Favorite Things

We all have favorite things.  Objects, songs, books, plants, people, ideals and notions...whatever.  Often, why a particular item is favored over another of similar construction and purpose are hard to pin down.  It becomes a prized possession for any number of reasons.

Longevity perhaps.  We have had this thing in our lives for so long, it's presence is taken for granted and when it is gone or destroyed, a small hole is left where it once stood.  Take my life long love of bicycles and the activities associated with them.  I cannot remember my first bike ride.  All I know is bicycles have been part of my life for as long as I can remember.  I love riding them, building them, fixing them, and selling them.  Should I lose the ability to enjoy any or all the facets of cycling, the quality of my lifestyle would plummet.

I had a favorite coffee cup once upon a time.  It held 16 ounces of Joe, was decently insulated and was shaped like an old Coca Cola glass, the kind you might have used to enjoy a true soda fountain Coke while your mom shopped til she dropped in Kresge's or whatever five and dime you had in your hometown.



This cup was my favorite all time coffee cup until it fell off the back of my pick up as I turned onto 109 on my way to the bike shop one morning.  I had carelessly set it on the bumper to unlock the truck and forgotten it.  I like to think that it too had some affinity for me also.  It clung on for a mile over the serious bumps and pot holes of Sam Page Road before it lost its grip, finally plummeting to it's death as the vehicle behind me flattened it like a pancake.  Ever since it's untimely demise, I have tried to embrace other coffee cups, but none will fill the void like that coffee cup shaped like a Coke glass did.

Which brings me to the chair.  It is an old chair.  Definitely an antique.  It has been in my family since it was bought or made new back in the day of handlebar mustaches and gay ladies in bustles and rigid corsets.  It may even be older.  I do not know or care.  I inherited it from my aunt after she died.  It was not bequeathed to me specifically.  It was but part of the jumble of stuff left after Aunt Helen decided to die.

When I saw it among the pile of old furniture and dusty cardboard boxes, I remembered it immediately.  It used to sit in the carriage house next to the main house at "Half Way Up Farm" here in Acton.  I always would gravitate to it when we were out in the carriage house.  We were out there quite often, as the carriage house when I was a short tacker was the game room.  Instead of carriages, there was a huge ping pong table, a card table set up to play board games and assemble one of the countless jig saw puzzles my aunt and uncle kept at the ready to keep the idle hands and minds of visiting children busy and out of mischief.  There were other chairs to sit on while waiting my turn to play ping pong or play cribbage.  I always picked this one.

So what to do with this chair that brought back the fond memories associated with summer and visits to Maine?  I could not set it up in the house.  Our house was already overfilled with the accumulated furniture from four different households.........Hmm.

It ended up in the garage.  At first I felt it deserved better.  As it turns out, that chair sees more of my butt than almost any other chair in the house.  My garage is my carriage house.  It is used for storage and relaxation after work at the bike shop or manual labor on my property.  I have passed out in that chair countless times and awakened, head kicked to one side and drool dripping on my sweaty tee shirt.  I have gotten inebriated in this chair. I have watched the world go by in this chair.  Nothing I like better than to head down to the garage after a sumptuous repast and sit in this chair as I sip on a cool drink and watch dragonflies forage for unsuspecting critters smaller than themselves.

This chair with it's Aunt Helen created coil rag doily as the token cushion still serves up the same comfort and security it did when my butt was skinnier and my shoulders barely reached the top arm rails.   And maybe that is why it is my favorite.  There are no bad memories hanging on this chair.  Small moments from the good times in the carriage house at "Half Way Up Farm" will often sneak back for a visit and make me smile when I sit in that chair.  I may not be able to turn back the clock, but when I sit down in this chair, I often get to re-visit, if just for a minute or two.

Later.............................................