Reporter’s Notebook: On a man’s chair

Jim Santomaso, who has my admiration and friendship whether he wants it or not, made a comment to me on a recent evening as one of the Logan County Fair soirees was breaking up. He shook my hand and said, “Time for me to go sit in my chair.” I thought about that on the way home, and whether he knows it or not, Jim voiced an enduring truth about the modern married man.

Every man has his chair. My great-grandfather had a Chesterfield tufted wingback chair and matching ottoman that sat near (but not too near) the fuel oil stove in the living room of his house in Eckley. My father remembered when Great-Granddad bought it new; by the time I saw it, it was creased and sculpted to perfectly fit the old Welshman’s butt. Granddad had a recliner rocker that sat next to a bookcase full of Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey novels, where he would listen to the radio and read in the evening. Pop had his recliner (re-upholstered twice, that I know of) in which he spent his evening hours. Later in life, when age and disease wracked his body, he would sleep in that chair, usually with his Scottie Rascal dozing between his feet.

I’ve had any number of chairs in my time. My current repose is a dual recliner I share with the love of my life, she on the right and I in the wrong — no, wait, on the left — yeah, that’s it. I, too, spend occasional nights sleeping in my recliner to ease the pressure on my shoulders.

More to Jim’s point, a man’s chair isn’t just his prized spot in the house. It’s his place. It is both his throne and his assigned station. It is the source of whatever authority and power he has, and it is the place to which he is remanded when he fails to obey She Who Must Be Obeyed.

It is his life support system. On a table next to it is everything he needs to spend a quiet evening; the latest issue of Western Horseman, an old Ian Fleming one forgot to read, fingernail clippers, extra pencil and pen and notepad, charging ports for laptop, smart phone and tablet. Once a man is in his chair, he has little reason to leave it.

And yet, when a man sits in his chair, he is out of the way but rarely unbothered. He can be summoned from his chair at a moment’s notice but is never allowed to return to it without first performing a number of small “while you’re up” errands; fetching coffee, refreshing a drink, adjusting the thermostat. If he is lucky, a man has a dog or a cat to keep his chair warm while he is away. A man’s authority is measured by the time it takes said animal to vacate said chair upon his return.

A man’s chair has history. My great-grandfather listened to the progress of The New Deal and World War II on the radio next to his chair. My granddad enthralled a generation of grandsons with wondrous tales of cattle drives and obstreperous broncos. My father taught us an appreciation of classical music and the rule of law from his chair.

Most of all, a man’s chair is his safe zone. Maybe his chair is in his “man cave” or it’s just the favored position on the sofa in front of the television. In any event, when a man is in his chair, he is unassailable. You cannot argue with a man who is sitting in his chair because he will not argue back.

For all of that, a man’s chair is not the center of his life; those who are fortunate have a wife in that position. She makes life worth living. She is the reason he works, even when she wishes he wouldn’t work so much (or didn’t have to, at least.) She is his anchor, his muse, his partner, his ball-and-chain and the wind beneath his wings.

But the chair … well, at the end of the day, the chair is there for him to park his tired fanny, his reward for being all the other things he is.

Jeff Rice is a reporter for the Journal-Advocate.

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