The Sonoran Foothills from the Twice-Rescued Chair
(copied from my MySpace blog)
Monday, January 16, 2006
Current mood: content
From the chair in my bedroom, I can see a hilltop through the window.
Driving through my old neighborhood, I saw a chair with a paper labelled, “FREE” attached to it. The chair is somewhere between a wingback and a bishop chair, with dark wood trim and legs, upholstered in a gently-striped fabric, its brass nailheads gleaming. From my Suburban, it looked lovely. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the fabric was sort of cheesy — some sort of synthetic, loosely woven cloth, grey & off-white, not really the best choice for recovering a chair. The nailheds were a bit rusty, and not tacked in in straight rows. The wood wasn’t as nice of quality as it appeared from afar.
But, as I looked the chair over, I decided that it was still nice for a free chair, and glanced around for its owner. A man walked quickly over to me; I think he had been somewhere else in the front yard. He seemed very eager for me to take the chair. I thought, at first, that he must have considered it an eyesore, glad that his home would be free of it. I read him wrong. It turns out that he had rescued the chair, taking it as a castoff from an acquaintance. He had recovered it, and was sure his wife would be quite pleased with the surprise. She ended, as I deduced from his story, patronizing him, humoring his efforts, not really liking the chair, but finding a corner in which to put it. Now, though, she was buying new furniture, and no longer wanted the chair. The man was more than happy for me to redeem his efforts and to enjoy the chair that his wife hadn’t.
I took it.
It is now in my master bedroom, awaiting my own reupholstering efforts, in a place that is usable, but not really public. It is in one corner of my room, and along the opposite wall are two bullet windows, 1′ X 2′, inoperable, high on the the wall, letting light in, telling us This is Where We Think You Should Put Your Bed, since there is a wallspace between the windows, obviously for a bed. However, I shouldn’t complain much about this architectural manipulation, since my husband designed the house for the builder.
From the twice-rescued chair, I can look out of one of these windows and see a granite boulder-strewn hilltop, about a quarter-mile in the distance. It’s close enough that I can see six bushes silhouetted against the sky, probably creosote bushes. I’ll likely never know for certain, since one can’t just go walking on desert hills. If you lived here, you’d know. I’m hoping that one day, there’ll be a hiking path among the hills, and I’ll be able to properly investigate.
As I see the morning sunlight hitting the hilltop, light playing among the bushes and boulders, my home still in shadow, I feel connected to the desert.
That’s one reason I love living where we now live, in this neighborhood. Ideally, I’d live in a home completely designed by my husband, un-dumbed-down by the homebuilder who now employs him, and with plenty of input from me. This home would be sitting among the desert flora and sand and clay, ten acres of it at least. However, that’s a rather pricey dream. For now, I’m happy with my peek at the Sonoran Desert, viewable from my twice-redeemed ill-upholstered comfy perch.