I've never owned a sofa that didn't belong to someone else first. The one we've had for the past 15 years was Mom's. Not my choice in color, not a great fabric, but it's serviceable and it's a queen pullout, and so it sits in the living room with a nice stretch-to-fit cover. And it does me just fine.
There's a tiny little child's chair in my dining room. I found it at a yard sale about 40 years ago. The marks on the top back slat are from Michael's teething. The little bear that sits in it was also a yard-sale find, from about 13 years ago. Bear's little scruffy stuffed arms are always stretched out ready for a hug. Around his neck he wears a yellow ribbon, he wears a yellow ribbon til the troops come home.
The desk by the front door was sitting next to a pile of trash at my boss's house when I spied it. Of course, once I asked if I could have it, boss lady decided it was very dear to her, but then said she could let it go for fifty dollars. It's almost a hundred years old, the finish has taken on a patina you get only after a near-century of love and polishing, but the drawers still pull without sticking and the fold down top makes the neatest writing table. It's full of odds and ends, mostly stuff that Jim has brought in from the garage or truck and wanted handy for the next time. And then forgot he put there.
My dog was in the please take me home puppy park before I found him fifteen years ago. One of the ladies who worked there had adopted him but brought him back when she found out she was preggers and so the new baby won out over a new puppy. But his little spotted tongue was always so ready to lick a friendly face, and he didn't know he was a cast-off. When I saw him I fell in love. Still am.
My cat belonged to someone else, too, but as soon as he was old enough to be wrenched from his mother's side, his owners drove up into our yard one dark night and threw him out the car door, then sped away into the black. We found him the next morning, shivering in the damp cold dawn, frightened, mewling for help. Jim said he was allergic to cats and I could keep it, but only if it stayed outside. Within a month Jim was crawling around on the great room floor, teaching kitty to chase and pounce on a string. Fourteen years later, kitty's still with us, but these days he prefers a bed that doesn't move to playing with a bug that does.
Heck, even Jim was someone else's husband before he was mine. Stupid woman. But I thank God every day she decided she'd rather not be a Marine Corps wife.
Second hand doesn't necessarily mean used up and ready for the trash heap. Sometimes it means being given a second chance at life. I get one every morning. And for that I am truly grateful.
There's a tiny little child's chair in my dining room. I found it at a yard sale about 40 years ago. The marks on the top back slat are from Michael's teething. The little bear that sits in it was also a yard-sale find, from about 13 years ago. Bear's little scruffy stuffed arms are always stretched out ready for a hug. Around his neck he wears a yellow ribbon, he wears a yellow ribbon til the troops come home.
The desk by the front door was sitting next to a pile of trash at my boss's house when I spied it. Of course, once I asked if I could have it, boss lady decided it was very dear to her, but then said she could let it go for fifty dollars. It's almost a hundred years old, the finish has taken on a patina you get only after a near-century of love and polishing, but the drawers still pull without sticking and the fold down top makes the neatest writing table. It's full of odds and ends, mostly stuff that Jim has brought in from the garage or truck and wanted handy for the next time. And then forgot he put there.
My dog was in the please take me home puppy park before I found him fifteen years ago. One of the ladies who worked there had adopted him but brought him back when she found out she was preggers and so the new baby won out over a new puppy. But his little spotted tongue was always so ready to lick a friendly face, and he didn't know he was a cast-off. When I saw him I fell in love. Still am.
My cat belonged to someone else, too, but as soon as he was old enough to be wrenched from his mother's side, his owners drove up into our yard one dark night and threw him out the car door, then sped away into the black. We found him the next morning, shivering in the damp cold dawn, frightened, mewling for help. Jim said he was allergic to cats and I could keep it, but only if it stayed outside. Within a month Jim was crawling around on the great room floor, teaching kitty to chase and pounce on a string. Fourteen years later, kitty's still with us, but these days he prefers a bed that doesn't move to playing with a bug that does.
Heck, even Jim was someone else's husband before he was mine. Stupid woman. But I thank God every day she decided she'd rather not be a Marine Corps wife.
Second hand doesn't necessarily mean used up and ready for the trash heap. Sometimes it means being given a second chance at life. I get one every morning. And for that I am truly grateful.
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