Tag Archives: La-Z-Boy

The Old Gal

She has had a good life. More to the point, I have had a good life, in part, because of her. We’ve been through thick and thin together, and she has silently stood with me experiencing the highs, and a few lows, of my life for almost thirty years. The times we have shared are priceless, but I’m deeply afraid the old gal’s days are numbered. I cannot fathom a life without my mainstay – my reliable one – my comforter – my mate. To me, she’s an integral part of the family. To my wife, she has served her purpose but is long overdue for being put out to pasture. I’m at a loss as to what to do about my ailing La-Z-Boy rocker recliner.

My lovely wife, on the other hand, has been lobbying for many years to replace what I’m sure she sees only as an embarrassing eyesore. Her pleas to say good riddance to the old gal have increasingly become more boisterous and much more frequent with each passing year, but her requests have consistently fallen on deaf ears. It seems as though the missus has grown to loathe the color of my easy chair, but I think mauve still goes well with our living room décor. If mauve was good enough as the primary color of our wedding then by golly it should be good enough now. “But that was over 30 years ago,” my wife keeps reminding me. Supposedly, the pale purple color is no longer hip and doesn’t even deserve a place in today’s society. When did mauve become such a bad word?

I’m guessing women just may not know how attached a man becomes to his chair over the course of time. We need only look to Martin Crane of television’s Frasier, or to the revered Archie Bunker character, to grasp the importance of a man’s easy chair in his life. If an insufferable curmudgeon’s chair from All in the Family can make its way into the Smithsonian then surely my mauve mate can continue residing in my living room. A man’s adoration for his chair is certainly nothing new and transcends multiple generations. I assume my father was very fond of his rocker recliner. Me…not so much. Many times the all too familiar sound of my father swiftly depressing his chair’s footrest meant he’d had enough of my roughhousing and was coming after me. Maybe my son has a similar story to tell about me.

I can only imagine the stories my La-Z-Boy would tell if only she could talk. I have seen and done so many things, and have watched history unfold, from the confines of my comfortable chair. I witnessed the O.J. Simpson white Bronco “chase” and subsequently the dramatic trial. I watched one evening as President Bill Clinton looked me, and the rest of the nation, in the eyes and insisted, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” I cheered for my favorite baseball team (at the time), the Atlanta Braves, as they were crowned World Series champions in 1995. I was also in my comfy chair when rooting for University of Northern Iowa alum, Kurt Warner, as he led his St. Louis Rams to a Super Bowl XXXIV victory in 2000.

However, not all memorable times spent with my mauve mate have been happy times. Once I was slowly rocking in my La-Z-Boy when out of the blue I informed my wife I thought I needed to go to the emergency room. It was the evening of the very day a dream of mine came true when I opened a music store in my hometown. The jubilation I was experiencing, from a successful day at Mac’s Compact Disc Shop, instantaneously turned into unrelenting pain. The culprit responsible for my abrupt anguish was later determined to be a kidney stone. I’ve also felt uneasy at times, oddly enough, in my easy chair (get the irony?). I’ve anxiously recuperated from a few colds and flus, softball injuries, and a knee surgery. I also somberly observed most of the events of 9/11 from my comforting chair. I’m thankful though that life in my prized chair has produced mostly positive memorable moments.

I can recall multiple times relaxing in my La-Z-Boy with my beloved dog underfoot. Brittany could be a bit of a nuisance though whenever she would decide to lay down directly in front of my chair. Her ill-advised choice often prevented me from operating the footrest without having to disturb her slumber. My dog’s decision also significantly hindered my path to both the kitchen and the bathroom, but it certainly was wonderful being worshiped by my faithful companion. Brittany’s unconditional love was often rewarded with a hunk of pizza crust or several pieces of popcorn (she’d expertly catch) during our family movie nights.

Many of my most cherished memories, while lounging in my easy chair, involve being snuggly encompassed with my child. There’s nothing quite like the pride I felt as a father when holding my newborn son, so close to my heart, while gently rocking him to sleep. Or a few years later when witnessing my toddler’s wide- eyed curiosity, while cozily on my lap, as he intently watched whatever shenanigans his favorite purple dinosaur was up to, during episodes of Barney & Friends emanating from our television screen.

Fast forward twenty-some years to a more recent memory I have of my adult son when he came to visit his very cool parents one weekend. He’s a fan of the old gal, too, so he’s frequently chomping at the bit to inhabit her. My respectful son is pretty good about asking me if he can seize control of my La-Z-Boy, before just plopping down, so I almost always say yes to his request. Just as predictable as my answer, is my son’s propensity to be snoring within only a few minutes of settling in. One time I found myself chuckling out loud after noticing my kid all sprawled out and making use of every inch, and then some, of my chair’s lounging capacity. Seeing my boy’s 6’3″ frame overflowing the parameters of my recliner was a sight to behold.

Although my son now lives over a thousand miles away, my mauve mate unexpectedly, but pleasantly, reminded me of him just the other day. I had flipped over my La-Z-Boy, as I’ve been doing from time to time, to see if somehow my mechanically uninclined self could find a cure for my ailing chair. No such luck again, of course, but on this particular day something trickled out from one of the rusty springs underneath the chair. It was a small, black strip of something somewhat familiar. Upon further investigation, I concluded that the small piece of plastic adhesive probably came from a handheld label maker my son used to own long ago. I turned the black label over to find only a single word imprinted on it – although it was a wonderful surprise! The one word was just the name of my son, but the seemingly insignificant label was much needed at the time (I was missing my boy) and is now my newest treasured possession. The old gal is the gift that keeps on giving.

So, with everything we’ve been through together, why am I now suddenly concerned about the remaining longevity of my mauve mate, and why am I even considering putting her out to pasture? Probably because my rocker recliner no longer rocks and she can barely recline anymore. The shape of my chair has slowly morphed into something only resembling that of a chair. And just the other day, while attempting to recline, I heard a “pop” as my La-Z-Boy immediately tilted to one side. I hesitantly turned her over to find a small piece of broken wood laying on the carpet. That can’t be good.

My left butt cheek now sits about two inches lower than my right one when I’m all nestled in my chair. The silver lining though is that the new angle relieves a bit of pressure off my ailing right hip, and I’m now even closer to my crossword puzzles and any snacks or beverages that may find their way onto the nearby end table. To be sure, there are a few stains here and there on my La-Z-Boy, but my adored chair does not stink, and there are no holes, rips, or tears in the upholstery to be found. Not too shabby I reckon for something that has shared in my daily experiences, and has seen me through thick and thin, for nearly three decades. I suppose I’m no longer at a loss as to what to do about my La-Z-Boy rocker recliner. I’m keeping the old gal!



I remember it well. It was a long time ago, yet it’s one of those life altering moments a person never forgets. I was only a child, around 8 or 9 years old, when my world came crashing down around me. I could no longer keep my emotions buried deep down inside of me. I sat there motionless in my father’s La-Z-Boy Rocker Recliner, stunned by what had transpired over the past few weeks, as tears cascaded down my cheeks. I made no effort to conceal my tears as I gazed down the hallway at my mother who was conversing on our one and only rotary dial telephone. In fact, I was hoping my immense sorrow would not go unnoticed, so I could finally release some of the burden I’d secretly been carrying around with me ever since I made that awful decision…to give my teddy bear away.

I made the hasty decision to part ways with my stuffed animal soon after attending a Cub Scout meeting. (I was a Cub Scout for an entire two years during my youth.) My Pack leader announced we’d be taking part in a local toy drive. The Christmas season was fast approaching, and he thought collecting new and slightly used toys, for those less fortunate in our community, was the least we could do as a civic minded organization. My ears perked up when the gangly Cubmaster mentioned there’d be prizes awarded, to the top three toy collectors, on the evening of the upcoming annual pinewood derby competition. I don’t remember much more about the meeting after hearing the word prizes, but I do recall thinking what a glorious night that will be: taking first place in the pinewood derby and receiving one of three prizes just for gathering some toys.

When I got home I immediately ransacked my overflowing toy box and found a few items I could donate to help my…ahem…I mean…to help the…worthy cause. The next day I scoured the neighborhood (probably only three or four houses) for contributions. One weekend a few of us even went out with our Pack leader in hopes of finding more donations. The contest’s end was nearing, and I felt pretty good about the number of toys I had garnered, but was it enough? I rummaged through my toy box one last time, but I didn’t find anything. At least nothing else I could bear to part with or what would be acceptable as “slightly used.”

And then it happened. I spotted my blue and white teddy bear, in his usual spot, on top of my bed. I hadn’t even considered parting company with any of the assorted inanimate creatures arranged next to my pillow. But what a greedy little guy I was. All I kept thinking about were those darn prizes. It’s not even as if they were all that spectacular to begin with. I think the grand prize was maybe ten dollars. A nice sum at the time, for a young lad, but certainly not worth the guilt I’d soon be facing.

I began to rationalize how giving away my teddy wasn’t a big deal. Wasn’t I too old for such a thing anyway? I hadn’t even given my stuffed bear a name for Pete’s sake. What kind of an owner doesn’t give their teddy bear a name? Surely he’d be better off with someone else. Rationalization completed.

My mother noticed I had added my teddy bear to the modest pile of accumulated toys situated in the corner of my bedroom. She mildly suggested that I reconsider my decision to give away my teddy. A day or so later, seeing my stuffed animal still occupying the corner, my mother strongly recommended I heed her advice. She then made one last plea for me to reconsider my stance, as I was heading off to the big event, but my infantile mind had already been made up. My excitement that evening quickly waned as the names of the three prize winners were announced, and the realization of what just happened set in. I lost the pinewood derby, the toy drive contest, and my precious teddy bear in one fell swoop.

A few days passed, and I quickly got over not being victorious in the pinewood derby and toy drive competitions. I truly hadn’t given my teddy bear much thought with the hustle and bustle of the season’s festivities and with Christmas just around the corner. However, after the blessed 25th day of December had come and gone, and every child’s coveted winter break was coming to a close, I became fixated with the loss of my blue and white teddy bear. I could not believe what I had done. That’s why I couldn’t stop crying, and hoping my mother would notice my anguish, as I sat motionless in my father’s La-Z-Boy. (My father must not have been home at the time since I was sitting in his chair.)

At last, my mother’s eyes locked onto mine, and instantly I felt a sense of some much needed solace. I was relieved, although only for a moment, until my newfound comfort swiftly transformed into a state of trepidation. After all, it was my mother who earnestly tried to convince me not to give away my one and only teddy, so why should she be sympathetic to my self-induced predicament after I (now regretfully) ignored her previous sound advice? I guess I was about to find out since my mother had hung up the telephone and was headed in my direction. To my surprise, she was sympathetic…and how!

After comforting me for a while my mother came up with a brilliant idea. She couldn’t bring back my teddy bear, but she could do the next best thing. My mother is a fine artist, so she drew (from memory) a life-size, near perfect replica of my teddy onto a large sheet of drawing paper. She then brought the picture to life when filling in the bear’s outline with a couple of colored pencils – precisely matching the light blue on the piece of paper before us to that of the real thing now somewhere in the arms of some lucky kid.

Over the next few days my mother did the same for the remaining stuffed clan arranged on my bed…just in case. She fashioned the likenesses of my light green bunny, small raccoon pillow, and my Ronald McDonald collectible onto other sheets of drawing paper, so I could add them to the teddy bear masterpiece she had created for me. What a mother! Her act of kindness eased much of the hurt her little boy was experiencing.

It’s no coincidence that today is National Teddy Bear Day. I really don’t think we need a specific day of the year designated to honor our teddies, but what the hey. Later this month (Sept. 19th) is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, so I suppose, all things considered, a day established to celebrate our teddy bears isn’t so strange after all. I do think about my blue and white teddy sometimes, and I wish he was still with me. If you’re fortunate enough to still have yours…please hug your teddy bear today.