My original family home was in Portland. 3125 N E 42nd Street. If you entered through the front door (which we never did), there was an entry room. Smallish and like all the rooms of our house decorated to perfection. It was a lovely little jewel box of a room with a front door, two windows, a small chest, and a bench.
The bench, I suppose, was meant to be a spot where you sat down and changed from your street shoes to your house slippers. We never used it as we entered through the back door a much less kitted out space; a landing pad that led to the cold dank basement or up two stairs into our kitchen.
The bench, made from humble wood with a couple of rounded finials at the top made its’ way into my house when my parents died. It landed against a wall where it stood mostly unused for many years. I used the storage in the seat and at Christmas, it stood behind our tree. I put a collection of well-loved bears on top of it so they could witness the holidays. A rather forlorn existence for a bench that should have welcomed family and friends.
I just thought of the Velveteen Rabbit and other worn and discarded toys that are put in the closet or thrown in the trash when they are no longer loved. I read a book recently that talks about the thinginess of things.* Things, including books and bears and tables and chairs and benches, have lives, you know. They were once other things, they may have been alive, like trees.
The bench now has a new home in the entry hall of an old house owned by my friend. It sits so proudly there. It is where it belongs.
Hello. Yes, this is Dog 