Everybody needs a nest to come home to at the end of the day. Having a room with a comfortable chair is important. It’s a place where you can read, watch TV, or doze off.
My old recliner sits in one corner of our living room. It’s twenty-five years old. My wife complains about how it looks. How it looks does not concern me, it’s how it feels. It feels like an old friend.
A person should surround himself or herself with familiar things. Familiar things are a great comfort to us all. I have two end tables, one on each side of the recliner. The tables hold a lamp that once belonged to my grandmother, various objects freed from the pockets of my shirts and jeans, family photos in petite metal frames, a letter opener, reading glasses, books, magazines, and mail that I haven’t yet got around to reading.
When I sit down in my chair at night it is one place that I have no complaint with. My feet are up and the things that surround me are there because I chose to have them there.
My wife wants to spruce up the house and replace our old furniture with new. She’s been eying my recliner as a prime candidate for the scrap heap. I can’t let that happen.
I told her a story about how American soldiers made nests for themselves during WWII. They might be out in the field but the first thing you know they’ve dug a foxhole and placed in it little things, constructed out of ration cans or wooden containers, that made them feel comfortable. They made that one small spot in the world their own. I should never have told my wife this.
“That’s what this place looks like”, she said, “ a foxhole.”
My old recliner sits in one corner of our living room. It’s twenty-five years old. My wife complains about how it looks. How it looks does not concern me, it’s how it feels. It feels like an old friend.
A person should surround himself or herself with familiar things. Familiar things are a great comfort to us all. I have two end tables, one on each side of the recliner. The tables hold a lamp that once belonged to my grandmother, various objects freed from the pockets of my shirts and jeans, family photos in petite metal frames, a letter opener, reading glasses, books, magazines, and mail that I haven’t yet got around to reading.
When I sit down in my chair at night it is one place that I have no complaint with. My feet are up and the things that surround me are there because I chose to have them there.
My wife wants to spruce up the house and replace our old furniture with new. She’s been eying my recliner as a prime candidate for the scrap heap. I can’t let that happen.
I told her a story about how American soldiers made nests for themselves during WWII. They might be out in the field but the first thing you know they’ve dug a foxhole and placed in it little things, constructed out of ration cans or wooden containers, that made them feel comfortable. They made that one small spot in the world their own. I should never have told my wife this.
“That’s what this place looks like”, she said, “ a foxhole.”
