The Tale of the Traveling Chair

 

Do you have a favorite piece of furniture? And does it move from place to place? In our family we adore this chair. Its history is just a bit muddled. I'm not sure where it came from originally. My daughter, Erin, acquired it in Kansas City when a neighbor moved away and didn't want it anymore. It is really a most comfy place to sit even though it was a little shabby originally. Eventually I moved it to my house in Des Moines. We had it reupholstered in this tapestry fabric and it immediately became even more valuable. Most people will just buy something new and be money ahead, but this chair was family. And I never buy new when I can have something old. The chair was right at home in the attic "library" of my 1918 Craftsman style cottage.

It was an ideal chair for reading and I loved that it was surrounded by books. This was the kind of house that looked small from the outside but it had lots of space. I was sure it would be our forever home. There were nooks and crannies and built in cupboards and shelves. My grandbabies called it the house of drawers and doors. We moved here after raising our family in a nineteenth century house on a country acreage. Even though our little bungalow was my favorite house ever, I chose to sell it and move on after Jim died. This was a perfect home for two, and much too sad for me when it became a house for one.

The favorite chair next landed in the second story apartment of a Tudor styled brick house. The space was much smaller, but the floor plan was almost the same as the main floor of my cottage. This house was built in 1925 and the exterior looked like it belonged in a fairy tale.

This was another place where I planned to stay, but after two years I very unexpectedly became a House Mom to thirty young men in a new fraternity building that felt like a hotel. There was no room for my own furniture in my little space, so almost everything I owned went into storage. Little by little, I visited the storage unit and brought things back. I became an expert at vertical decorating because my two little rooms had 12-foot ceilings. This was the only new place I have ever lived. I tried my best to make it feel homey.

Although I've moved two more times since my frat house years, that was the last time I owned The Chair. When John and I married in 2019, I moved into an old farmhouse where he had lived for nearly thirty years. That house was filled with items and memories that weren't mine. Although it was a nice old house, I was happy to buy another. Now we live in a one story ranch style practical house that works for us. We think it is perfect for our second story. It feels new to us after all our old houses but was built in 1986. I do miss the whimsy of older houses but the benefits are best for us now.

 My middle daughter, Meg, took it to her 1906 Queen Anne style home, complete with tower, winding stairs, and lots of space. I'm sure it was happy there. But Meg's house has an abundance of chairs. Eventually, it moved back to Erin again. And now, it's on the move again and its next home will be with Bridget, back in Des Moines. It has truly been a family chair. It's starting to get a little shabby again, and the upholstery may be beginning to fade, but this old chair still holds my heart. 

SAD STORIES

 I have always liked to write. Writing my thoughts is the way I comprehend how I feel. I don't write every day although I would like to. I have the idea that sitting at my desk and writing for two hours every morning would turn me into a "real" writer. Unfortunately for me, all I really want to do in the early mornings is drink coffee.

Someone just told me that she likes reading my work because she finds it comfortable and comforting. I like these definitions. I also want it to be relatable and funny and a little bit whimsical. And sometimes it is heartfelt and heartrending. This is one of those times.

I lost a dear friend a few weeks ago. She was a few years older than I am. She was a mentor as well as a friend. I am sorry that I didn't get to know her sooner. I will always miss her.

This week the granddaughter of one of my friends since childhood died in a tragic auto accident. The circumstances were much like the jury case that troubled me so much just a couple of weeks ago. What price can you put on a life? She was only nineteen. Hers was a life that was barely lived and ended before it should have been finished.

Every death, every funeral reminds us of all the others we have been a part of- our grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, friends, and colleagues. We know in our hearts that we will lose them at some point in time. But we never think that we will outlive our children. And that should not happen.  As I talked to my friend today she said that a tragedy like this was what happened to other people, but not to her family. I remember when those were my thoughts too, before my son died in his sleep at the age of thirty. Yes, every death is a reminder. My mind flashes back to the night I sat at my first husband's bed and cried all night because I knew he was going to be taken off life support the next morning. So young, 19. So young, 30. So young, 62.

I ache for my young friend. I sent her family strength and prayers because Strength is what we need to get us through these times. It is almost required to send prayers. Do prayers help? I don't know. I don't believe that prayers will change an outcome. I lost that faith when my son and husband were taken from us just a few short months apart. I never got it back. I envy those who still have it, but, for me, it's gone.

I've learned some truths since I realized that death is not what happens to other people. Don't worry about having courage and being brave so that others won't be uncomfortable. Cry as much as necessary. Talk. Remember the good times. Tell your stories. Let someone listen. Say their names. Hold on to one another. Scream in a car in a dark parking lot if it helps you feel better. Drink tea. 

Do whatever you need to do. Jim washed and ironed all of our son's shirts because he said that Rich wouldn't want to know they were wrinkled. I slept with my grown son's baby blanket for six months until my husband hid it away. And then he was dead two months later, so I slept with his shirt and the blanket!

My deepest griefs have been several years ago, but they never go away. Funerals always bring them back just like everything happened yesterday. I have learned to be happy again, but it is never an easy journey.

This may not have been comfortable, and certainly not whimsical, but it was a story I needed to share. Be safe everyone. I send us all Strength.

What I'm reading: I'm still enthralled with ancient Rome. Just trying to get through my library books before they are due.