back to Stories Tangentially Related to Thanksgiving
The Boy Who Was a Chair
Once upon a time, an old wrinkled woman sat gazing out of a window. Her house smelled of turkey although there wasn’t one in the oven. She closed her once brilliant blue, now gray and cloudy eyes. She could taste the peas and stuffing and her son’s favorite, pumpkin pie. She had all but forgotten Thanksgiving’s past and her bright boy. She settled into the smell, the tastes and her fading memories. Where was he? It was hard to know if he was real or part of a beautiful dream she often had. This drab day of thanks brought only sadness and murky memories.
A long time ago, when the boy was very young, he would walk around and around an old beech tree behind his family’s home. On wistful spring days when friends came to play, he was walking around the tree. On too hot summer days when his family went swimming, he couldn’t enjoy the cool water or the sound of other’s splashing or his dad tickling his feet to entice him into the water. His only thoughts were of his tree.
On days when gold and red leaves blew in the wind that carried the smell of his mother’s pumpkin pie, he begged his tummy to hush and continued to circle his tree. When his sister and her bundled school friends teased him he pretended he couldn’t hear them through the blustery snow swirls. With each circle around he would drag Mr. Pointer along the smooth bark. So much so, there was a tiny dark line around his tree that resembled a small ribbon of chocolate. The thought of his tree wrapped in chocolate made him smile.
He learned his ABC’s and 123’s despite his constant wonder of why his legs were not hard like the trunk of his tree. When he pressed on his shins and knees and thighs, he could feel the hard bone beneath and imagined them to be branches from his tree. The thought of his tree as part of his body helped him get through his dull schooling. But the semi-soft muscle and movable skin that covered his beautiful limbs were a constant bother.
One wishful night, he decided his legs would be much better off if they were smooth and hard like the trunk of his tree. Strong legs that were sturdy and never buckled. “But how,” the boy wondered. How could he make this happen? The boy thought and thought and thought.
He once heard his doltish teacher say, ‘Practice makes perfect,” so he thought practicing was a good place to start. Practicing and wishing, of course. Each night he would lie in his bed and concentrate very hard on the hardness and stiffness of his bones. He would imagine his legs as such and hold them fast until he fell asleep. If he flinched of if his muscles grew tired, he would stop, count to twenty (because he could) and begin again. The boy became so good at this by the time he was eight he could fall asleep and wake up with very stiff legs and locked knees. He was very proud.
Stiff legs were now easy and a common occurrence. However, it occurred to him, in order to be strong and sturdy like his tree he should make his back as stiff as his legs! Since he was now 10 and had lots of practice it did not take him very long at all to make his back strong, rigid and sturdy like his beloved tree. As a matter of fact, he could make his legs, and now back, stiff and sturdy just by wishing it so! Being able to do this delighted the boy. Alas, the boy knew he should keep making his body like his tree a secret. Most people wouldn’t understand. He thought of sharing with his mom but then thought she might punish him for not paying attention to his lessons.
As the years passed, the boy began sleeping upright because his stiff back no longer allowed him to lie down. Sometimes he missed his pillow and the smell of his blanket when his mom brought it in from being dried in the sun – but not too often. The boy now became strong and sturdy just at the thought of doing so! Even his arms and neck could become tree-like. The boy was ever so happy.
As a young man he would sit for hours with a stiff back, arms bent at the elbow, forearms extended and legs rigid yet bent at the knee. As he grew older walking became more of a chore, so the long hours of sitting were most comfortable. The boy, now a man, used his sitting sessions to try to remember. Could he recall what it felt like to run? Did kicking his feet in the cool water send up splashes that fell around him like rain drops? What did pumpkin pie taste like? He wanted to remember how he wriggled his toes when his dad tickled his feet. He tried hard to remember what he took for granted and once hated. The sound of his mother’s voice calling him to holiday dinner with pumpkin pie, the teacher’s voice as she read an afternoon story, the voices of his sister’s friend’s taunting him. He tried to remember but thoughts of his tree pushed and spread like a canopy over his brain crowding out almost all his memories.
Now an old man, the boy had been stiff for many years. Sitting upright for most of those years caused him to be motionless. Memories were distant and recollections dull. His legs were now smooth wood. His knees bowed out to the front and his skinny shines led to tiny, clawed wooden feet. His arms, still, hard and extended, curved down and rested on what was once his hips. His lap was a smooth surface and his neck and back fused into one piece of solid wood. His face now concentrated and smooth. His eyes had no pupils and his nose, simply flat. His boyish curls now carved swirls. His curly swirls along with his vacant, yet regal stare resembled that of a lonely lion.
His mother, now old and near death, never knew what happened to the boy. She imagined he ran away and became king of a faraway land with many, many trees. The old chair she sat in was also a mystery to her. She didn’t remember where it came from or long it had been in her home. The chair with it’s well-worn wooden arms and familiar little lion face and smooth seat had always been a comfort to her, and she knew she had had always been a comfort to the chair. Early on she thought to put it curbside but her heart protested.
She sat in the chair and stared at the old beech tree with the thin chocolate line. She knew it would be the last time to see the tree that reminded her of the odd little boy whose absence made her life incomplete. She missed him dearly and wondered again what became of him. As she sighed, the old women drew in the smell of turkey and pumpkin pie. She wished the boy peace and felt the chair surround her with love and longing.