When my
dad passed away almost ten years ago, his children divided up his
furniture. I was the recipient of two
circa-1969 mustard-colored vinyl chairs and to say they weren't attractive would be a compliment.
Since then, they’ve lived in our finished basement, for the most part, out
of sight out of mind. In truth, they
were a better quality furniture then we’d find today, but the cost to have them reupholstered
would have been prohibitive. Over the years,
my husband and I talked about getting rid of them, but I couldn’t do it. The last time I saw my grandfather he was
sitting in one of those chairs. During one of the last visits I had with my father, he had the other stacked with paperbacks he’d read, and I returned home with John D. McDonald and Elmore
Leonard. Those books are still on my
shelf.
But still, sometimes you have to broom sweep the fragments
from life to start things looking fresh again and when the pile of unused "stuff" we’d been collecting behind
the false wall of our basement expanded beyond its assigned pallet, it was time
to clear it out. We spent a week
hauling things out to the garage, polishing and pricing for a Saturday yard
sale. Anything that didn’t sell would
become a charitable donation, or go to the dump. Nothing was allowed back into the house.
When my husband mentioned selling the chairs, my
stomach dropped. But the night before the sale, I agreed
it was time to let them go. Early the
next morning, we washed them down, placed them at the bottom of the driveway. We situated a coffee table with a basket of dried flowers on it between them, thinking the chairs would be perfect for a college dorm room,
or a graduate apartment. We figured they’d
be the first thing to go.
Except they weren’t.
By 11:00, I dropped the prices. At noon, I dropped them again. The coffee table went, but still, no one looked at the chairs. Every time my husband looked down the driveway he said, “I’m not lugging those things down to the
basement again.”
The yard sale ended at 1:00.
All the while we packed and organized the unsold items for charity,
people trickled up our driveway. Most of these late-in-the-gamers made a
purchase, but not a one looked at the chairs.
I thought about it hard, but even I didn’t want to haul them back
downstairs. At 4:00 I carted them street side, marked them “free” and left for
the grocery store. There a neighbor found
me. “Those chairs at the bottom of your
driveway. Can I store them in my garage
for my son? He just rented an apartment
in the city.”
A half hour later, they were gone. Lesson learned. Sentiment may be priceless, but butt-ugly
needs to be free. I picture the chairs,
sitting in some bare-bones apartment enjoying their new lease on life.
Somewhere, my grandfather and my father are elbowing each other
in the ribs. “Can you believe she thought
about keeping them?”
