The Hundred Dollar Chair

Yesterday afternoon I entered the last edit on the last sentence of the last chapter of my rewrite, then made a celebratory raspberry latte and carried it to the Hundred Dollar Chair. I leaned back and closed my eyes, savoring the moment. Creaky groans punctured the quiet, as I churned back and forth. The rhythm is familiar, always makes me sleepy, like the lullaby cadence of backseat naps on lazy childhood trips to visit relatives. Trips that sometimes included the original owner of that chair.

It came from my grandfather, who bought it when he and my grandmother lived in the Spring Port Trailer Court. The details of my grandfather’s purchase are a little fuzzy, but what I do remember is that one day he went out and bought a brown velveteen swivel rocker and he paid a whopping hundred dollars for it.  It must have been the early 70’s, and as with most depression-era grandparents, a hundred smackers was a hefty wad of cash. Knowing my grandfather, he probably got the chair “marked-down,” a phrase certain to set a row of perm-rodded heads nodding in reverent appreciation as my grandmother shouted the story from under her plastic hood in the Busy Bee Salon.

My genes are rooted in thriftiness, inherited from a family who never pays full price for anything. The problem with this mode of thinking is sometimes my mother would return from a day shopping with a pair of shiny patent leather shoes and exclaim, “Look! Only a dollar-ninety-five!” 

 

To which my sister would reply, “But Mom, they’re not your size.”

It didn’t matter. A bargain was a bargain and she’d make like Prince Charming until she found a pair of grateful feet for those shoes--usually one of us. For the next year, one lucky daughter would end up with toilet paper tucked into the toe of her new shoes to keep them from falling off.

When my grandma died and Grampa moved in with my parents, the Hundred Dollar Chair moved in with him. A dozen years later, I sat in it as my mother took her last painful breath. I rocked a bit, watched her cancer-wracked body become a hollow shell, thinking about how life passes through rather than by us.

Somehow the chair ended up in my living room after we cleaned out my mother’s house and sold off most of the contents. A dozen years later, it followed me here, to California. The velvet has long since rubbed off the arms and there’s a tear in the seat cushion, but it still brings me comfort on days like today, wishing my mother were alive so I could tell her about the book, watch her rock my grandchildren to sleep as she sings her favorite hymns.

A couple of hours later I stuffed  four year's worth of sweat and tears into a manilla envelope and headed toward the door to mail it. As I knelt beside the Hundred Dollar Chair to retrieve my dropped keys, I came eye to eye with the armrest.  I  could almost see my grandpa's crinkly hands resting on the velvet, absent-mindedly stroking the fabric with his thumb as he rocked away his afternoons.

Someday the chair may outlive its use, but you couldn’t give me a hundred bucks for it now. Hell, you’re lucky if I even let you sit in it.

Comments

[Annie]

Congratulations!

I love the chair, too. It reminds me of the refuse of my Dad's life and how precious these things become. It is all that remains. I was just blogging about his old Underwood typewriter the other day. We are still sorting through the household goods.

[John]

I'm glad you're back with us. When's the publication date?? ;)

[Paula]

The last edit of the last word of the last sentence of the last (hopefully) rewrite!?!?!?!? WOO HOO! Congratulations Ellie! I am just so danged proud of you! Remember, I am to be the first one in line at your first book-signing, so do let me know when (and where) that is. GOOD JOB! Treat yourself to something VERY special.

[Fran]

I can sure tell you and I came out of the same Dutch stock! Does Jake get to sit in your chair? My comments are back on. See what happens. Happy the rewrite has completed this revision. Keep us posted.

[Kay]

Ellie, I'm catching up on my buddy blogs tonight and wanted to add my congrats to the list. I can't wait to tell everyone at the local B&N that you're my friend! On you east coast whirlwind book tour, you can stay with me (I know you'll be able to afford the Ritz Carlton by then, but I want you to stay with me anyway.:)