Never Just Chairs

Our parents are lovely people and provided us with lovely things when we were children. Comfortable & well-furnished homes. Our own bedrooms. Good public educations. Happy & joyful childhoods.

A divorce rocked my world at the end of high school. My parents made sure that as little of that list changed for us as was possible. At the end of the divvying up, my mother ended up with these chairs that had lived in our large living room for years and years. We decided to take them out of her house and get her new recliner handles but didn’t realize that there are a number of side effects when sitting in a recliner for so long.

This year, in late June,  my mother sent my sister Casey and me a short text that said, “Curb?” The resounding answer from both my sister and me was a combination of, “Wait.” “I want to see them,” “We might want them,” and, “Are the back pillows still around?”

They are still at her house awaiting a final decision. Mothers are patient souls.

Our parents both worked outside the home when were young. We were known to move furniture around in the afternoon after school. These chairs were frequently stripped of their bottom cushions, which were heaved across the floor to jump to and from to get away from the hot lava that was the Persian rug as we searched for relief from oncoming disaster that could only be found on the cool hardwood floors beyond.

When stripped of their cushions and placed seat to seat, these chairs were a houseboat that could hold all three of us on the coursing river – also the Persian rug – as we moved downstream. Never really physically moving, these chairs delivered us to the soft banks of the Amazon. The safe harbor was, amazingly, the seat cushions thrown “ashore” while imaginations ran wild. There were three girls in that large room, and they were constantly seeking shelter and controlling their destinies from the safety of two armless modern chairs.

But the day my sister Casey decided they were pommel horses is one that will live in my mind forever. It was a year of summer Olympic Games, and we had been in front of the jumbo Zenith TV for hours every night watching every bit of what ABC was dishing out.

The chairs were moved apart from each other, a rare occurrence. End tables and coffee tables were scooted far beyond kicking range. Back and seat cushions were removed and placed as “mats” in case the gymnast in question should fall.

Casey retreated to her bedroom and returned in her Speedo one-piece, which was red that year. She had not bothered to powder her hands, nor was she wearing gloves. Not to be thwarted by lack of actual pommels, my sister mounted the horse.

And mounted the horse again. And swung her legs. And held her wrists firm. And remounted the horse.

When it was decided that the real problem was the upholstery – a nubby Jack Lenor Larsen weave – a sister was dispatched to get a twin sheet and another sister was sent for clothespins. A smoother, more delicate surface would do the trick, of course. With the sheet tucked tightly and pinned discreetly so as to not alarm the judges, Casey was ready for the official beginning of the competition.

And Casey mounted the horse. And swung her legs. And remounted the horse. Over and over and over and never once getting legs and arms into the constant movement and hand-over-hand precision that was needed for a gold medal. Or any of the other medals.

Lindsay (my youngest sister) and I watched from the bleachers, also known as the stairs leading to the second floor. Casey’s determination was unbelievable. That she looked like the amazing men on TV was a given to her. Her power was not to be trifled with. She was a bundle of raw muscle at that age, and you could see it in the line of her jaw as she set it and willed herself to become a premier pommel horse gymnast.

I don’t remember Lindsay or me mounting the pommel horses. Our swimsuits were different from hers, and to not be on the red team would have been tantamount to treason.

I know these chairs will never see the curb. They will find a place in one of our homes. If the proud gymnast from 35 years ago does not keep them, I will. And late at night on the day they return from the upholsterer – and while my husband is sleeping – I will put them together, seat to seat, and fold myself into a position that finds me sleeping in the berth of our yacht on the open seas. I will christen her the SS Sisterhood.

p.s. The definition of pommel horse: a gymnastics apparatus for swinging and balancing feats that consists of a padded rectangular or cylindrical form with two pommels on the top and that is supported in a horizontal position above the floor.

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