Three pieces of furniture in my small apartment add style to my home, have intrigued visitors and hold important memories of my past. How and where I got them and what I’ve done with them is a story of significant segments of my life.
The first one I acquired from my mother-in-law in the 1970s. It was a library table that had been in her family for years. Why she gave it to me is a mystery but alI I know is, I saw its potential.
The day I first saw it, this sad looking table showed its age. It had been painted over so many times the finish had wavy bumps. Black paint had been used the last time and the bottom of one of the curved, Flemish Scroll legs had come loose. That was only the beginning; over time all four legs took their turn at unraveling. Each time I taped them together with masking tape thinking, someday I’ll have this table restored.
That rocky marriage and that love/hate mother-in-law are long gone but the table remains with me through many, many moves. Finally, a furniture restorer worked his magic and this lovely oak table became the center of my writing life. I appreciate the grain and purposely keep its surface bare as possible, so its beauty shines through.
The second is a bookcase. For years this musty piece sat in my parents’ living room, off in the corner, filled with old books no one looked at. It too had been painted many times. The finish had ripples from multiple coats. Also, painted black. I wondered if this was some kind of odd tradition I knew nothing about.
Because I was a reader, my mother insisted I should have it. I was concerned since another sister had expressed an interest and I didn’t want to create conflict. So, I deferred twice before finally succumbing to Mom’s pleas. Again, I took it to a restoring expert, who worked his magic once again.
The beautiful oak finish shines and I followed his suggestion to replace the shelves and add beveled glass in each of the two doors; I love the antique door handles that require pushing a small button before pulling the door open.
Finally, there is the chair. This chair was present throughout my childhood. Mother said it was the only chair she could sit in comfortably when she was pregnant. It got lots of use since she was pregnant six times. We began calling it the pregnant chair. And I still do today.
It’s a lovely mahogany chair with carved spindles, curved arms, a swirly, sculpted back and a cushioned seat. I recall Dad recovering it a couple of times and he was no craftsman. Mom gave me the chair and it moved with me often sporting several of my own makeshift covers.
An antique dealer was very interested in it and advised me never to have it refinished since that would reduce its value. This made me love it even more. Finally, I took it to an upholstery repair shop who gave it the royal treatment.
Looking back, I marvel how I valued these neglected, worn-out pieces enough to haul them from one home to another apartment so many times. Glad I did because now I have three prized possessions, fully restored to their former grandeur, that make my home warm and cozy. I use and enjoy each piece daily and love telling their story when guests inquire. I feel like the rescuer of tattered treasures.
A Million Little Memoirs 