The Recliner

Opening the front door of my childhood home, I walked right into my father’s green Naugahyde recliner.

I hated that recliner made of olive-green fake leather. I hated the way my father had his pills and medications lined up on the table next to it. I hated the silver oxygen tank that stood guard next to the recliner. He had emphysema. I hated that he was sick.

I was much happier to sit on the rough concrete stoop of my row house in South Philly. The same front stoop where I used to watch the world go by.

The old men of the neighborhood gathered at the bar on the corner. The police had their coffee and donut at the counter where Aunt Anne ran a numbers racket betting on the outcome of the races at Aqueduct and Belmont. At our bakery, famous Philly soft pretzels were made daily, their earthy smell rich with yeast and flour, the course sea salt on top that I could run my tongue over.

In summer, we would get lemon ice, homemade in a wooden barrel. It had real bits of lemon rind, and we would slurp the not-too-sweet indulgence, sucking the last dregs until the white pleated cup was empty. There was only lemon, no other flavors. If it was very hot and my mother had extra money, she gave me permission take a glass pitcher and have it filled to the brim for a dollar.

When I was 4 or 5 years old, before my father got sick, I remember sitting on his shoulders while he sat in his recliner. I combed and combed his coal black hair that he wore slicked back away from his face.

I was in a trance. His hair was shiny, and the light bounced off it. I remember the tines of the comb as they made parallel rows as the hair was divided like the trolley tracks that ran outside my house. The Brylcreem on his hair let the comb part the strands evenly. It had a classic, clean smell.

My mother worked on Saturdays as a waitress at Gimbel Brothers department store downtown. Sometimes, on these Saturdays, my father would take me for a hot dog lunch at a place where you sat at the counter on chrome-wrapped stools.

In my family, we never went out for meals. Even a lowly hot dog dive was a huge treat. I ate one hot dog, and my father had two with the special brown mystery sauce. No mustard, but fried onions and sauerkraut were options.

My father gave me a half smile as we sat side by side munching our hot dogs washed down with root beer.

Another Saturday, my father and I made stuffed animals. We made a template of a cat and an elephant. Then we pinned the pattern on some muslin fabric and cut the shapes out. We partially sewed them up, stuffed them with cotton, and drew whiskers and faces and wrinkles on the elephant’s legs.

I didn’t know you could make your own stuffed animals. I had my adored Steiff Teddy Bear that I got when I had my tonsils out.

Years later, I was dating my future husband. When he came to Philly to visit, he slept in the recliner. We didn’t have a spare bedroom, and we weren’t permitted to sleep together. He also had to take the red-hot pepper test by swallowing a whole Italian hot pepper. He passed the test. We have been married many years.

Now, I have a recliner. My husband bought it for me when I had a total knee replacement.

I didn’t want it. I was reluctant to own a recliner. They are ugly. Naugahyde is ugly. When Mick suggested the recliner, I could only think of my father’s with aversion.

But my recliner is beautiful. It’s covered in a mushroom-colored soft chenille fabric that goes well with my West Elm couches and mid-century aesthetic. It has a remote control that controls my angle of repose, from TV mode to flat-out zero gravity recline. I can be catapulted upright into the room if I press the remote all the way forward. I’m a little scared of that function.

I have my table right next to the recliner with my box of tissues, books and newspapers. A bottle of water and a glass of flat ginger ale reside there, too.

My recliner got me through recovery from knee replacement, and I am hoping it will get me through my cancer. Cancer sucks. I don’t like the fatigue after chemo treatments. I don’t like being sick.

As much as I hated my father’s recliner, I now revere my own. It is my island of security, serenity and solace, where I can rest and recover. It is my refuge from the world. I am safe there. It’s a comfortable oasis until I can join the world and take my walks and, hopefully, play golf and swim again.

It will get me through.

During a recent conversation with my husband while I was at my chemo treatment, he said, “I’m sitting in your chair — it’s very nice.”

“Good,” I responded. “Don’t get used to it.”

I am already very used to it.

How far I have come from the South Philly recliner, and how close.