NEXT GENERATION
                                               BABES CUDDLING IN OLD CHAIR 

                                                 I'm here to tell you a true story about a chair.

                  I know it's true because I was there.     

 

                                                                   I am the Chair.

      Once upon a time, a long time ago, I was young and strong, built with extra padding and heavy brown fabric. But many years passed and I became faded, worn, tired looking and the Old Man who once appreciated me didn't want me any more. Neither did he want my twin chair. I served him well, I suppose. As well as any chair can serve the comfort of humans.
     The year was 1957. I was lifted out of the Old Man's big old house and brought to a small old house. My twin went to a young couple. I never saw my twin again.
     This small old house was occupied by a Young Man and his Bride.

     They picked a place for me in the tiny, crowded living room in front of the big window and spent much time snuggling and whispering sweet, loving sentiments to each other while I held them close.

      "What did you look like?"

      Hmm. Let me try to remember. It's been so long ago.

      The Old Man must have thought of me as shabby, worn out and ready for the garbage pile since he didn't want me any more. But I knew that wasn't the case. I thought I was beautiful.
   
      At one time I may have looked like this with bright colors and soft fabric, strong sturdy legs, heavy springs and new batting to hold me together.

      "You were as beautiful as a garden in the spring. "

      Thank you. But that's not quite the way I looked. Hmmm. Let me think. The legs and arms, cushions look familiar, but the wings aren't how I remember them. I had wings. Yes. That's right I had wings . . . but smaller.

     "Were you white? You would have been beautiful as a bride in white."

      No. I wasn't white. But let me get back to my story of the Young Man and his Bride.
     Time went by and they had one baby. And another. And another. And at last the final another. So they moved to a new and bigger little house. Of course they brought me along. I had become an important member of their family. I was special - big and comfortable and useful for naps. I cuddled the children as they fell asleep while stories were read to them.
     Over time, I began to look worn and faded. My fabric was tearing at the seams and chocolate splotches and coffee spills dulled my original beauty. My springs sagged and padding poked out here and there. The Young Man, now called Father, decided to re-cover me. His Bride, now called  Mother, said that would be fine and he should be the one to choose new material to go over my old fabric.

      Nope! I fooled you. I did not look like a zebra when he was finished.
     There were so many fabrics to choose from and a kaleidoscope of colors.

     It was exciting alright. I dreamed of waking up and being more beautiful and amazingly splendid than ever before

     "So the Father knew what he was doing and skillfully removed  your old fabric, strengthened all your springs, and restuffed your sagging cushions?"

     Umm. Not exactly. Father added some padding to my cushions, turned me upside down and straightened one broken spring, glued a couple of slats together, and attached the new fabric right over the old. The fabric Father chose was bright blue, shiny, slick and slippery. . . plastic

      It lasted a long time. Until Mother decided to restore me to my original glory.  Not that she could do a big, important project like I needed. But she knew someone who could. She placed me in the skillful hands of an Upholstery Specialist.
     The Upholstery Specialist turned me upside down, tilted me over until I was sideways, cut away my seams, and removed old worn batting. I heard the Upholstery Specialist say my old bones seemed to be strong, but a few repairs were called for.
     What a surprise was in store for me while being made new.

                               

    
                              
       "Well, well, well."  I heard the Upholstery Specialist exclaim once I was thoroughly torn apart. "You clever old Chair. You have a much different chair hiding inside of you."

     "What did that mean . . . a much smaller chair hiding inside of you?" 
    
      The Upholstery Specialist muttered  that sometime in my past another upholstery person had covered my original small wings, arms, back and cushion with thicker padding - which made me a thicker, taller and wider chair. The Upholstery Specialist called Mother and told her what had been discovered. She told the Upholstery Specialist to bring me back to my original size. And that she had already chosen my brand new fabric.
                                                          
                                                     A lovely, happy, vibrant shade of orange.

     "So you lived happily ever after. A lovely, vibrant shade of orange  . . . HEY! Hold it! Your are not  an orange chair!"

     You are so right. I had one more very important restoration. But first you must hear the rest of my life story.
     After Father and Mother became Grandfather and Grandmother they moved out of their big house and onto a sailboat. Their children had grown up and had children of their own. A big orange Chair would not fit in a sailboat.  But Grandfather and Grandmother did not throw me into the garbage dump - even though over time I had again become old and shabby, torn and worn.
     Their youngest son pointed to his children and said, "We will take the old orange Chair. Our daughters have cuddled in it, and had stories read to them, and have taken naps in its arms."
     That's where I lived for many years until those children grew up and had children of their own who wanted to be cuddled, and have stories read to them, and take naps with their Mommy and Daddy, snuggling inside my faded, and stained, overstuffed orange arms.


     "But . . . but you aren't a faded and stained, old overstuffed, orange chair!"
    
     Happy to say, I am not an old, faded orange, overstuffed chair any more. Now I'll tell you how I came to be beautiful, new, and restored
     If you recall, the Grandfather and Grandmother had moved away onto a sailboat and given me to their son and his wife.  They eventually gave me to one of their daughters when she grew up and had two little daughters.
     The two little daughters sat in me for story time, naps and cuddling with their Daddy. They didn't mind that I was old, orange and had sagging cushions.
                                                 

     Daddy covered me with a pretty blanket to cover up the stains and spots, tears and stuffing coming out of my cushion. But Mommy would have none of that! She knew I could be beautiful and new again.

     "Out of the chair, girls. I've work to do,"  said Mommy. She slid me out of the corner and into the middle of the living room. I was nervous as she began repairing tears in my old fabric, pulling out my batting, and ripping my seams.

"What's this?" she exclaimed,
tugging at something hiding inside my left side panel below my arm.. "Well, well, well. Must have been your fabric when you were brand new."
      Mommy hammered and screwed in new fasteners and grommets. She pried away old batting and pounded and repaired bent springs.

     Finally she was ready to decide on beautiful and new fabric. Off to the fabric store she went.
     When she returned home she was carrying a large bolt of colorful upholstery fabric.
    
    "Well, what do you think?" she asked laying a piece of the new fabric over my seat and laying the rest of the bolt in front of me.

                                                   That will do nicely. I like it very much.
      

     And with that said, she flipped me over topsy turvy, upside downsy and began covering my small wings, curved sides and arms, seat cushion and foot rest. Oh dear . . . I hoped she knew what she was doing.
     But then all work on me stopped. I was afraid unfinished was my plight for the rest of my days when I heard Mommy admit she didn't know how to put the new fabric onto my back cushion.
     Oh dear. Oh dear. This will never do. But it's not as if I could do anything about it. I accepted my not quite perfect new self . . . content that I was almost a perfectly new and beautiful, old overstuffed Chair.

       "But . . . but you are a perfectly new and beautiful old overstuffed chair now!"

     Yes. Just as you say and can see. Mommy looked up on pinterest how to attach the fabric to my back cushion and followed the directions exactly

                                                                
                          But you know, don't you, that I have always been a perfectly beautiful old
                          overstuffed Chair even when my fabric was torn, my seams were splitting
                                  my springs sprung out of shape, and my batting was falling out.
                                                 I was always beautiful from the inside out.
                                    I know I was because I had love and a place in the hearts
                           of all those who entrusted me with their children's naps, story time, and cuddles

                                                                         Yes indeed!
                                                              That's exactly what I am . . .
                                         a perfectly beautiful, old but restored overstuffed Chair.
                                                            Would you like to sit a spell?
                                                                       Naps allowed.
                                                   
I