An Old Couch, Two Chairs, and COVID

Over the years, I vacuumed and spot-cleaned that couch, washed the pillows repeatedly, and finally had it recovered.

In our first year of marriage, thirty-five years ago, my husband and I acquired a sectional couch with a subtle beige and white pattern. Don’t ask me why I thought a white background was a sensible choice in a house with five cats. I was young. It was expensive. I thought it looked elegant.

Once our oldest daughter was born, this couch was where everyone sat to take pictures. We have multiple photos of my parents, Jeff’s parents, and our friends sitting on this couch holding Caitlin as an infant and toddler, and then, a few years later, holding our younger daughter, Kelsey. As the girls grew, we sat on that couch to listen while they practiced piano. My book group sat there for book discussions.

Over the years, I vacuumed and spot-cleaned that couch, washed the pillows repeatedly, and finally had it recovered. It moved with us four times, from a place of honor in our first living room to being hidden upstairs in my office in our present home. It went from being the hallowed spot for family photos to a repository for books and manuscripts and a place for our (now one) cat to sleep and sharpen his claws.

A few weeks ago, I admitted it was time for the couch to go. Thirty-five years is an exceptionally long life for a couch. I ordered two sleek recliners to replace it.

And then the difficulties began.

One day, two giant boxes appeared via “contact free delivery” on our front porch. Jeff and I struggled to get them in the door.

“We’re weaklings,” he said. “I’m not sure we can move these bad boys.”

“Bad boys?” I teased my husband. This was the term he always used with things that were really heavy.

By the time we had them inside we were exhausted, and Jeff had nearly thrown his back out.

“Let’s worry about these bad boys tomorrow,” I suggested.

The following day Jeff and I used all the strength we had to pull the two recliners out of the boxes. Finally, huffing and puffing, we dragged them out and managed to dislodge the Styrofoam packing.

“The comments on the web page said assembly was simple,” I assured Jeff.

He gave me a shocked look. “Assembly?”

The assembly video had suspiciously soothing music playing in the background. The guy looked unruffled, never breaking a sweat as he attached the seat to the back. That morning, we watched it 1,239 times.

We were both sweaty and uttering words we hadn’t used since our twenties.

Finally, both chairs sat in the front hall, assembled. And Jeff and I were, miraculously, still alive and married.

“We should have carried the pieces of the chairs upstairs before we assembled them,” I told Jeff. “Now these bad boys are too heavy for us to carry.”

“Are you making fun of me calling these bad boys?” Jeff asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” Jeff admitted. “We should have. But we didn’t. What about these boxes?”

“We’ll worry about them tomorrow.”

The following day, we broke down the boxes, loaded them in the car and Jeff took them to the recycling center. Back home, he said he had only a minor conflict with the recycling employees who wanted to fine him fifty dollars for putting the Styrofoam in the wrong bin, but was finally able to correctly dispose of it.

Meanwhile, I called some charities to see if they’d come get the couch. Because of COVID, several weren’t picking up donations. The ones that were still picking up asked people to bring items out on their front porch so the volunteers wouldn’t have to come into the house.

How to get the couch down the stairs and out onto our porch?
I called our daughter Kelsey and offered dinner if she and her boyfriend would come help us. She said they’d be delighted.
A few days later, Kelsey and Seph showed up looking confident. We had sadly only seen them a few times since the onset of COVID.

“We just need to move these bad boys upstairs,” Jeff said.

“Bad boys, Dad?” Kelsey said, and we all erupted in laughter.

“Easy peasy,” said Seph.

And for them, it was. They helped Jeff carry the new chairs upstairs and with much teamwork maneuvered the couch down and onto the porch. We were insanely grateful, since we’d had the chairs sitting in our front hall for four days. Ah, youth.

The following day, the charity truck pulled up and my husband joyfully greeted the volunteers. However, the moment they stepped on the porch, they shook their heads.

“This couch is too old,” said a white-haired volunteer. “We can’t put this out on our floor. We can’t take this.”

“But do you know how much work it was to get this couch out here?” Jeff protested. “We can’t take it back inside by ourselves.”

The volunteers were unsympathetic. They swung back into their truck, leaving the couch sitting on our porch.

“What do they mean, it’s too old? It wasn’t too old for us!” I complained. “Doesn’t everyone keep couches for thirty-five years?”

We scrambled to find another charity that might come. After a slew of phone calls, we finally did.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I dreamed that the second charity also refused to take the couch. Then had a terrifying nightmare about being called to account before the homeowners’ association. Jeff told me I worried too much.

That next morning Jeff and I paced the kitchen after breakfast.

“Take some twenties in your pocket when you go out there,” I suggested. “If they refuse to take it, you can offer to pay them to take it to the dump.”

“Good idea,” Jeff said.

At last the moment of truth arrived as the truck pulled up in front of our house. The volunteers greeted Jeff by giving him the printed receipt for our donation. My heart was in my throat. Miraculously, the volunteers tossed the couch and its faded pillows into the back of the truck and pulled down the gate. Jeff handed them a tip to seal the deal. They seemed pleased. Then he and I stood breathlessly inside the front door, looking out, until the truck pulled away.

“They took it! They took it!” We danced around in our front hall, dizzy with relief.

Maybe they did take it to the dump. Maybe someone who recovers couches took a look and decided it had good bones. At any rate, our old couch, home to posed photos, kissing sessions, arguments, wrestling matches, piano practice sessions, discussions about  books, boyfriends, and current events, foot rubs, piles of manuscripts, and many generations of cats, had transitioned to a new existence. It felt bittersweet. The end of an era.

We went upstairs and lowered our old bodies into our new chairs.

“This chair is so comfortable, I don’t think I can get up,” Jeff said.

“These bad boys are so nice, we can keep them for at least thirty-five years,” I added. And I reflected with gratitude over the years of our marriage, our family, and the health and happiness we’ve had.