For the Love of (Table and) Chairs

Just like "the boy" from the Electric Company, I have been starring in my own silly soap-like saga involving a chair.  Can the old table and chairs help me begin a new life chapter? Tune in tomorrow.

It’s funny. Back when I was about five or six, there was a segment on the Electric Company called “Love of Chair.” And for some reason it reminds me of the child-sized wooden table and chairs that sat in my bedroom from the time I was a toddler until a few months ago when I was finally able to purge one tiny speckle of my past from my present. My husband lugged the childhood mementos off to the Goodwill shop in Astoria where hopefully they found a home with a nice family. I did not make the trek with him to the other side of Queens when he relinquished these beloved keepsakes. That might have caused too much pain—like saying goodbye to a friend that you may have known for your entire life and whom you may never see again. I’d like to say I still lament the loss of my table and chairs. But while they were important fixtures of my past, they became a burden in my present and I am actually glad their space is now occupied by my husband’s stuff including a microphone, speaker and other musical equipment along with an array of socks, shorts, t-shirts and pants that are overflowing from his dresser’s drawers. New clutter. But definitely a sign that I’m moving from a yesterday filled with fear and sadness into a today that is filled with hope and happiness—well, some joy, when I’m wasting time and looking back on yesteryear. But this is how it unfolded.

"It's time once again for everybody's favorite soap opera, Love of Chair!” the off-screen announcer began while the action focused on a boy in a bare room where the only other visible object was a brown wooden chair that looked like the kind that one could find in any classroom. 

 The announcer (who sounded just like Gary Owens from Laugh In) described all of the boy's "actions" like “The boy stands up” or “The boy picks up the chair,” the background organ music became much more dramatic and the camera would zoom in on the motionless boy. Actually mom and I used to be haunted and creeped-out by this segment. The boy never moved as the announcer asked several rhetorical questions about what might happen to the boy or the chair in a very dramatic tone of voice, accompanied by a sting of organ music. Will the boy stand up again? Will the chair break? Will you break the chair? The announcer concluded with "Tune in tomorrow for Love of Chair!"

 Well, I recently starred in my own saga called, “For the Love of Table and Chairs.” What about me? Will I ever get rid of these table and chairs? Will I ever let go of yesterday, stop worrying about tomorrow and start living in the present?

I often find myself drowning in the clutter of yesterday, literally and figuratively. I've had such a hard time saying goodbye. Been trying to do it for years. Well, not sure how hard since I am still almost completely surrounded by my past. Old toys, dolls and this damn table and chairs. It is almost embarrassing to admit I still have so much of this stuff. My name is Auntie Grizelda. I am an “I can’t let go of the past and allow myself to be happy” a holic. There has to be some kind of metaphor here with letting go of the child’s table and chairs who made the pilgrimage from childhood into adulthood—although I seriously consider at times, if I ever really grew up. Is there some kind of metaphor one can insert like, She once sat down to tea parties here, will they ever wrap up?  Will she ever grow up? Well, I sure had many tea parties when I was a kid. Actually up until recently, I hated tea, even the imaginary kind. So make that Hawaiian punch or Hi-C and devil dog parties with my friends or with myself. But at age 45, the tea party has to be over. Grow up, Chiquita. I am so Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland. No make that Auntie Grizelda in 1970’s land. Still have all my old board games, dolls and other paraphernalia from when I was a kid. Brady Bunch and Partridge Family pictures, albums, lunchboxes. You name it. Why am I holding on to a past that was never even happy. I was lonely, sitting alone in my room mostly, inventing adventures for my Barbies. Still have those, too. But most things are in a sad condition. Covered in dust. Well, the table and chairs are actually doing okay. But I have been put on notice by the hubby. They need to go. Duh. They should have been gone more than 25 years ago. No, make that 30 years ago. I mean, why does any adult need this stuff?

The table and chairs completely adorned with memorabilia and clutter. Pretty scary, right?

 The hubby put me on notice. It has to go. The table and chairs are no longer functional. Well, they do hold a few books including a rock and roll encyclopedia, a few pix including one of me with dee jay Bobby Jay from my WCBS-FM days and an autographed picture of Peter Noone from Herman’s Hermits. When I was a child, I would eat some meals here and my friends and I would enjoy snacks, too. The table is round with four legs. They have hold up through time, pretty well. The pair of matching chairs, too. Brown. Just the right size for a five year old but could hold the weight of an average sized adult tush, too. Just double checked. Yup, can still support my arse. Rectangular backing, square seat. You know, I don’t even think the cats bother using it for a nap, either. No real purpose. What’s really sad is that some of the stuff here I did not even acquire as a kid. I got the Mrs. Beasley doll when I first moved into my apartment. The Partridge Family and Family Affair lunchboxes followed shortly afterwards along with Sonny and Cher dolls, Drowsy and a Cinammon-Love doll. E-bay helped me buy back my past. My poor Velvet and Chrissy dolls are covered in dust. So I got a clean collectible version of Look Around Chrissy. Got Kerry, too. Why? DO I want to be eight or nine again? No way--don't want to be that sad, lonely, only child again. Then throw it away!

I remember my mother was thrilled when I took the table and chairs with me when I moved out when I was 32. It took me 32 years to break free and fly the proverbial coop. I felt so guilty leaving my parents behind especially since they both had so many emotional "issues." I knew my mother might "crack" if her little girl left the nest--and she did--ended up for a couple of weeks in the psych ward at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan. 


Even after I moved out and she was still somewhat able bodied (and after her stint in Lenox Hill), she’d come over to my house with my laundry. And I remember when my best friend and I took a trip upstate to a disastrous singles’ weekend and had a huge tear-fest in the car back home listening to Carole King’s Tapestry, wondering if we’d ever find our lives’ partners, my parents babysat my cat. It was actually very comforting when I returned to my apartment, they were sitting on my sofa waiting for me. Actually, I remember my mom tucking me in that night like I was a kid again, turning off the lights, while the table and chairs sat nearby. That felt good but sadly my mom got very ill shortly following this and it soon became difficult for her to venture out of bed, yet alone out of her apartment.

My dad experienced the worst and awful. Lost his mind and 80 members of his family in the Holocaust. He grew up in what used to be Czechoslavakia but was an orphan at age 15. He wore two hearing aides from the time he was a young man. Witnessed what must have been some of the most atrocious crimes man ever committed against mankind during his one and a half year stint in Auschwitz. He did not talk about it a lot. All I know is that he had not worked since I was ten years old. So dad was home a lot. He was somewhere in the house while I was having my pretend cup of tea with my Drowsy doll (decked in her bright pink polka dot pajamas) at the table and chairs.

I wish I could say those table and chairs provided some kind of comfort. But not really. Looking at them actually causes flashbacks to a childhood where I sat on the floor in my room, dressing up my cat or inventing imaginary stories for my Barbies because I did not have any one to play with. So much loneliness. What about now? I am not that lonely child anymore. I am married to my soul mate--a mellow, accepting musician dude with the bluest eyes and blonde pony-tail from Hawaii who tolerates me and my "stuff." Perhaps, it would be better if he would just chuck it all away for me. But it's not fair to ask anyone to do that. I got to do it myself. Besides, he is too respectful of me and my things to do that. This reminds me of the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where the damn suitcase sat on the stairwell for weeks before Ray or his wife would move it. But these table and chairs have been parked here for an entire lifetime. Is it just laziness? After all, I am totally capable of spending entire afternoons on the couch doing nothing more than petting my cats and watching bad talk shows and General Hospital. 

I swear if most folks saw the crap that I still own, they would write me a ticket to the funny farm or Bellevue. Sometimes, I think that is where I belong. I am not going to lie and say I was saving this set for my own children—the kids I never had. To be honest, the thought did not even cross my mind. If I owned a house, I could just throw them up in an attic.  Sometimes looking at all of this stuff makes me want to throw up. Sometimes I wish I could purge myself of all the clutter and regurgitate some of those memories that are laden with sadness. Yup, the table and chairs have to go. They will go. Tomorrow. Not a Scarlet O’Hara tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon. They are going to the thrift shop to begin their next chapter. And once they are gone, hopefully, I can move on, too—and continue getting rid of the stuff that just continues to cause heartache.

From this angle, my old chair looks sad and lonely or maybe I'm just projecting my own old feelings onto an old piece of furniture.