Four Chairs

I always keep four chairs around my dining room table. When I was using a small, square table, two chairs were enough. Then, I kept the other chairs against the wall, for when they were needed. Since I’ve had my larger round table, four chairs are better. Any less, and the chair-to-table ratio seems off.

There is a desk chair nearby, that can be pulled into service if necessary, and a folding chair up in the studio that I can grab in a pinch. Most of the time, though, four chairs is more than enough. My purse usually sits on one chair; another keeps my journal, sketch book and current reading material close at hand. That leaves one chair for me, and one to offer company, in case my cousin Bob stops in for a cup of coffee.

For years, my chairs were ones I had picked out of a dumpster on the Michigan State University campus, more than thirty years ago. They were a nondescript brown with worn vinyl seats…but free! I painted them white, and covered the seat cushions with dark fabric. Years later, I repainted them matte black, and used camel-colored corduroy for the seats. They were good, sturdy chairs. Even as joints loosened and rungs broke away, they served me well.

Serendipity plays a big part in most of my furniture acquisitions. The metal framed double bed I have upstairs, my husband and I picked up for $10.00 from the side of the road. My “best chair” for many years was one my Dad had snagged from the curb, someone else’s discard. After years of use near the wood stove in his garage, he handed it down to Aunt Katie, where it found a home in her garage, before she gave it to me. In my house, it held a place of honor in the living room!

My small square dining table had been a gift from my Dad, salvaged from a bar. My friend, Bill, refinished it for me. Another friend, Les, covered the top with white tiles. The large round dining table I use now was the clothes-folding table from the laundry area of my childhood home. And, of course, I already mentioned the dining chairs pulled from a dumpster.

When I started volunteering at the resale shop, I kept watch for a good set of chairs. I didn’t have anything in particular in mind; I wasn’t in a hurry to find something. I was waiting for that special magic. One day a couple years ago, a wooden table and four chairs came in. It didn’t strike me as anything special until a customer came through wanting only the table. No, it was only being sold as a set, she was told. Disappointed, she said she needed only the table.

I went and took a closer look at the chairs. Was this magic? Maybe. They were nice chairs. Solid joints, no broken rungs. Four chairs. We split the cost. The customer got the table she wanted, and I got a set of chairs. They matched my table, and suited the purpose.

Last week, I stopped in at the resale shop. i wanted to say hello to the ladies working there, and explain that I wasn’t quite ready to come back to work. I bought three good bath towels, a pair of blue jeans and a blouse. Then I wandered out to the barn, just to see what furniture had come in. There, amid lamp stands, coffee tables, and one remarkable Chippendale desk, sat a humble group of wooden bentwood chairs. Red!

When I was twenty, living in a little lake cottage with my husband and new baby girl, my Dad got his hands on about forty wooden bentwood chairs. He brought me six or eight of them. At that time in my life, my furniture aspirations leaned toward brand new things. I’d clipped pictures from my Mother’s S&H Green Stamp catalogue of exactly what I wanted. My style of choice was French Provincial. For the kitchen, I imagined a built-in booth, like ones I’d admired in the best fast food restaurants. Those bentwood chairs were not my style.

I kept four of them on our little sun porch, which was more often used for garage-type storage than for actual sun porch activities. A couple of them sat out in the yard, probably through all seasons. When we moved out of that cottage and into a townhouse in Lapeer, I’m sure I just left those chairs behind. It took a while, but I eventually came to realize their worth, and regret my careless disregard. I’ve had fifty years to think about it. And here, in the resale shop on Beaver Island, painted in my favorite color, were four wooden bentwood chairs! All four for only twenty-five dollars! This was serendipity! This is magic!

Changes

I feel like I somehow missed the month of September. I heard someone say, last week, something about being at the end of the month. No way! I ran to check the calendar. Wow! I would have sworn it was somewhere around the beginning of the month. Where did the time go?

When I take the time to think about it, I remember wishing my grandson Brandon a happy birthday on September the 13th. It was right around that same time that I got sick. After that, the time went by in a fog. I spent the better part of every day asleep, or laying awake in bed without the energy even to page through a magazine. I didn’t go to work; I didn’t even get out to walk the dogs. All of the subtle changes that mark the passage of time and seasons escaped me.

Until, suddenly, it was the end of September. When I ventured outside to walk around the yard, I was shocked. I gathered a basket of ripe tomatoes. The leaves of blackberry brambles, which had recently been offering a few cups of blackberries every day, had turned bright red. Berries had dried on the vines. I had missed the best of the season! Then, like a gift, there was one branch bowing into the yard, loaded with large, ripe berries. I gathered a heaping handful, and savored every one. They tasted all the sweeter for their scarcity!

Another day, feeling stronger, I took the dogs on a slow walk down the road. Fall has arrived! Though we have a long season of changing colors yet to look forward to, the process has definitely begun. Cotter’s Trail is strewn with yellow leaves. The ferns have changed from green to shades of ochre. And, here and there, bright red leaves stand out n the landscape.

One big change when it comes to walking the dogs, is a new ride for Rosa Parks. As her vision deteriorated, and her joints reflected her age, it had become more and more difficult to convince the little dog to come along for our walk. She’d start out with good intentions, but then often turn around, to sit at the end of the driveway to wait for our return. She was missing out on the exercise, sure, but also on the fresh air and exciting smells along the way. A few weeks ago, I ordered a dog stroller.

We’re still getting used to it. Some days, Rosa Parks will happily ride the whole distance. Other times, she scrambles to get down, and I push an empty stroller down the road, while trying to keep track of my little blind dog. Either way, it is working to get her out there, which is better than having her stay home alone!

Finally, now that we’ve officially moved on to October, I changed out the display on my dining room table. First, I covered the table with my faded black tablecloth, and centered a lacy doily on top. My “haunting” bouquet is made up of dried poppy stalks, wilted tomato vines, and some brown-eyed Susans that are well past their prime. A couple little pumpkins and a few candles complete the arrangement. That’s enough changes for me to get used to right now!