’Antique stool, bad condition, 100 SEK’
the post read in a local FB-group.
Worn, but cute, from the looks of the photo.
Likely to be a low stool, which lured me in (as a part of my ongoing process of living my life closer to the floor).
Asked ‘How high is it?’ and when the response read 18 cm, I said ‘I’ll take it!’.
Already on my bike, I headed over there immediately, and was met by an older gentleman, greeting me with a sentimental
‘It was my grandmother’s, but no one uses nor wants it anymore, not me, not the kids…’
Smiling, I said ‘I do’, reassuring him I’d take good care of it, telling him of my plans to refurbish it, decking it out in sashiko-style denim, imagining that will make for a good contrast to the shabby gold of its stubby curved legs.
Biking home with the stool in my bike basket, filled with a sense of… gratitude? Responsibility?
Yeah. Both of those.
Taking on the responsibility to make sure it lives on.
Thrown away (when there’s no away).
The effort, skill, love and care that’s gone into its making, along with the actual material –wood, fabric, yarn, ribbons, nails, paint– will continue to be used.
Loved. Cared for.
My fingers itch to get started!