In the late 70s or early 80s we bought a couch at the Younkers Store for Homes in Des Moines, Iowa. It had simple lines and bright upholstery of coral and white flowers against a blue background. We kept that couch for more than 30 years. We sat on it with kids in our laps, snoozed on it in the middle of the night when we couldn’t sleep well, stretched out on it with a good book, or watched TV on it under a quilt when we were sick.
After a few decades, it began to wear, and we put it in the basement, replacing it upstairs with newer couches. But we never found another one as comfortable. It was the right length—seven feet, with deep cushions and a slightly angled back. The couches that came after could not match it for comfort.
Sadly, though, the armrests began to fray, and we reluctantly got rid of it.
At about the same time we got our couch, my friend Sharelle and her husband Barry bought the same model, at the same store, but with a salmon background instead of blue. And they also kept it through the decades.
I didn’t meet Sharelle until long after we’d dumped our old couch, but we became friends about eight years ago, shortly after Barry died. I’d been to her house several times. We usually sat in the dining room or on the deck. I walked past the living room without paying much attention to it.
That changed one afternoon shortly after we moved into our condo and shortly before Sharelle herself downsized. She was showing me things she was getting rid of, including her couch, which was slipcovered in a sleek gold and white silk with a tiny blue stripe.
As I sat in the couch the first time, I said, without any forethought, “This is my couch.” I recognized it immediately.
Sharelle thought I meant I wanted the couch.
No, I told her, I used to have this couch. I loved this couch. I knew, from sitting in it, that it was the same one. Mine was blue floral, though.
Sharelle reached down and pulled up the slipcover to show what remained of the original upholstery. It was the same floral design, just in a different color. Salmon instead of blue. It wasn’t my actual couch, but its twin sister.
When Sharelle and Barry’s couch had shown signs of wear, they had a slipcover made. Wise people. We thought we could simply replace ours. We were wrong. The comfort of the couch was irreplaceable. They understood a simple truth we had yet to embrace: When something works, you do what it takes to keep it.
But there was no room for the sofa in the little cottage Sharelle was settling into. I wanted it immediately. She was planning to donate it to a local charity, and we agreed that we would swap, and I would donate mine instead.
Joe and I had already tried two different sofas in the condo—one a year, both from a quality resale shop—and while they were well made and looked good, they just were not all that comfortable.
I measured, took a photo of Sharelle’s sofa, then went home to see how it would fit in our great room. It was a foot longer than our existing couch and I worried that it would be too big for the room. I reluctantly told Sharelle to give hers away.
But I stewed. I wanted the couch. It felt like getting back some of my past. I measured again. If we moved that chair and got rid of that side table, we’d be fine. I told Sharelle the deal was back on. She was delighted. She said she wanted it to go to a good home, where it would be loved. Our condo was that place.
I assessed how the slipcover Sharelle and Barry had chosen would fit with my décor. I decided it was too formal, but that we would live with it for a bit before getting it reupholstered to fit our room. It would need to be changed, though. I was sure of it.
I arranged for the delivery with a mover I’ve used before, who is part owner of the resale furniture shop where we’d found many of our furnishings through the years. He knows his furniture.
The day came and he and a helper placed the couch in the living room, then stood back and appraised it. He looked around the room, at the white rug with vertical open weaves, at the coffee table Joe had made with 24 different kinds of woods that created an elegant stripe, at the blue accents in the room that brought out the couch’s blue stripe.
“It matches everything,” he said, he arms spread wide to encompass the entire room.
It did. It matched everything. Including us.
This is our couch for life. It is everything our other was—a refuge when we’re sick, a place to share with kids (grands this time), a nighttime break when somebody snores a bit too much. But it’s more. I now have part of my good friend keeping me company. She might have moved to another state, but a little bit of her stayed right here with me.
Soon, Joe and I will settle on it and watch a smattering of TV—tonight it’s probably an episode of Jeopardy and one of Call the Midwife. I’ll settle my head on the pillow, and Joe will rub my feet. I suspect Sharelle and Barry did the same thing.
