My family moved around a lot, and thanks to this I am reasonably skilled in the art of purging your space of things that have become unused, unwanted, old, broken, etc. It’s still a painful process for me, however, because I become overwhelmed with a sense of failure and of wastefulness. Sometimes, months after I’ve rid the apartment of a certain item, I’ll forget I’ve done so and tear the place apart looking for it until I’ve realized it’s gone, and then my heart falls into my stomach.
About three years ago, Andrew and I went home to Virginia for Easter. When we stepped into the house, I immediately noticed that our deacon’s bench was no longer in the front foyer. In its place was an ornate, wrought iron table with a marble top. A large, equally ornate mirror was hung on the wall just behind it. This new scene was an upgrade from the simple wooden bench that used to occupy the space.
This bench was the last remnant of the furniture my mom and dad brought back from the Philippines. Everything else I had grown up with was long since sold or given away, the unfortunate result of a divorce and regular moves around the country. The deacon’s bench stayed, however, and trekked with us from New Hampshire to California and Texas before making its way back to the East Coast and settling in Virginia.
I had never realized how much I depended on that little piece of furniture being there until it was missing.
My heavy dismay was lifted when I discovered it in a hidden corner in the guest bedroom, but it was clearly there only temporarily. I noted this to Andrew and made a point of asking my mom about it later that night.
“You can take it,” she replied. “After all, its from the Philippines and so are you!” She makes this joke often. I was born in the Philippines.
Andrew and I had intend to fly to Virginia for this trip, but the night before our flight Andrew’s grandfather’s illness took a turn for the worst. It was nearly certain that within the next few days, we would need to be in Florida for a funeral. That morning, on Good Friday, we made the decision to drive our new car back the more than 850 miles to my mom’s. Then, if we needed to make a detour and head instead to Florida, we had that option. His grandfather passed away that night.
Instead of heading due south, we continued onto Virginia. Andrew’s family was going to wait until after Easter to have the funeral. We ended up flying to Orlando from Washington, D.C. and back again before driving back home to Chicago in a snow storm, but in the back of our VW station wagon, bought just a week before the trip, making the 14-hour trek with us, was the deacon’s bench.
When I close my eyes, I can recall exactly where it sat in each of the places I called home for the past 28 years. I can remember when we used it as a phone table where a heavy, beige telephone and two phone books (the white and the yellow pages) rested. We didn’t use the term land-line back then. I recall my mother placing vases of flowers on it, and occasionally it would be graced by a white, lacy doilie. At some point a Norman Rockwell print hung above it, recalling a scene outside of a principle’s office. My mother’s parents always thought that the girl in the print looked like my mother as a girl, when she was called “Susie.”
Last weekend, I painted the bench. While I loved it as it originally was, it was doing zilch for the dark foyer in our place. I painted it a color called “Indian Ocean,” which conjures up all kinds of escapist images for me, a girl trudging darkly through yet another long and gray Chicago winter. From the second I picked out the paint to the moment I applied the first stroke of paint, I felt ill and a difficult sadness. Andrew didn’t understand why I’d be feeling regret before I even painted it. “It’s not as if it’s in pristine condition, and you can always repaint it or have it refinished if you don’t like it.” I didn’t understand my feelings either.
There was a wall between me and the new deacon’s bench, and I knew I need to break through it.
My life has been filled to the brim with change: unexpected, long-awaited, sudden, unwanted, and much-needed change. I know that life is all about change, but I have experienced it with higher-than-average frequency. Until two years ago, I had not lived in the same city for more than three years my entire life. The personal life choices I make, from my hair color and cut to my career path, seem to mimic this change. But for the past two years, ever since the deacon’s bench became mine, my life has been stable in a normal way. It’s as if the bench’s reappearance in my life reminded me of who I am: it’s a sturdy little bench with a lot of character.
But it had become dusty and over burdened with clutter.
I broke through the wall on Sunday and cleaned and painted the bench. I dragged it out into the living room, placed it on a drop cloth and assembled my tools: a can of paint, a paint brush and a damp cloth. I felt like I was preparing to perform crude surgery. Three coats of paint and three hours later, I wasn’t convinced that the transformation that had just taken place was a good thing. Andrew assured me that as it dried, the color would become darker and less bright. So I ignored it and set about to cleaning the floor in the foyer and organizing the shoes, boots, jackets and other winter wear that had over taken the tiny space. When I was finished it was time to move the bench back into its place.
I couldn’t believe what was in front of my eyes. The room seamed to sparkle instantly. Excited, I rummaged around for the pretty glazed decorative tray I had picked up a yard sale two summers ago. It had been in a drawer, hidden and un-utilized. I found a Japanese tea cup I’d picked up at the same yard sale, and I placed a tea light inside. I placed flowers in an unused, but pretty, olive oil cruet and set all these things on the table. The bench looked more beautiful than it ever had before.
I’d like to end this little memoir with some overarching, universal theme (a la This American Life), but I don’t think I need to. There are, however, three things that keep cycling through my mind: time, happenstance and elbow grease. Take that as you will. The before and after pictures are below.
Beautiful work, Meghan.
wow- nice writing!