Yes, I finished up my work on the Chickenpox Sofa with a saw. The long boards are now fireplace fodder. The spot where it sat in the sitting room is empty and right now, there is no place to sit in there. I do have a master plan and it will involve sitting – just not for awhile yet. Of course, there is the floor.
Actually, I think I will eventually put the old Morris chair there; that would be the precursor to a recliner. It was also the sick chair. You could sit up and put a table leaf across the arms and have a place to put a book or drink or thermometer; when you tired, you pushed down on a button and the back tilted into a resting position.
This is not my Morris Chair, but it is an example:
My Morris Chair had arms that flared out at the end, convenient for placing a book or drink. Well, one flares out; the other has a section sawed off. Sometime, before my time, Grandma needed it for a certain purpose and it wouldn’t fit where it had to fit . . . and they sawed off part of end of the arm. (Which reminds me of my mother wanting a table low enough to work jigsaw puzzles from low chairs – so she sawed the legs on a walnut table.)
Bing Crosby sang about Morris Chairs. Of course, he’s been dead about 39 years. I remember he had a heart attack after a round of golf and when my mother saw his picture in his coffin in some supermarket tabloid, she remarked on how bald he was. She didn’t read those papers, but the picture was right there staring at her, I guess.
My dad always punctuated any Bing Crosby song with the comment, “He can’t sing like he used to.” This Christmas I listed to a lot of Bing Crosby, often choosing CD’s of his old Christmas radio broadcasts during the war. He would always end a show with a reference to “the boys” or “our troops” on some front.
Well, after that little interlude, let me return to Morris Chairs and Bing Crosby’s song.
All By Myself
All by myself in the morning All by myself in the night I sit alone in my cozy Morris chair So unhappy there, playing solitaire
Here’s a Youtube: