The Stories my Chairs Tell
Most of us have a favorite. A well-placed, well-enjoyed chair is a gift. Their designs and fabrics seemingly beg for us to ‘sit a spell,’ and conversate or be quiet, read or snooze. My chairs come with their own stories. Here’s a few.
My First Adult Chair
At a nail-biting auction in North Miami Beach a hyperspace ago when I was 26, I won the bid for this cane armchair, decades old then. Its elegant lines were covered in shiny, stained jacquard.Little did I know when having this chair recovered that its stuffing was mixed with horsehair. (How’s that for a squeamish detail?)
Move over Pier One wicker, this antique was my first ‘adult’ chair, and likely one of my few good decisions for that decade. I look back at that strange creature called my younger self, and wonder, ‘what in the world was I thinking?’ I made one wrong choice after another until the end of my twenties when I started making far better ones (thank you, motherhood).
This chair and I have grown up together in ways I’d never dreamed, but better than I could ask or imagine.
Book Quote: “Being afraid doesn’t mean you’re making the wrong decision. Being afraid means you’re invested in the outcome. Having faith is trusting God with whatever the outcome is. Even if it’s not the outcome we hoped for” (Kara Isaac, All Made Up).
My Mom’s Bequeathed Chair
My mother was wheelchair-bound by the time my parents moved into their last house. We had many deep chats while she sat in her scooter, and I in her spiffy spindle chair, complete with pastoral print and funky wood spools.
Mom liked planning parties and fun events. Her twin sister was more nuts and bolts. Readying for the ultimate getaway to heaven, my Aunt Gerrie “practically dragged” my mother to the funeral home, insisting that they needed to make plans so we the kids wouldn’t have to. (And thankful the cuzs and I are.)
One day while I visited Mom, she wanted me to write my name on a piece of paper designating the chairs to me. I resisted. But she wasn’t having it. Bess’ honor your mama, friends. And glad I did. To this day, I love being in this chair, complete with the note still taped to the underside, the one where my mother signed her name underneath mine.
How I miss her voice, how I miss her handwriting. How I miss her.
Book Quote: “Through our struggles and pain, much is to be gained in the telling of how we moved forward, not just for our sakes, but those yet to come. After all, love and legacy are the best of what we leave.” (Renee Leonard Kennedy, After the Flowers Die)
The Deacon’s Chair
When I was still an atheist, I did a wild thing and went to church. I participated in a workday the Baptists were--and still are--fond of having, bless our hearts. I had moved up from bustling Miami, Florida to a town of 14,000 people, give or take a funeral, and couldn’t afford to do anything fun. So, scavenging a church basement sounded interesting. And it was free.
We the group of volunteers moved old hymnals and pews, boxes and boxes of who-knows-what and furniture. That’s when I noticed the heavily lacquered chair, one with red-velvet fabric, hidden behind an old furnace.
“Anybody want this beauty?” The pastor joked, as if anyone would take him up on the offer.
“What is it?” I asked, surely giving away my heretical status.
“It’s the old deacon’s chair. Replaced by that other one upstairs.” Sitting near the pulpit, the replacement was an incredibly ornate and detailed chair. “Have mercy,” the old-timers would say. I preferred the simpler one and took the chair home that day. Because it was free.
I learned how determined fifty-year old lacquer was. A lot of steel wool and sanding later, this deacon’s chair was ready for simpler finishes. It’s a funny, surprisingly comfortable chair. Many years have passed since it had been banished to the church’s basement, dethroned from its once stately position, and rediscovered.
Now, it serves as the most moveable chair in my house. The Deacon’s chair sits at the head of the table for family feasts. Holds an extra guest near the fireplace at a bridal shower or get together. Pushing 100, it holds a lot of secrets and still has good legs.
Book Quote: “You are not the sum of your accomplishments or your failures. You have absolutely nothing to prove—not to me, not to your critics, and certainly not to your stepfather. If God had wanted you to be anything other than who and what you are, He would have made you that way.” (Carla Laureano, The Saturday Night Supper Club)
