Monday, January 3, 2011
The Christmas tree is down and my great-great grandfather's rocking chair has been put back in place. When the old gentleman was alive the chair was upholstered in red leather with magnificent bronze brads. My parents had it redone in Sonny's favorite color, turquoise, with water-repellent, grandchild-proof fabric. Boring and at some point I will haul the chair back to the shop and return the upholstery to its amazing splendor. The chair sat in an enclosed back porch, an all-seasons room, in my childhood home. I remember curling up in its comfort, the lights off watching the winter stars move above the cottonwood branches. I would wait for a pink and white '59 Chevy to come prowling around the corner, my first husband's car.
Sonny celebrated New Year's Eve with an old friend, wife of a childhood chum long dead. There was dinner at 4:30 in an Italian place and the film, Dr. Zhivago to be viewed afterwards. So goes the geriatric set, wiser than me. Gone are my days of after-midnight partying in the swinging night clubs across the river but I discovered another activity that is comparable to that same chaos.