Bringing Mom into the Cottage

For all the years of my growing up, there were two chairs on either side of the Italian marble fireplace in our Chicago brownstone. On the left was Dad’s chair, overstuffed, beige, comfortable, but not exactly a stylish piece of furniture. On the right was Mom’s wingchair, more delicate and ladylike, upholstered in turquoise because it was her favorite color. There they sat most evenings after supper, reading silently but often reading to each other. One would say, “Listen to this,” and read some passage, and pretty soon the other would respond similarly. Their minds were so in sync that they couldn’t resist sharing passages. Sometimes that sharing resulted in their reading aloud to each other. I distinctly remember that they went through all the volumes of Will and Ariel Durant’s The Story of Civilization that way.

Fast forward down the years, and Mom’s wing chair ended in whatever house I lived in. It was reupholstered several times, the latest being when I moved to the cottage and chose a light, whimsical patterned fabric. But then where to put it? Neither the living area nor the bedroom were spacious and there seemed no place. Still, I would not get rid of it because, well, it was Mom’s. For several years it has been shoved into a corner in front of my desk, with a dog crate making it inaccessible to all except Sophie who climbs on it when she needs to see out the window to the driveway and check on who is coming and going.

Yesterday, upholstery cleaners came. The couch and both barrel chairs that flank it needed cleaning. Over the phone, the owner of the company had asked if the fabric was washable or needed dry cleaning, and I said I had no idea. So two affable gentlemen came to look and do a fabric test. Their conclusion was that the colors could run. The furniture needed dry cleaning which meant they had to take it to their shop where ventilation allowed safer use of the strong chemicals involved (I hope they don’t come back smelling like cleaning fluid).

The absence of those two chairs left the living area looking barren, so tonight, before company came, Jordan rearranged and put the wing chair on the right side of the couch. I love it in that position. Not only does it look good, it seems to bring a bit of Mom into the cottage. As it happens, I am doing some work on a project that involves my mom and her cooking and recipes, so it is doubly fitting that her chair is in the living room. Not that I’m sure she would enjoy all conversations that go on in my cottage—I can see that chin go up in the air and the eyes go out the window.

But with the chair there, I think I can and will talk to Mom more. Like, “Why did you like this recipe?” and “Where did you learn to cook this?” I am delighted.

Yesterday, with no chairs, a young friend (she’s the age of my children) from the TCU library came for an early happy hour. When she settled on the couch with no chairs around it, I asked what she wanted to drink and offered my two easy choices: wine or water.

Reluctantly she said that she felt dehydrated from the heat and a lot of hauling and schlepping she’d done that day (librarians do not get the luxury of sitting behind a counter all day), and she’d prefer ice water. I already had my water, so I joined her. We laughed and gossiped and caught up on each other and TCU news for over an hour, and when she left, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it a happier happy hour. Wine next time.” I assured her it was plenty happy without the wine. And that’s what struck me as important about it: I am so used to serving wine at happy hour that it was a delight to know that jolliness comes with ice water too. I look forward to a repeat.

My trivial note for the day: do you know what the latest TikTok self-care topic is: bed-rotting. Awful name, isn’t it? It means taking an extended period of time out by lying in bed, not sleeping but doing other activities. My first question was: how much else can you do? Okay, there’s the obvious quick answer, but get past that. I for one do not like to eat or read in bed, though I have been known to lie in bed, sort of half-conscious, for hours at a time, if I’m not quite right with the world. In fact, I claim I nap because some of my best ideas come in that twilight, almost-asleep period. But bed-rotting? It’s an awful term.

Sleep tight, pleasant dreams—but no rotting. (Do you know how hard I’m resisting a play on words here?)