Selecting Furniture

If I closed my eyes, I could see the place: dark hardwood floors and woodwork, white walls, lots of light. It was small, but cozy. I was going to make it my home.

I was living in a studio apartment when I was accepted into the program. I had a futon and a skinny kitchen island I'd bought at a big box store and used as a desk. I would stand at it and type on the laptop I'd bought myself after college, or I would perch on the barstool I found at a yard sale and spend my time writing stories about women who were on the edge. In the six months I lived in the studio apartment, I wrote a story about a woman at a temporary secretarial job who beat up a guy in the lobby for constantly being nice to her.

Knowing I'd be leaving that apartment for the one on Dearing Place brightened my perspective a little. Plus, it gave me something to do.

I started shopping for furniture, dishes, domestic wares. I bought a book on Feng Shui. I agonized over living room rugs.

The kitchen was small, but there was room for a tiny table. I was reminded of the "ice cream table" or parlour table on the balcony of the apartment I'd rented in Paris right after college. It had reminded me of going for ice cream in my hometown, at a little ice cream parlour across the street from the cemetery. The tables had black and white marble tops. The claw foot bases were painted black. The chairs were practically made of wire hangers. And that's exactly what I wanted for my kitchen in the South.

My father found a base and heavier, sturdier wire chairs at the flea market. The chairs were missing seats and backs. He cut wood circles, added padding, and upholstered them with black and white striped referee shirts. He painted the base. And then he reminded me that I had a marble table top coming to me whenever I wanted it.

His friend, Gus, owned a marble and tile shop. He made bathroom sinks and countertops. When I was about to graduate from high school, Gus offered to make me a marble table of my own design. I didn't think much about it while I lived in college apartments, but this would be my first "grown up" place. I called, and he was happy to deliver. I asked for black and white swirled top. I got it. It was custom made for my perfect apartment.

I wasn't about to make the futon a permanent sleeping option. In my mind, it took the place of a sofa. I needed a bed, and I looked for a bed. I looked for a wrought iron bed at the flea market, in antique stores all over southern Ohio, northern Kentucky and in every shop in Huntington, West Virginia. Nothing seemed right, or the right price. I was browsing an antique store in my hometown when I saw the odd bed. It wasn't intricate. The posts were thicker, the iron less delicate. The white paint had cracked over the years. I said, "I'll live with that." I was happy to find it back home, in my hometown. It would be from home. The seller said it was as old as the late 1800s. It had lived in southern Ohio a lot longer than I had. And now I was making it a piece of my own history.

Like all furnishings, my possessions made statements. We made the ice cream table. The top was custom made. The bed was from a mercantile near the river. My bookshelves belonged to my grandparents - my Mamaw's childhood bookshelf and one my Papaw built himself in his garage.

I wanted a rocking chair, and found one that needed new caning. Instead, we put flat wood on the seat and I covered it with a comfortable pillow.

I moved it all into the little one bedroom just before the left curve at the top of the street. And it felt like home so fast that the neighbors could have been anyone.

And they were.