I want a chair like this. One of these old, metal lawn chairs. I didn’t know too much about them until I stared doing a little web research. Found out a common name for them is CandyBouncer. Also found this:
“ After World War II, normalcy and rebuilding family life were the goals of most Americans. Buying houses, starting families, and creating safe, comfortable homes were priorities. As the original lawn chair, CandyBouncers were a part of that generation's migration to outdoor living. Designed to float on grass instead of sticking in the sod, CandyBouncers were the first "Motel Chairs," found around pools and lawns of the glamorous American motels that sprouted up along newfangled highways about 1945.”
One of my neighbors on another block has one. It’s out in their “very well lived in yard” (translation: messy) amongst the cardboard boxes, toys, and broken lawn mowers. Sad green, rusty CandyBouncer propped up on it’s side.
Obviously unloved, right? I knew you’d agree.
Maybe I should go up there, knock on the door and…
Ooohh .. Daja Vu all over again!
OK, so it was in Tucson. The big house on Stone Avenue. (I always remembered it big….) And I was about 7 or 8 years old. Summer day, washing my doll clothes outside with sudsy water in a wash tub borrowed from my Mother. Shade trees all around.
Up walks this little beagle pup, panting and thirsty. Thirsty enough to start drinking the sudsy water out of the tub. Wash-day priorities aside, I dumped the suds, filled it with cool, clean water and let the pup drink and drink and drink. She smiled and played a little then ran off. Gee, ….I always wanted a dog…..
I thought that was the end of it. Nooooo. The next day, she was back, looking a little bedraggled and hot. I gave her another drink and decided to watch which way she went home.
I followed. She started whining at the door and I heard a woman yell “Shut up!”
The pup looked back at me with those big, chocolate, sad eyes. My 7 year old Irish got the best of me and I went up and knocked on the door. When the woman answered, I told her the dog was thirsty and I had given her water. Through the smoke of her dangling cigarette, hair up in curlers, she looked a little amused. And mean. And large.
Then I told her, “If you won’t take care of this dog, I WILL!”
She said, “So take her kid. I don’t want her.” And slammed the door.
I had a DOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Uh, oh….I had a DOG…… and a Mother who didn’t share my or my Daddy’s love for strays.
Soon, enough, Daddy convinced Mother to let me keep the dog. Taffy. I had named her. She was mine.
So, back the chair. Obviously unloved. Obviously neglected. Obviously.
Maybe I should knock on her door and tell her if she doesn’t want to take care of it….
What should I name it?????