My Grandpa's Chair

To everyone else it's just an ordinary recliner. It's big, brown, and puffy which is really all you could ever want in a chair with huge pockets on the side to hold various reading and writing materials. But it's no ordinary recliner.

I've known this recliner my entire life. Visits to my grandparents in Florida were filled with waiting for the moment Grandpa would stand up and walk to the other room so I could pounce and climb my way up on it, letting it engulf me in ways that only big, brown, puffy recliners can engulf little girls. Then Grandpa would come back and tickle me and I'd scramble out.

I can remember sitting in the chair and trying my hardest to push the arms in the way that made the foot rest pop up. I was never strong enough, and Grandpa would have to come around behind me and push them for me. Even when I was strong enough I would pretend that I wasn't so that Grandpa would have to come around behind me and push them for me.

He stopped smoking a pipe very early on in my memories, but I'm still convinced that if you turn your head just so and sniff at just the right spot you can catch the scent of tobacco that takes you back to the days when you were sitting on his lap in that recliner while he watched golf on TV.

Mom was going to get rid of the recliner. I happened across it and claimed it for myself when no one else wanted it. It has a prominent place in my office now; its the chair I go to for all the comfort reading, writing, and studying I do. That chair has always meant a lot to me and I don't think I'll ever give it up.

To me, it's an extraordinary recliner.