my bed was a child’s rocking chair that stayed in place long after I’d outgrown it. Three windows brought in plenty of light and provided great views of our neighborhood. Underneath the small nightstand was a trash can. Oval, made of metal, it featured a cowboy riding his horse with his six-shooter pulled and ready for action. Behind him were mountains, clouds, yellow turf and a red band at the bottom with western icons. My brother and I managed to preserve most of the items in that bedroom. Dan has most of the dressers and cabinets, while the small rocking chair and the nightstand ended up with me, along with the trash can, which long ago started showing its age with some rust here and a dent there. As it just so happens, my boys were not so different from Danny and me. When my son Josh, seven years older than his brother Coby, had the choice to have his own room in the home we were building, he asked if he could share it with his brother. So instead of two small bedrooms, we the cowboy on the can
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