Small Town Story

It’s hard for me to throw anything away — especially anything that came from my mother. But my sofa, which she had reupholstered in the 1960s in gleaming silk damask, almost-peacock blue —  has faded to grey.

Reupholstering it would cost two trips to Scotland even in cotton. I reupholstered a couch once myself and would never have done it if I'd realized how much work it would be; I'm not making that mistake again.  I bought a cheap slipcover and it looked so awful that I threw it out. I searched and searched; there is no inexpensive solution or even anyone willing to do the work that I could find. But I just can't stand looking at that dingy couch any longer: it depresses the whole airy room. 

So finally I decided to give or throw it away and buy an armless chaise from Ikea (modern, takes up less space, new).

Just as I was about to press “Next” a local upholsterer called me back. She said she had a waiting list about a year long. 

“I think you once reupholstered a chair for me a long time ago,” I said. “I loved what you did. I had two of them, and you let me trade one in partial payment —”

“I remember the chair!” she said. “It's in my spare room.”

I told her, truthfully, that I'd always regretted getting rid of that chair. It, too, came from my mother.

“Would you consider selling it back to me?”

“Sure.”

It will cost even less and take up less space than the Ikea chaise — and I can get the couch out of the apartment! If I just can't throw it away (why? why is it so hard?), I can put it in the basement until Eva can re-upholster it. Or until I summon whatever it is one needs to let things go, even inherited ones.

But in the meantime, the couch will be out of here and I'll have another comfortable chair,  filled with goosedown. It's like my other one, but upholstered in my grandmother's pattern — pale yellow damask. If I'd moved away after five years as I usually do, I'd never have gotten it back — another example of why staying here was a good choice.