Ever wonder how our Illustrious little adventurer unwinds after a long bout of travels? Me either, but none the less it’s a story. Oh, seen the chair, I swear it snickered at me. – Editor
Terry here, home from another whirlwind adventure, and ready to tell the tale of my most prized possession.
As you’ve heard told, my house is sparse. I spend so much time away that I’ve adapted what you might call the minimalist’s lifestyle.
All I need is a bed to sleep in, a desk to write at, a light to read by and enough clothes to get me through a month of backpacking. None of which are elaborate, ornate, or exceedingly comfortable.
None that is, but my chair. I found my chair while trekking across the greater Midwest. I, too, had been bitten by the antique bug that swept the nation, or at least those who watched public television.
I found myself in the type of bazaar repeated across the world regardless of longitude or latitude. The shop was filled with treasures- frightening dolls, kitschy candlesticks, waterlogged violins, Happy Meal toys and real silverware; every inch of open space stacked three layers deep. Ah, nostalgia.
I was inspecting an old sign when a shot of burnt sienna caught my eye. I turned to see an old chair, circa 1968, underneath piles of magazines and what appeared to be an ancient thigh master. The chair was oversized, with a rip along the side panel. The orange crushed velvet fabric was soft as I sank into the seat, and through the bottom of the chair.
My legs kicked frantically as the shop keeper came to pull me from the jaws of upholstery death. After several attempts I was sent hurling forward into a display of ceramic tchotchkes that now reside on a shelf in my kitchen, glued together without much care.
Continuing with his “you broke it, you bought it” attitude, I was now the owner of a very ugly, very broken chair. I was thrilled.
With a bit of foam, some upholstery needles, several band aids, and a weekend course in chair caning, “The Orange Monster” as I call it has been my home within my home for a decade.
There is something otherworldly when I sit in my chair. No matter the stresses of the day, or the number of miles on the pedometer, I breath easy, sink into my chair and all is forgotten. It’s good to be home!