Favourite Chair
Nov 1 2013
My father had a favourite chair.
Back when there were evening papers
with yesterday's news,
and you knew what sort of family it was
by which competing daily --
the dense grey Globe
the shamelessly racy Sun.
He was a serious reader,
and that chair, a refuge
after work.
We rarely sat
My father had a favourite chair.
Back when there were evening papers
with yesterday's news,
and you knew what sort of family it was
by which competing daily --
the dense grey Globe
the shamelessly racy Sun.
He was a serious reader,
and that chair, a refuge
after work.
We rarely sat
on the living room furniture,
faux-French
reserved for guests.
But the den was
perfect.
Cozy, not cramped,
with warm wood
wainscotting
and a big puffy
couch
we called a
chesterfield.
Before TV
overwhelmed our
Britishness,
American sitcoms,
breaking news.
Now, I have my own favourite chair
and my own comfy den
to read in.
I don't mind old news;
you can sort out what deserves attention,
settle in
to the measured perspective
of print.
His old chair
vanished into landfill,
or in some mouldy
basement
threadbare, sagging.
His new one
sits empty,
newspapers gathered-up
ottoman lost.
Showing its wear
where his feet once rested.
We become our parents;
all we know as
children
imprinting on them,
little goslings
around their legs.
Forbidden
to sit in his chair,
the one by the window
cigar-scented air.
Which, in that golden hour
before family dinner
was his, alone.
Mine, too, is my own,
a sanctuary
that carries me out into the world
from the safety of home.
That was family life for me as a child: sitting in the den on a Saturday afternoon, weekend papers scattered about, all reading. There is a family culture that sets your life trajectory at an early age. Like naïve goslings, we are easily imprinted, and eventually grow up to become more like our parents than we ever thought.
My 91 year old father has been in the hospital for over a month, now. His chair waits at home for him -- a different chair and a different home than where I grew up, of course. Although now his mind is slipping, and reading newspapers is no longer possible. But it's still a chair in which to doze; even if it's in front of the TV, and even if he may be too far gone to even follow that.
I have my favourite chair and a cozy room in which I read. Come to think of it, the room is about the same size as that old den. And I'm still a daily reader of the good old Globe and Mail. Except now there are more pictures, and colour instead of black and white, and a cleaner more modern lay-out. And I gave up print for my iPad -- although the electronic version looks exactly the same.
The last 2 lines say a lot about me: that I'm a shameless homebody; that I'm good at living in my head; and yet despite all that, hardly feel limited. It may seem odd that some people decompress with the news, as depressing and demoralizing as it usually is. But I think it's more the reassurance of routine than it is the content; and more the features and long-form journalism than the daily grind. I'm a newspaper reader (an apparently aging and diminishing cohort!): Twitter's 140 characters seem laughably inadequate, and instantaneous news feeds hardly satisfying. Because a good read is about going deep, not about speed.
to sit in his chair,
the one by the window
cigar-scented air.
Which, in that golden hour
before family dinner
was his, alone.
Mine, too, is my own,
a sanctuary
that carries me out into the world
from the safety of home.
That was family life for me as a child: sitting in the den on a Saturday afternoon, weekend papers scattered about, all reading. There is a family culture that sets your life trajectory at an early age. Like naïve goslings, we are easily imprinted, and eventually grow up to become more like our parents than we ever thought.
My 91 year old father has been in the hospital for over a month, now. His chair waits at home for him -- a different chair and a different home than where I grew up, of course. Although now his mind is slipping, and reading newspapers is no longer possible. But it's still a chair in which to doze; even if it's in front of the TV, and even if he may be too far gone to even follow that.
I have my favourite chair and a cozy room in which I read. Come to think of it, the room is about the same size as that old den. And I'm still a daily reader of the good old Globe and Mail. Except now there are more pictures, and colour instead of black and white, and a cleaner more modern lay-out. And I gave up print for my iPad -- although the electronic version looks exactly the same.
The last 2 lines say a lot about me: that I'm a shameless homebody; that I'm good at living in my head; and yet despite all that, hardly feel limited. It may seem odd that some people decompress with the news, as depressing and demoralizing as it usually is. But I think it's more the reassurance of routine than it is the content; and more the features and long-form journalism than the daily grind. I'm a newspaper reader (an apparently aging and diminishing cohort!): Twitter's 140 characters seem laughably inadequate, and instantaneous news feeds hardly satisfying. Because a good read is about going deep, not about speed.
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