Chairs

Or, Meditations on Time

Mostly sanded chair in my garage workshop with tools.

I bought them twenty-four years ago, two for five dollars each. I loved their shape, the armrests a perfect half circle, but even then, I knew I wanted to refinish them. The wood stain appeared to be between fiesta orange and flame gold, appropriate for mid-century chairs, but I wanted something darker and less, well, less shiny. Their springy cushions were upholstered in off-white vinyl, which a quarter of a century later, has started to crack. For a long time, the chairs had places of honor at the head of our dining room table, but they were relegated to the garage when we got a matching set of slat-backed chairs several years ago.

The chairs were crafted before I was born. I bought them before my daughter was born. Now I am finally tackling the project of sanding, staining, and reupholstering them because I am giving them to my daughter as she prepares to move out of our house and into her first apartment. I am fitting them to the time. They have, by their very existence, fit me to time as well. I no longer pull one up to the side of the highchair or the crazy contraption that attached to the dining room table to feed the baby. They no longer host booster seats. I no longer drape them with blankets to create play forts.

The time it is taking me to complete the project is—as such projects always are for me—a surprise. So far, I’ve spent about four hours sanding down the finish on one chair. It still needs a bit more. There is still the second one to go. Then will come the new espresso-colored stain and the gorgeous moss green velvet fabric held on by brass upholstery tacks (as well as a few secure but hidden staples). I have—again, so far—spent about ten times the original cost of the chairs on supplies.

This takes time to do this right. The thing is, I don’t have a lot of time. My daughter moves in three weeks. And that’s exactly how time works, especially with parenting: first slow and then all at once.

I hope to honor that by giving my daughter something old made new, helping her mark a transition in her own life but reminding her that the old is—and I am—always here for her.