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We called it the weenie couch.
It was big — twice the size a normal couch had every right to be — and it curved in the center and was the ugliest shade of lime green you could ever imagine.
My dad got it from a friend who got it from a friend who got it from a friend who dug it out of a dump.
My dad then drove it up to our little cabin in the mountains with it sticking out the back end of his rundown pickup truck.
He pulled into the driveway of the cabin, and my sister, my mother and I all stood watching. We cocked our heads and studied the couch as its left side towered in the air.
“It looks like the Oscar Meyer Weiner truck,” my sister said.
And the name stuck.
The couch was removed from the truck and put in the driveway. There it got steamed and cleaned and checked for bugs. A few hours later, it got shifted into the middle of the cabin’s living room despite my mother’s objection that we just should have bought a new one.
But it fit right in, there in our eclectic living room, right next to a child’s white dresser that held old board games in its drawers and two wooden tables made of the spools that construction wires were once wrapped around.
My mom fell asleep on it the first night it was there.
“Okay,” she reluctantly told my dad in the morning. “It can stay.”
And stay it did.
A lot happened on that couch over the years. Children spent nights sleeping on it, adults spent days napping on it, puppies played on it, drinks spilled on it, fights broke out on it. It was home to hours and hours of people snuggled together — adults, children, dogs — watching movies and reading old Reader’s Digests and painting toenails and playing Yahtzee.
Stories were told on that old green couch. Secrets were shared. Laughs were had.
The morning an earthquake woke fifteen people up, sending everyone scrambling up and down stairs and into the living room, it was a safety beacon. We cuddled there together, wading through the aftershocks, listening to the radio coverage, comforted in knowing that it would keep us safe.
I last saw the old green weenie couch ten years ago. My sister and I sat together on it — still as big as we remembered even though we’d had it since we were small — and flipped through old photo albums, remembering our mother and how much she grew to love that stupid old couch when she was alive.
The couch is gone now, given by my dad a few years back to a friend who probably gave it to a friend who probably put it back in a dump.
It’s been replaced by two chairs that are new and fancy and full of gadgets. They recline and have drink holders and foot rests that pop out with the simple touch of a button. Everything you could possibly want in a spot of relaxation.
The last time we were at the cabin, my sister and I sat in those shiny new chairs, fingering the fabric and watching the condensation drip down our soda cans.
“I miss the weenie couch,” my sister said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
It was big — twice the size a normal couch had every right to be — and it curved in the center and was the ugliest shade of lime green you could ever imagine.
My dad got it from a friend who got it from a friend who got it from a friend who dug it out of a dump.
My dad then drove it up to our little cabin in the mountains with it sticking out the back end of his rundown pickup truck.
He pulled into the driveway of the cabin, and my sister, my mother and I all stood watching. We cocked our heads and studied the couch as its left side towered in the air.
“It looks like the Oscar Meyer Weiner truck,” my sister said.
And the name stuck.
The couch was removed from the truck and put in the driveway. There it got steamed and cleaned and checked for bugs. A few hours later, it got shifted into the middle of the cabin’s living room despite my mother’s objection that we just should have bought a new one.
But it fit right in, there in our eclectic living room, right next to a child’s white dresser that held old board games in its drawers and two wooden tables made of the spools that construction wires were once wrapped around.
My mom fell asleep on it the first night it was there.
“Okay,” she reluctantly told my dad in the morning. “It can stay.”
And stay it did.
A lot happened on that couch over the years. Children spent nights sleeping on it, adults spent days napping on it, puppies played on it, drinks spilled on it, fights broke out on it. It was home to hours and hours of people snuggled together — adults, children, dogs — watching movies and reading old Reader’s Digests and painting toenails and playing Yahtzee.
Stories were told on that old green couch. Secrets were shared. Laughs were had.
The morning an earthquake woke fifteen people up, sending everyone scrambling up and down stairs and into the living room, it was a safety beacon. We cuddled there together, wading through the aftershocks, listening to the radio coverage, comforted in knowing that it would keep us safe.
I last saw the old green weenie couch ten years ago. My sister and I sat together on it — still as big as we remembered even though we’d had it since we were small — and flipped through old photo albums, remembering our mother and how much she grew to love that stupid old couch when she was alive.
The couch is gone now, given by my dad a few years back to a friend who probably gave it to a friend who probably put it back in a dump.
It’s been replaced by two chairs that are new and fancy and full of gadgets. They recline and have drink holders and foot rests that pop out with the simple touch of a button. Everything you could possibly want in a spot of relaxation.
The last time we were at the cabin, my sister and I sat in those shiny new chairs, fingering the fabric and watching the condensation drip down our soda cans.
“I miss the weenie couch,” my sister said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
