"You like old things, Don't you?" was my father’s question. He had decided on the answer already.
His mother’s eldest sister had given the chair to my mother and him. The chair along with the mattress on the floor and the baby bassinet that carried my oldest brother the only furniture my parents had when they first moved into our old home. Perhaps that the chair go to the eldest grand niece was in Dad's mind.
The chair was bundled up along with my mother’s treadle sewing machine with some other memorabilia in a crate that also held a few treasures my husband has from his father’s estate.
Once it arrived the task of having the chair repaired confronted us. The damage to one leg left it a sharp barb and the leather was beyond redemption with the colour worn away stuffing peeping through.
Ernest was enrolled to repair the frame. His right hand with several fingers taken at the stump carry’s a cigarette. His working man’s accent and a large black dog accompany him. He comments that this is a grandfather chair, made of Australian Cedar probably dating from around 1880. He says there should be a grandmother chair, smaller but with similar design somewhere to be found.
He returns the chair some weeks later the frame repaired with the timber gleaming warm honey gold, new casters fixed to the front legs. The stuffing, leather and springs are returned.
We now need to find an upholsterer who will bring it back to top condition.
The chair frame sits and patently waits. A few quotes determine that more patience is needed, but finally there is clear air and we call the upholsterer again. He comes with samples and bundles of enthusiasm for the task and takes the chair away.
Again it is clear we are working with a man who is careful and diligent in his craft.
The grandfather chair arrived this week and sits proudly now is the corner of the living room. It is a grand chair to be sure. My father and great aunt would be pleased no doubt.
