Tirza ~ May 29

 

The friend who recommended Caty also told me a story about her.  Their son had just died unexpectedly, and it was that day that Caty appeared, as scheduled, to bring them the armchair she had upholstered.  And due to the coincidence, they discovered that she too had just lost an adult son.

Sometime later I called Caty.  The pandemic was still a thing. In that first telephone conversation, meant to be about 4 dining room chairs found in the back of a very musty antique store in need of everything for their new life, we fell headfirst into a discussion about loss, death, and life reconstructed.

When I went to pick up the chairs, I noticed the American flag flying off their front porch, and met the husband running after an exceedingly energetic grandson.  Chatted about the usual, our houses, the chairs and of course my talent to see their potential. 

With the dining chairs gathered around my table, from time to time I would contemplate covering a chair but nothing came of it.  Most recently, I realized that the slipcover of an old loveseat in my kitchen would not survive another washing.  Its zipper no longer closed, and it was fraying at the seams.  So when I had a bad cold, I used my down time to hunt for fabric online, and the search went on and on and on.  And when the samples arrived, oh horrors.  Nothing looked good or matched what was here.  

In case you didn’t know, fabric stores are now on the endangered species list. But instilled with hope on a spring day in NYC when I could have had a splendid museum visit or lunch with a friend, I chose to track some down.  Places hidden on upper floors or with aisles so narrow they had to be walked sideways turned up nothing.

I kept Caty closely apprised.  Fabrics I did consider she rejected for being too thick or thin, or otherwise impractical.  But other than that, she was very neutral.  I gave up until one day, on impulse, I walked into a Joann, at the strip mall in Kingston.  The racks were half empty, the selection was down to a dozen bolts, but there it was, a fabric that could work, and 40 percent off.  Not enough on the bolt, but they would hold it for 24 hours.

This may be boring, but to me it was a turning point in a movie filled with suspense. The heroine, (yes, by now I considered myself more than just a protagonist) suddenly turned decisive, sped to three different Joanns, 40 miles apart, and found all the fabric needed and more.  Each bolt end added discounts, and some remnants were had for a song. Another yard of fabric would have entailed a trip to Ohio.  Violins, please.

Caty approved and chided herself for not having suggested this very pattern.  She sent me a photo of a chair she’d just done with it.  I hated it.  It was too perfect.  But maybe she could do one more shabby chic than tailored.  She came over and we discussed the design and we agreed on everything.  Once again, we fell headfirst into a discussion of family, then politics, then fabric, then guest rooms, then our partners.   Turns out, her husband Jim had taken down the flag when Trump was president and put it back up with Biden.  I clapped. 

Do you love it?  She asked me when she brought me the finished, perfect slipcover.  It’s really nice, I said, but I will hate it at first.  It changes everything.

I’m the same way, she said in agreement.  I fall in love with something, and as soon as I get it, I hate it.  Thank goodness I didn’t do that with Jim.