The chair

Back in the 1960s, my dad bought a chair. He paid $150 for it. It was made of Naugahyde.

It wasn’t until later in life I learned this was a La-Z-Boy model. It didn’t look much like a La-Z -Boy. (But it does look more like one than the first La-Z-Boy that was introduced in the 1920s. It was a folding wood chair for the porch.)

This was more of a cross between George Jetson’s spaceship chair and a lounger where you might lean back to get your hair shampooed and rinsed at the beauty parlor.

I always imagined the chair as being somewhat magical. It was unlike any other piece of furniture we owned. My dad wasn’t so possessive of that chair that he wouldn’t allow us sit in it.
Usually two or three of my sisters could pile on there all at one time. But it was understood that, when he was home, the chair was reserved for him.

I’ve always been somewhat sentimental about it. I pulled my first tooth in the crease of that Naugahyde. I also remember curling up to watch Saturday morning cartoons, reclining so far back the base of the chair was like a summit to be scaled. We would climb all over that chair. It was like having a jungle gym in the den.

I remember it all like it was the day before yesterday.

Like all La-Z- Boys – I’m convinced they have a patent on this – the chair dispensed sleep rays.
If you kicked back in it for any length of time, you were a goner. Your tired eyes would fast-forward those commercials for you.

The chair also vibrated. Yes, you could plug it in, adjust the black knob on the side and you had your own version of one of those “magic fingers” beds we used to feed quarters in motel rooms.

My parents still laugh at what the salesman said in his sales pitch: “It comes with a vibb-urrr-ay-tor!!!!”

Five children, eight dogs, the onset of time and several moving van left the chair in less than desirable condition. When my parents made the decision to move from Sandy Springs to Macon four years ago, they were reluctant to bring it with them. They were down-sizing, and there wasn’t going to be enough room in the new house.

The chair was only the front porch away from being whisked away by the Goodwill truck. One of my sisters rescued it, recovered it and put it in her house.

Deep inside, thought, I’ve always felt that chair was rightfully mine. I’ve been begging her for it. And, now that she’s moving, she has agreed to let me have it.

I picked it up last week, kicked my feet back and welcomed it home. Now my youngest son is pleading for us to let him put it in his room.

If you hold on to something long enough, I explained, it becomes an antique.