My Father's Reading Chair

My father's reading chair was a mass-market classic of midcentury modern Scandinavian design: teak, with spare wooden legs and armrests and a high, straight back. Settle in to read, lean back, and the chair reclines — well, jolts you backward and pops your feet up. It came with a footrest and a small detachable head-rest pillow, upholstered in rough-weave fabric in neutral tones. Mom chose oatmeal.

The chair had its place in our family room, a small multipurpose space open to the kitchen. Dad sat in it watching the news and reading the paper. An insomniac, he also spent the wee hours of most nights in that chair with a paperback mystery, sipping a hot drink. When my brother and I were teenagers, Dad wasn't exactly waiting up for us — but he was always up, a built-in security system.

I've done the math. Over close to 40 years, he logged about 30,000 hours in the chair before my parents moved to a retirement community. The chair and footrest came too, making their generic living room feel like home.

A couple years later, my parents died. The chair and footrest came home with us, landing first in my husband's study, then moving down to the basement to join a dilapidated futon, bookshelves full of paperbacks and board games, a ping-pong table, and giant spiders and crickets. It saw hard duty on snow days and during slumber parties. In three blinks, the kids were gone, and the chair, like the ping-pong table, fell into disuse.

A few more blinks, and our son was furnishing his apartment. The chair left the basement for a room with a view. Footrest and chair parted company; my elderly aunt needed to elevate her feet while reading. In the eventual flurry of downsizing when she died, both went to a thrift shop.

Our son traded up for a sectional sofa and gifted the chair to our daughter. Blink, blink: she moved from city to city, and both times the chair squeezed into the U-Haul. My parents never rearranged furniture, and age and relocations took a toll on a chair accustomed to a quiet, stationary life. Approaching 60 years old, springs shot, its threadbare beige suit didn't work in her new home. She had it re-sprung, re-stuffed, and reupholstered in a rich burnt orange. Almost pretty enough to be a throne for a Mardi Gras float — and more comfortable than ever.

Blink: she moved north, with chair. Blink again: she flew overseas for a few years. The chair was too big for carry-on. Meanwhile, my husband and I had downsized, pared our furniture quite a bit. Still, the chair was irresistible; we took it on as long-term live storage. It looked right at home in a corner of the den against a brilliant green wall painted by the prior owner — a bold color we came to love. Chartreuse wall, orange chair: a homage to Peter Max.

Like my father, I'm an insomniac. The chair became my midnight reading perch. But it was just a loaner. Flash-forward four years: we welcomed our daughter back and said farewell to the chair. The former reading corner was so bare and empty.

Our kids make good use of online used-furniture marketplaces. Just for the heck of it, I searched for "midcentury modern recliner." Bingo! Beginner's luck: the chair (and bonus footrest). The price wasn't just right, it was a bargain, perhaps because the upholstery was an eye-popping green. We took a leap of faith that it wouldn't clash and drove across town.

The chair and footrest lived up to the profile picture. I told the seller my story; he knocked off $50. But it was very, very green, and it's not easy being green, as Kermit the Frog knows. Worst-case scenario, we'd move and get it reupholstered.

My husband squeezed the chair into the Prius, knowing from experience exactly how to angle it. We drove home. He carried the chair; I followed with the footrest. Moment of suspense! Afternoon light streamed in the window. Think of all the shades of green in a spring forest; green on green is glorious.

Our bright green chair practically glows at night. An ensconced insomniac might not need a reading light.