Hattie's Chair

The old oak rocker sat empty in the living room, motionless. Peering through the bay window I could see the bottom had been wired together for support and the keyhole board on the back had a slight crack in it. The rich patina of the brown oak was inviting. The old woman seen sitting in it day after day was gone. They found her in the apartment, alone, after she had breathed her last breath. The mailbox revealed that her name was Hattie Brittan. Although I felt a little odd about moving into an apartment in which someone had recently passed away, the charm of its high ceilings and bay windows beckoned me. It was like an elegant old lady and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make it my home.
This apartment building was not new to me. A second floor apartment had been my home for the past six months and climbing the steep steps with books, groceries or my bicycle in tow made me weary. Initially my parents came to help me fix up the apartment. My father painted the walls white while mom cleaned. She made the mistake of mixing ammonia and bleach while cleaning the bathtub and almost passed out. She scrubbed the oven until it glowed. I remember by father struggling to get the sleeper sofa up the steep back steps. He wasn’t a very large man and the sleeper sofa was very heavy. Persistence paid off and the job got done.
That quarter this apartment was shared with my cousin Mary, an invisible roommate. She showed up just as school was starting. That quarter was tough for her. I had to keep an eye on her. She was prone to things like leaving water boiling unattended on the burner. It was a wonder the place didn’t burn down. I later found out she had had an abortion that quarter with a man she eventually married and divorced. Messy. Poor Mary.
Moving into Hattie’s apartment required finding new roommates because it was larger and the rent was one hundred and fifty dollars a month. It was a one floor apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, formal dining room with bay windows and double pocket doors to the living room, a kitchen, pantry room and a bathroom. Hattie’s chair continued to assume a place of prominence in the living room. The ancient kitchen had a gas oven and large tip out bins for storage. Lighting the oven for the first time was an experience that greeted me with a flash flame and left me with singed eyelashes. There was even a screened back porch pantry. Out in the courtyard there was old oak ice box (I once saw a snow owl sitting on it). That quarter three of us shared the apartment: a young woman whose name has left me (she was divorcing her husband, a dentist), Sandy, and I. The divorcee left us after a quarter and she was replaced by a fellow art student who was memorable because she only had one hand. Sandy always kept her bed in the dining room and was rarely there because she had a “serious” boyfriend.
This apartment complex was located across from the Bellingham Hotel and there was no place to park my car except on the street. “Feeding” the meters meant getting up before I wanted to on Saturdays so I didn’t get a ticket. On one of those Saturday mornings I got up only to find someone had backed into the front of my car and “punched” out my headlights. That tragedy was memorable because my budget was miniscule and replacing headlights was not in my repertoire of skills. As I swept up the broken glass I wanted to find the person who had done this and give them a piece of my mind. Undoubtedly they had been to the top of the hotel in the cocktail lounge and were driving with impaired judgment. Why me? I wondered if this had ever happened to Hattie. Probably not, she probably didn’t even have to worry about a car.
That summer roommates all went their separate ways and I moved on. The landlords were not interested in selling any of the old furniture in the apartment when I inquired. As “Keeper of the Chair”, my decision was that Hattie’s chair would moved on with me. It barely fit in my car, but I persisted until it did. This act was a tribute to Hattie.
The chair had seen better times and after a few more moves it needed some repair. After graduating from college and starting my teaching career my father offered to refinish it for me. Hattie’s chair went on a trip to Seattle and left it with him for a time. I had no idea what that chair was in for. Dad decided to have it dipped which meant dipping it into some stripper that would remove all stain and any other finish. My father removed the keyhole back and replaced it with a new one he had made. He reinforced the legs and removed the wire. In his mind he was making it stronger. The chair was stained a new color and the grand finale was that it was given a Varathane finish. Varathane is an acrylic finish that helps preserve wood. My chair was going to be around long after the human race. When I got the chair back Dad was so proud of his work that he just beamed and I was mortified. My lovely antique chair had lost its patina and now stood in the glow of its acrylic Varathane finish.
Hattie’s chair continued to move with me. My cat, Amy, loved to sit on a pillow on this chair when we lived in half a duplex. It was hers for a period of time. The chair and the cat moved in with us when my husband and I got married. It moved to Blue Lake where we made our home. At one point it was moved to the loft at the lake were it sat idle for a few years. It came down from the loft when our daughter, Ashley, was born and I rocked her in that chair. Not long after, we rented our home and moved to California so it was stored for ten years.
When we returned from California we spent time at the lake house. The chair came out of storage again. Ashley, now ten, and Nick, just six, loved to rock in it up in the loft. The chair retained the shine from the acrylic finish, but began to creak from the absence of glue that disappeared to some extent when it was dipped. It looked new, but sounded old.
That following June, Hattie’s chair came to first grade with me. I accepted a new teaching position and used it for story time and as a special seat for the “Superstar of the Week”. Imagining Hattie looking down on the classroom with a satisfied smile on her face was a comforting thought. The chair was at home in that room, at least for awhile.
Dakota arrived in my first grade class unexpectedly one Monday morning. He hid behind a pile of bark on the playground as we lined up. I remember him peeking around the bark and telling me he was “kinda shy”. His bright red hair and mischievous smile did not appear shy to me. Dakota’s shyness lasted about five minutes. He had a few problems and one of the ways I gave him time to think was to go and sit in the rocking chair. He would rock and think and think some more. It was a therapy of sorts for him. One day, during choice time Dakota yanked and pulled on one of the spindles in the back of the chair and broke it. The chair went home with me that night. I wasn’t sure just what could be done to fix it, so chair was stored in the garage until someone could be found to do the repairs. Dakota never mentioned the chair again. He never let on if he missed it or not, but he wasn’t going to have any more opportunities to damage it. Not Hattie’s chair.
Hattie’s chair went back to the loft at Blue Lake. Our family hasn’t been to the lake house much the last few years. Ashley and Nick now live away and attend college. Two of our family members that loved the lake and sat in that chair have passed away. We have hopes of spending more time there soon. Until then Hattie’s chair will continue to sit in the loft and wait with empty arms for the next chapter in her life.
By Audrey White