When interior design starts with the heart
My living room features a fairly uncomfortable sofa and chair.
They look fine, but the truth is 20 years ago I bought them because the room was empty and I bought what I could afford, not what I wanted. There is a reason they don’t look particularly worn: nobody sits on them for long.
My friend Arlene has the opposite problem. Or, rather, a chair in her home does. In her sunroom there is a leather chair and matching ottoman.
It’s old and supple like a worn baseball glove. It’s perfect. It was her late husband John’s, and Ari and Christer used to spend a lot of time watching sports in that room, with that man, who was sitting in that chair.
John died in 2011. I had to look that up, and I’m stunned at how long it’s been. Some people pass away and the waves close over the event, quietly. John’s life — and death — forever changed most of the people who had crossed his path. My sons lost a role model and mentor. Sure, it was disguised as football games and barbecues and excuses to have a beer but in reality, the time they had with John was so much more; he was the grandfather they’d never had, the male leader to balance the coterie of strong females they’d been surrounded by since birth.
A few months ago as I sat with Arlene in the sunroom, a decent red keeping my innards warm while the wood snapping in the fireplace took care of the rest of me. She looked up and clapped her hands.
“Oh! I’ve ordered a new chair for in here. It’s custom and won’t be ready till the spring but I was wondering, do you want this chair for your place?”
She indicated the leather chair, THE leather chair, which she was sitting in. Arlie understands why I have decidedly mediocre furniture in my living room: I like to acquire things with a story, or some meaning. My dining room table has a story, so does my father’s wine press that sits in the corner of my living room, hosting a succession of plants I kill; the couch in the rec room was once Gord Downie’s. The paintings and pictures aren’t there to merely take up space, but to remind me where I’ve been and who I love.
I looked at my friend and smiled. Arlene was my high school English teacher and she often notes I haven’t changed much since she met me 42 years ago. “Really? I asked her. “Are you sure?” She batted away my question the way she does most of my concerns. She is one of the most generous people I know, but that chair, unlike my uncomfortable green sofa, is laden with memories.
“Of course I’m sure! You should see the new one. I can’t wait,” she giggled like a kid.
And last week, she called to tell me to come get the old chair and check out her new one.
Ari is still here, boomeranged home for a bit with his kitten, Frankie. We have a new fireplace installed in the living room and when Ari saw John’s chair in front of it one day after work, he skidded to a comic book stop.
“Oh, man, seriously? I love that chair. I am so jealous,” he said.
A little later, I went to say good night and couldn’t find him in the rec room. He was downstairs with the fireplace on, sitting in John’s chair, feet up, laptop open, stereo playing.
I will be carefully watching what he packs when he next moves out.