One of my dear bloggy friends, Gail, and I have been discussing reupholstering ever since I mentioned that I was going to tackle recovering the couch in the mancave. I tried to send her a picture of my last project but her temperamental PC wanted no part of opening my possibly virus-laden snapshot (If you look closely you might notice a few yellow leaves in the background - could be a virus) so I thought I would post it up here for everyone to judge.... I mean, enjoy.
This chair is older than I am.
I can remember when it was covered in a chocolate milk-colored prickly loop fabric. If you were alive in the 60's, middle-class America, I think you know the stuff. It must have a name. Other than itchy, leg-rash fabric.
I remember that my dad used to sit in this chair and read the paper and smoke his Pell Mells with me in his lap. Yes, I'm sure that I do make a pretty good poster child for the deranged hazards of second-hand smoke, but my dad quit the sticks when I was about 4 years old.
Over the years, the chair got moved from top billing in the living room to the basement and then to the lake cabin, where it was recovered with something that was palatable in the 80's. Then, in spite of its new look, it was kicked to the cabin family room and eventually, to the 3rd class quarters (where they put me when I visit) - the 'bunk house'. Between the life jackets and plastic table cloths.
That was about all I could take. I don't mind sleeping in a shed but to find my beloved chair there was more than I could tolerate. If you can't tell by the picture, it is a platform rocker with cool little featherish metal toes. It even has a brake on the side if you are not in the mood to rock.
Well, after I expressed my displeasure to my mother, she challenged me to take it home with me. I'm pretty sure it was a couple of beers talking and she had no idea that it would fit in the back of my trusty Subaru wagon, but as luck would have it, this was a time when I was dropping off my children in the 'Otas for their annual month-long visit with the rellies. That meant I was deadheading back to You-tah and therefore had lots of room for childhood treasures. Yay me!
And then I got home and unloaded my prize. Homer took one look at my awesome heritage and coined it 'The Frat Chair'. He didn't even want it in the house. I stubbornly placed it IN THE LIVING ROOM and started thinking about recovering it. For like 5 years, I thought. I even took some of the fabric off to have a better look at what was underneath. Dangling raw edges don't do much to dispel a moniker like Frat Chair.
Finally two years ago all the planets aligned and I was able to find extra time, money, fabric and mental fortitude simultaneously. Okay, it was not cheap or easy because the springs were broken and had to be replaced and retied and the padding and webbing were toast, but let me tell you, this chair has one sweet, SOLID hardwood frame that I'm sure will survive until the day I (hopefully) hear 'Good grief, Grandma, can I tear off the putrid fabric and recover this groovy chair'. Because groovy will be the cool word again. And she'll probably do it up in some itchy brown fabric. And I will be SO dang proud!