It’s only camp

I’m watching the world I know teeter on the edge of disaster. Since there’s nothing I can do but watch and worry, I’m turning my attention to the things I can control. Like the furniture in our little cabin on the lake.

When we bought this place 26 years ago, it came fully furnished. We didn’t have to purchase a thing. Silverware, plates, pots and pans. Even towels and blankets. A fully equipped tool shed. Over the years we’ve enlarged both the little house and the bunkhouse, added windows and a screened porch, removed acoustic tiles to expose the peaked ceiling, supplied our own kitchenware and towels.

Not much remains of the original furnishings. Except this chair.

On a scale of ugliness, I give it a 10 out of 10.

But on a comfort scale, also 10 out of 10. It rocks and swivels, and its seat cushion has not sagged after countless hours of morning coffee and evening wine, reading and rocking grandchildren. It was far from new 26 years ago, and just as its appearance harkens back to an earlier time, so does its heft.

We’ve considered having it reupholstered, but the cost would be outrageous. I toyed briefly with the idea of doing it myself—I once upholstered a chair with minimal success—but looking at the complexity of this one, I dismissed that option almost immediately. You can get slip covers—but I’ve yet to see one that could accommodate the shape of this chair. (Look at those arms…)

We could buy a new one. But from the day we bought this place, whenever we’ve been tempted to upscale, we’ve looked each other in the eye and reminded ourselves “It’s only camp.” (Camp is what northern Ontarians call their cottages…Anyone who refers to their “cottage” is suspected of furnishing it from L.L. Bean.)

“It’s only camp, and we’re not going to get obsessed about it.”

So—though we have in fact upscaled in significant ways—we haven’t actually gone shopping for a new chair. And, in truth, I hardly notice its tawdry condition. It’s just part of the landscape.

I’ve been checking in occasionally at the local re-store for a used chair to replace it. The criteria are simple: it must rock and swivel, it must be as comfortable, and it must be less ugly. So far, no luck.

Scene shift from the camp on Lake Superior to the Echo Bay landfill, aka dump. (Sorry, no photos!) Our little municipality doesn’t have curbside garbage pickup. Every couple of weeks, we pile our accumulated garbage and recycling into the back of the car and drive the several kilometers to the dump. A few years ago, the municipality built a structure fondly referred to as the “share-shed” where residents can drop off unwanted items and pick up anything that appeals to them. Kids love it. I’ve found a few treasures there myself. Recently a good friend showed me a fantastic find from the share-shed—which turned out to be a quilted tote-bag I’d taken there myself. I was glad to see her enjoying it!

But back to chairs. The share shed is currently closed due to Covid. But folks still need to get rid of things that aren’t really garbage, so they leave them on the edge, hoping they’ll find a good home. Like this chair. It rocks. It swivels. It was spotlessly clean. 

We brought it to camp. 

It’s considerably lower on the (admittedly subjective) ugliness scale than the one it’s meant to replace. Alas, on the comfort scale too. The cushion is cheap foam and the seat a bit too low. So, for now, it’s an addition rather than a replacement. It may stay that way. It suits the decor, such as it is. And, post-covid, it will let one more person sit comfortably before we drag over the kitchen chairs.

Yes, it’s only camp. But at the moment, I’m happy to obsess about the little things—especially when I can look out at Lake Superior while I’m doing it. The big ones are just too big for me right now. Maybe later.