Different Note
My Father's Chair
Many years ago, my father, with help from my brother, built an Adirondack chair. It was a comfortable wooden chair with hand-beveled edges and a scalloped backrest. My brother remembers telling Dad that the screws were too short, but they decided to move forward with the project anyway - using a serious application of wood glue.
The chair performed admirably for many years, providing seating for many gatherings of friends and family. However, not long after my father passed away, my cousin came to stay with Mom. On many afternoons, he would sit in the chair and visit. But one day, much to his astonishment - and my brother's amusement - the chair collapsed beneath him like a stack of matchsticks. My cousin found himself sitting on the deck in a pile of lumber that no longer, in any way, resembled an Adirondack chair.
My cousin avoided serious injury - except perhaps to his pride. The chair, however, did not fare so well, and it laid in pieces for close to a decade. For a time, its remains sat upon the deck waiting for one of us to take the time to try and put it back together. Eventually, it migrated to the top of the air conditioner unit, until a repair of the compressor necessitated another relocation - this time to the soil and pine needles on the ground below.
There it sat, the skeleton of a once-honorable chair, exposed to the elements and to the insects and to time. The earth nearly reclaimed that chair. Had I not spotted one of its nearly buried boards while doing yard work, it would surely have not been long for this world. I began digging and within short order had recovered all but one piece. The boards were soft, worm-damaged, stained and in the early stages of decay, but I dragged them all home anyway - much to my wife's dismay.
I pieced it back together. It was indeed a sad sight - a lilting, frail-looking conglomeration of rotting planks propped against the wall. I began to doubt the wisdom of trying to resurrect such a monstrosity. My wife was certain the remains were destined to continue their decay, only now in our yard.
"You'll never get that thing back together," she exclaimed.
So naturally, I had to prove her wrong.
Undaunted, I went to work, tacking it together with the original rusted screws, just to see what I had to work with.
I replaced the missing board and used a file to bevel the edges so that it would match, imagining while I worked that Dad was smiling down upon me, no doubt chuckling over my lack of craftsmanship.
I got blisters.
I used longer screws and then hit it with the pressure washer. It held, and to my amazement, that old wood seemed to slough its slimy, green-brown skin, revealing rich-grained, fresh timber.
My wife stood in awe of its majestic beauty.
"I never thought you'd get that thing back together," she admitted. "I'm impressed."
I withheld the urge to say, "I told you so!"
I obsessed over that chair for weeks, feeling my father's spirit in it - and within me. I would stand and stare at it, much to the bewilderment of my spouse. I tried to fix some areas of decay but used the wrong type of wood putty. It left funny yellow areas. I'm certain Dad would find this particularly entertaining. A coat of paint would cover it, but I decided to use a sealant so that all the blemishes and imperfections, as well as the original wood grain, could show.
Now we all enjoy sitting in my father's chair, especially our dog Pepper. The chair looks much like it did the day it was made, a family heirloom to be handed down to my grandchildren - providing the screws hold.
Now as I sit in that wonderful chair, I realize that soon my cousin, whom I have not seen in close to a decade, is coming to visit.
The cousin.
I have a special place for him to sit.
Right here in Dad's chair.