I recently ordered a chair from our local furniture store. I have been making some attempts at decorating the master bedroom, and envisioned this chair to be a place where I would curl up and be inspired to write. I chose upholstery woven with words in elaborate script. Not just any words though; these are French words! I can’t speak a lick of French, but it’s inspiring nonetheless.
The chair was delivered this morning. But am I curled up in it with quill pen in hand and a luxuriously bound leather journal upon my lap? No, I’m sitting in my vehicle, (waiting for the kids to get out of school) trying desperately to see any typos under the glare on my computer screen. I picture myself as the type to lounge on a brocade settee while femininely smoking from a delicate cigarette holder. The reality is that I’m more likely to bum a cigarette from the other employees taking a smoke break behind the Piggly-Wiggly. Of course for either scenario to happen I would have to take up smoking, but you get my point.
I bought the chair with the idea, “if you build it, they will come.” In other words, if I create a serene and beautiful environment in which to write, the words will flow effortlessly. I’m sure as soon as I clear out the boxes, sort through the kids’ clothes spilling from the laundry basket, and find a good place to put the ever mounting stack of papers, I will find serenity in this room. Oh, and dust. I definitely need to dust.
Or maybe I’ll just watch another episode of whatever happens to be on HGTV.
Thinking back on the significant chairs in my life, the first one I can visualize was actually part of a set. Back the very early 70s, mom and dad acquired a kitchenette with high back, black-vinyl chairs. They coordinated nicely with the black vinyl couch and loveseat in our living room. The nice thing about black vinyl is that you can easily repair any tears with electrical tape. Truly, it is dream furniture.
The significant chair of that set was the one my dad sat in during our evening meals. The frame was slightly bent where he would lean back after dinner, hands tucked behind his head, and a toothpick in his mouth. From my point of view, life was simple and relaxing in those days. I knew enough to realize that having a daddy that actually came home every night was something for which to be grateful. Even if he did bend chair frames and repair holes with black electrical tape.
The next chair I remember was also part of a set. Only this set was in my grandmother’s living room, and I helped pick it out. Nothing screams 1974 like two swivel rockers upholstered in fabric of gargantuan orange roses with olive green leaves. Somehow, they coordinated perfectly with the rust-colored, tweed, sofa sleeper.
In spite of an ever growing brood of grandchildren, in 1989 all of that furniture showed a remarkably small amount of wear and tear. (Thank goodness, because my dad might have showed up with his electrical tape.) I was just entering the rough and tumble adult world, but always found solace in going out to my grandparents’ house and sitting across from them while we watched T.V. I still associate Alec Trebek’s voice with a pocket knife and thick, yellow skin tumbling from Grandpa’s heels to the floor in front of his chair.
Grandpa passed away that year. Part of the insurance money was used wisely on nice, comfy, recliners in an updated shade of brown. As my own little family grew, and I became an exhausted young mother, I would look forward to our weekly visits to Grandma. She would entertain the kids from one chair while I snoozed in the other. The last time we sat there together, it was like a party. Nothing says, “Good times with Grandma,” like a giant case of White Castles sitting on the open foot rest of her recliner.
I like to think that my new chair will become significant to my children. Hopefully, because they will remember seeing me sit in it while drafting a best-selling novel. But most likely, it will be because they had to dig through the laundry piled on it in order to find clean underwear.
Leave a Reply