Of Christmas Trees & Love Seats
I spent most of yesterday morning hacking up our little dried up Christmas tree, so I could get it down the stairs without leaving a trail of pine needles. A good amount of time went into clipping off branches, using a wire cutter. It was actually fun, but sweaty.
After cutting up the tree, I decided to do something about an old love seat that we have sitting in the living room and no one should sit on. The love seat had a broken leg, so it was listing to port -- badly. Time for it to go. We have tons of furniture in our living room. We certainly didn't need something that didn't function.
The three remaining legs were attached by two screws each. I tried to undo them using a screw driver, but that didn't work. The screws were old and dug in too tightly. So I ask my mom for the saw. She fetches two saws, in fact, and tells me that one of the saws is capable of cutting through metal. I can saw through the screws, she says. Well, it wasn't quite what I'd had in mind, but I think, we'll try it her way. Of course, the saw gets stuck and by the time I saw down, it is not about to cut through any screws.
So Mom fetches a hammer and screw driver. She motions me away, puts the screwdriver between the leg we're working on and the sofa. She hammers down on the head of the screwdriver, forcing it between the leg and the sofa. At first, this seems to be a brilliant idea. She's going to pry the old nails loose. But the nails don't move. The screwdriver gets stuck and it takes all her strength to get it out.
Now, my Mom is 89 years old and stubborn -- more stubborn than any mule. Suddenly, she's determined to get the legs off the love seat. I'm supposed to stand aside and let her do it.
My 10-year-old son and I stand back in irritated disbelief as she insists upon taking over. That morning, she'd come into my room and told me that she didn't feel well. She was so weak she could barely stand. Now, she's grabbing the saw from me and trying to saw through metal screws embedded in a wooden sofa leg. It's ludicrous. It's dangerous, and she won't stop.
Rather than fight with her, I take the second saw and go to work on another leg. I position the saw just below the upper flare of the leg, down where the leg is thinner. All we have to do is get off enough of the legs to be able to get the love seat through the door and the hallway after. Just cutting off three-quarters of the legs should do the trick. We can leave little stubs on.
My son, Jordan, taps me on the forearm and nods toward his grandmother.
She's taken up a fairly dangerous tactic. She's attacking the screws from the bottom up. That is, she's positioned the screwdriver on the underside of where it's attached to the love seat and she's pounding on it with the hammer. So if the screwdriver slips or the hammer misses, either or both could fly up and hit her in her face.
I clear my throat. "Uh, Mom ... maybe that's not such a good idea."
The statement falls on deaf ears.
Jordan clears his throat. "You know, I'm hungry."
I look at him. There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"I'm VERY hungry," he says, "and I think I'll go into the kitchen and make myself something to eat."
I can't believe it. Jordi's hit upon the perfect strategy: use Mom's nuttiness against her. She just can't stand to have anyone else in her kitchen.
"Mom," I say, "Jordan's got to eat -- right now."
"I'm going to make myself some Farina," Jordan says and heads for the kitchen.
Grandma pauses in pounding the hammer, her voice unnerved. "But .. uh! Wait a minute."
By now, my husky and determined little guy is already at work in the kitchen. We can hear him moving about, opening cabinets, moving pots. He's making as much noise as he possibly can.
I say to my mother. "You really want him in there? You know how he is -- he always wastes Farina." This is always her complaint when he tries to fix anything for himself. Jordan is actually pretty gifted in the kitchen. But it doesn't matter. My mother would complain if Julia Child herself were in there.
Mom's torn. She doesn't know what to do -- fight with me for supremacy over the leg-cutting or fight with Jordan over the cooking. She trying to hammer, but her ears and attention are on the sounds coming from her most sacred domain, the kitchen.
"Why can't he wait?" she complains. "I was going to fix him lunch, a real lunch. With vegetables."
"He can't wait," I shake my head. "You know how that is. When the boy's hungry, he's really hungry. Furthermore, it's noon and he didn't have breakfast."
Jordan appears in the doorway, holding a box of Farina, and says cheerfully, "See, Grandma. Here I am. I'm going to do this now. I'm going to cook lots of Farina in the kitchen." He jiggles the box of Farina in her face -- the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull -- and happily marches out.
It's too much for her. She puts down the hammer and makes a beeline for the kitchen. The same woman who'd crept into my room that morning, saying she was so weak, has not only found the strength to hammer and saw, but now recapture control of the kitchen.
Seconds later, Jordan returns to the living room, beaming and triumphant. We both break into the laughter.
Together, we saw off the remaining three legs within minutes. Once we have the love seat upright again, we take a look at it and decide that it actually looks kind of cute, sitting there on little stubs. It has to sit there, for now, anyway, since neither of us has the strength to carry it down the stairs.
Mom comes in, sees what's been done, and agrees: "It's looks nice." Then she gets the brilliant idea of trying to sit on it.
She toddles across the room and starts to lower herself on this impossibly low, almost on the floor, love seat. I hold my breath. Am I going to have to make a mad dash and catch her? If I miss, will Jordan and I have to pull her back to her feet? Worse, could she possibly fracture those delicate bones of hers on this old, beaten love seat.
Mom bends, grabs hold of an arm rest and then stops. A look of doubt, a look of reconsideration and a shake of her head.
"No, I don't think so."
I exhale and that's the end of the story.
For now.
After cutting up the tree, I decided to do something about an old love seat that we have sitting in the living room and no one should sit on. The love seat had a broken leg, so it was listing to port -- badly. Time for it to go. We have tons of furniture in our living room. We certainly didn't need something that didn't function.
The three remaining legs were attached by two screws each. I tried to undo them using a screw driver, but that didn't work. The screws were old and dug in too tightly. So I ask my mom for the saw. She fetches two saws, in fact, and tells me that one of the saws is capable of cutting through metal. I can saw through the screws, she says. Well, it wasn't quite what I'd had in mind, but I think, we'll try it her way. Of course, the saw gets stuck and by the time I saw down, it is not about to cut through any screws.
So Mom fetches a hammer and screw driver. She motions me away, puts the screwdriver between the leg we're working on and the sofa. She hammers down on the head of the screwdriver, forcing it between the leg and the sofa. At first, this seems to be a brilliant idea. She's going to pry the old nails loose. But the nails don't move. The screwdriver gets stuck and it takes all her strength to get it out.
Now, my Mom is 89 years old and stubborn -- more stubborn than any mule. Suddenly, she's determined to get the legs off the love seat. I'm supposed to stand aside and let her do it.
My 10-year-old son and I stand back in irritated disbelief as she insists upon taking over. That morning, she'd come into my room and told me that she didn't feel well. She was so weak she could barely stand. Now, she's grabbing the saw from me and trying to saw through metal screws embedded in a wooden sofa leg. It's ludicrous. It's dangerous, and she won't stop.
Rather than fight with her, I take the second saw and go to work on another leg. I position the saw just below the upper flare of the leg, down where the leg is thinner. All we have to do is get off enough of the legs to be able to get the love seat through the door and the hallway after. Just cutting off three-quarters of the legs should do the trick. We can leave little stubs on.
My son, Jordan, taps me on the forearm and nods toward his grandmother.
She's taken up a fairly dangerous tactic. She's attacking the screws from the bottom up. That is, she's positioned the screwdriver on the underside of where it's attached to the love seat and she's pounding on it with the hammer. So if the screwdriver slips or the hammer misses, either or both could fly up and hit her in her face.
I clear my throat. "Uh, Mom ... maybe that's not such a good idea."
The statement falls on deaf ears.
Jordan clears his throat. "You know, I'm hungry."
I look at him. There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"I'm VERY hungry," he says, "and I think I'll go into the kitchen and make myself something to eat."
I can't believe it. Jordi's hit upon the perfect strategy: use Mom's nuttiness against her. She just can't stand to have anyone else in her kitchen.
"Mom," I say, "Jordan's got to eat -- right now."
"I'm going to make myself some Farina," Jordan says and heads for the kitchen.
Grandma pauses in pounding the hammer, her voice unnerved. "But .. uh! Wait a minute."
By now, my husky and determined little guy is already at work in the kitchen. We can hear him moving about, opening cabinets, moving pots. He's making as much noise as he possibly can.
I say to my mother. "You really want him in there? You know how he is -- he always wastes Farina." This is always her complaint when he tries to fix anything for himself. Jordan is actually pretty gifted in the kitchen. But it doesn't matter. My mother would complain if Julia Child herself were in there.
Mom's torn. She doesn't know what to do -- fight with me for supremacy over the leg-cutting or fight with Jordan over the cooking. She trying to hammer, but her ears and attention are on the sounds coming from her most sacred domain, the kitchen.
"Why can't he wait?" she complains. "I was going to fix him lunch, a real lunch. With vegetables."
"He can't wait," I shake my head. "You know how that is. When the boy's hungry, he's really hungry. Furthermore, it's noon and he didn't have breakfast."
Jordan appears in the doorway, holding a box of Farina, and says cheerfully, "See, Grandma. Here I am. I'm going to do this now. I'm going to cook lots of Farina in the kitchen." He jiggles the box of Farina in her face -- the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull -- and happily marches out.
It's too much for her. She puts down the hammer and makes a beeline for the kitchen. The same woman who'd crept into my room that morning, saying she was so weak, has not only found the strength to hammer and saw, but now recapture control of the kitchen.
Seconds later, Jordan returns to the living room, beaming and triumphant. We both break into the laughter.
Together, we saw off the remaining three legs within minutes. Once we have the love seat upright again, we take a look at it and decide that it actually looks kind of cute, sitting there on little stubs. It has to sit there, for now, anyway, since neither of us has the strength to carry it down the stairs.
Mom comes in, sees what's been done, and agrees: "It's looks nice." Then she gets the brilliant idea of trying to sit on it.
She toddles across the room and starts to lower herself on this impossibly low, almost on the floor, love seat. I hold my breath. Am I going to have to make a mad dash and catch her? If I miss, will Jordan and I have to pull her back to her feet? Worse, could she possibly fracture those delicate bones of hers on this old, beaten love seat.
Mom bends, grabs hold of an arm rest and then stops. A look of doubt, a look of reconsideration and a shake of her head.
"No, I don't think so."
I exhale and that's the end of the story.
For now.
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