Memories for Sale

     

My grandparents’ living room in Tulsa was long, with French doors leading to the screened porch at one end and a floor-to-ceiling window at the other end, all the better to catch those elusive breezes in pre-airconditioning Oklahoma.

          My grandfather had been a successful geologist with what was then called Sun Oil Company, and his house reflected his success. My mother once said he’d built it during the depression when construction costs were low. It was sizeable, but not oversized, of white painted brick that grew even prettier over the years as the red brick emerged.

          Once the window unit went into the spot behind my grandmother’s rose brocade Queen Anne armchair, the living room became a sanctuary for reading on those hot summer days. Grampy’s office, where he pored over his oil reports, was also fairly cool but the big green armchair in there was faux leather and you could find yourself stuck to it after a few chapters.

My Uncle Sam had been bed-ridden with polio for years and as a result the house was filled to the brim with books. When my mother, my sister, and I would stay for the summer, I’d head right to the bookshelves that lined my uncle’s old room over the garage or root around in its cupboard under the eaves.

          My reading spot was usually the blue brocade wingback that sat in front of the gate-leg table holding Granny’s set of matching Jane Austen, which she re-read every five years.

          We were a family of readers and I had carte blanche to read anything I could find. I spent many hours in that wingback, sitting sideways with my legs draped over the arms, reading Andersonville, Pogo, Gone With the Wind, James Thurber, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. 

          After my grandparent’s death, the wingback moved to my mother’s small apartment for several years, its blue brocade changed to a loud yellow and orange 70s pattern. When my mother died, it left Oklahoma for my Massachusetts living room, the loud yellow changed to a smaller rose and blue pattern. It isn’t quite the same size as when I was eleven, but it’s still a comfortable chair.

          Due to space limitations and re-sorting furniture here in our new place, the chair is moving on – I hope. It’s a race to the finish between Craig’s List and Let Go, first come, first served.

          If I’ve learned anything from downsizing, it’s that the object is not where the memories are stored.  

Post Script:

Last night the chair traveled off to a new life in another corner of the state. I wish I’d taken pictures – it was a case of optimism over physics. Somehow two 20 something young women manage to jam this large and dignified wingback and stool into the back of a Prius. The back latch rattled as they left and we hoped they all got there in one piece after their hour-plus ride through a driving rain.