I have had my grandmother’s beautiful old Victorian sofa for over 40 years. It has survived at least three marriages; my grandparents’s marriage, and my first and my second marriages. It has traveled from NH to MA to TX and then back to NH again. I remember that I used to sit on it when I was a little girl, opening my Christmas presents.
I have loved it all this time, cared for its beautifully carved wood, and have had it reupholstered twice from the time I got it (when it wore green velvet). Various cats of mine have left a few claw marks on the fabric over the years. It is by no means a comfortable sofa; it is hard, and isn’t wide enough to lie on. Clearly it was made for proper ladies bound in whalebone corsets; slouching was not an option.
It grieves me to know that we just don’t have room for it any longer. This and a few other pieces really need to go. Oh, I can try selling them, but my heart really isn’t in it. I would far rather give my sofa to someone who will love it and enjoy it.
It may live the rest of its years in someone’s living room, in a quaint office sitting area, or in an old folks’ home to remind them of the old glory days when such fanciness was the rage. Perhaps it will end up in an artist’s home, where eclectic bits and pieces from various eras live.
But I really hope that it ends up in a home with children who are small enough to lie down on it and nap, or sit up and read a book. Maybe they will use it as a fort to hide behind, or have lovely tea parties on it, hosted by little girls in pink and purple dresses, giggling over cups of pretend tea.
Maybe some other little girl will sit on it and open her Christmas presents on it, too. I would like to think that in this way, my dear old Victorian sofa will continue to live on in love.