The Bench

She has no clear recollection of what task led her to rummage about the attic that morning. It was early October, perhaps she had wanted to retrieve the Halloween decorations.  It matters not.  Whatever her original plan, it was abandoned for a task she'd put off for years.  No...decades, actually.

The attic access in that house was a small door hidden in the back of the coat closet with home-made, hinged stairs behind it.  Smiling, she thinks of the ingenuity in the engineering of those steps.  Simple enough, but they always struck her as clever.  To the child in her heart, the secret door and those stairs seemed a mysterious bit of magic.

She remembers the weather had turned that day, over 5 years ago now, leaving the house damp and chilly.  As she climbed the steps that morning, a welcome warmth embraced her.  By the time she stood at the top of the stairs, any chill she felt had melted away.  She loves the warmth of an attic, even on the hottest days of summer.  There is a stillness in it - quiet, constant, contained.  Heat, without conflagration.  Safe.

The smell of an attic is equally appealing to her - the dry, dusty odor of faded or lost memories.  The essence brings to mind the remnants of old women, old men and children long grown and gone.  “The combined scents of a treasure trove and tomb,”  is how she thinks of it, as she now ponders the components of that comforting scent.  No doubt it is the mingling of dust, cardboard, dead wasps, bat guano, distressed wood, curling photographs, crushed Easter hats, old satin and wool and once loved toys.  Stirred and mellowed by the gentle hauntings of holidays and lives passed, that attic held the smell of her life's collective home - familiar, comforting, yet somehow distant and slightly foreign. 50-some years, multiple apartments, three houses, and a life evolved far from its beginnings had been stacked neatly, but out of context, under that one roof.  Like so much inside of her, all was held back from the everyday by a hidden door.

She remembers poking around for some time, before she came across that pitiful old piano bench.  She is certain, however, the bench had no place on her to-do list that morning, and the list was forgotten once she'd uncovered that bench.  She now knows why she'd saved it, but that wasn't clear at the time.  As she hauled it to the steps and finally wrestled it through the little door, she didn't consciously acknowledge the tenderness and sadness that bench held...nor the bit of guilt she felt at its ages of neglect.  It was tenderness, and sadness, and even some nagging guilt, however, that finally transformed the pathetic thing into something beautiful.  “A hell of a lot of work, too,” she remembers.  At the start, she was merely another tool in that whole process.  She's only now able to see, as with any process, even the tools are altered.

She'd had to explain to him why the bench was in the middle of the garage later that morning.  For a moment she couldn't comprehend the need for any explanation.  It had been in his home since he was a boy, but he'd seemed to have forgotten about it.  It was almost as if, in his mind, he'd already discarded it.  She stumbled to express her intentions, “I've been wanting to refinish..........no, not enough finish left to refinish. Well, okay.  Restore.  No. Too much damage to actually call it restoration.  Um, refurbish?"  He had responded with only a dumbfounded stare that conveyed his confusion and doubt.  Her faltering explanation continued, "Okay, too optimistic.  Actually, 'salvaging' is probably best.  Yes, I've decided to salvage it.”  He'd looked at her, then back at the remains of the old piano bench.  Glancing back at her again, he turned.  Shaking his head at the hopelessness of the endeavor, he walked slowly back into the house.  She'd understood all that was unspoken that day.  To be contemplating this project at that point must have seemed odd to him.  Accepting the reality of the time, it suddenly seemed odd to her that morning, too.  Their love had cooled years before, and the marriage had been teetering for nearly a year.  She now recalls that the bench project was finished little more than a month prior to the final day of the marriage.  Again, odd, but typical.  Her timing has always been poor.

She had to agree with him on the seeming futility of the project.  It did seem a bit foolish, now that she looks back.  The bench had been so beat up over the years.  It was barely able to perform any useful service and only tenuously maintained its sentimental value.  It had been used for years as originally intended, but with the piano long gone, it had since been used (and abused) in many ways.  It must have been used as a toy box at one point, as she'd found a game token in it many years ago.  Obviously a workbench or a sawhorse at some point, it was left splotched with drips and splashes of paint.  Nails had been hammered into it for some forgotten reason, and a hole had been drilled through the seat/lid.  Until that day, its last useful purpose was as an end table in his bachelor apartment 30 years prior.  Since then, it had been forgotten in the corner of the basement, attic or storage area of every home they'd shared.  Without much thought, it had been carried from apartment to apartment, house to house, storage area to storage area for all those years.  “There must be some reason he hasn't thrown it away,” she thought as he'd walked away.  Although he had thought of pitching it now and then over the many years, it had remained...endured.  She, herself, had pleaded its case more than once.  She'd always harbored hopes for it...as neglected and homely as it was.

Thinking of the start of the project, she remembers the struggle to remove all the bench's hardware.  Turning the screws required both pressure and a gentle hand, due to their age and debris-filled slots.  The screws would have been destroyed, otherwise.  A truly perfect fit could never be found to replace them after all those years.  Very slowly, with much care, she was able to lift the metal plates that supported the joints.  Force would have distorted them.  Bent so, they'd never have fit flush with the wood again.  It's hinges were about all that kept it together.  Unless removed, though, there could be no miraculous transformation.  The irony now forces a sad smile from her as she thinks, "Miraculous. Yep, could have used a few more miracles back then." 

As impossible as it sounds, the pathetic thing looked even worse once the disassembly was finished.  The bench looked horribly vulnerable with its top removed.  “Like an open chest.” she muttered, thinking of what she's seen at work.  Forty years of caring (in one capacity or another) for those who are ill and still nothing seems so vulnerable to her as those with 'open chests'.  Unfortunate folks are sometimes left so after surgery to be closed another day.  Done only out of necessity, of course, but it is one of the few situations she witnesses today with the same emotions as she did on her first encounter.  With its exposed cavity staring at her that morning, she felt a similar desire to protect it, as she draped the drop cloth over it.

She then turned to the pile of screws and metal that had to be saved if the bench was ever to be whole again.  The hardware was first soaked in cleaning solution, followed by caustic paint remover.  It was only hours later that the glimmer of brass appeared through all the dirt, paint and tarnish.  In the interim, the refinishing product was worked into years of paint, grime and the remnants of the old varnish, finally revealing the hint of wood grain.  The work continued and wood grain sufaced.  At first, it was like the invisible ink of her childhood - seen only under a certain light.  She finally completely uncovered the lighter version of the bench's original stain.  A warm medium walnut with hints of honey yellow had once given it dignity.  It stunned her how incredible that such beauty remained under all of the ugly mess of living that had covered it. 

Many places on the bench needed glue – some that never should have needed it.  Holes were filled and edges smoothed.  She had to hide the chipped edges of the veneer on the top with wood filler covered with a 1-inch black, painted border.  She stenciled tiny golden violets in each corner of the border.  She can see the bench now, recalling it as it looked even without the layers of polyurethane that now protect it.  Even without the glow of that final finish, it was sweet, simple and beautiful.  It was becoming a potentially useful and sturdy piece again.  When the last of it's three finishes finally dried and was buffed, the bench was once again whole, with a warm glow that lit the wood grain as if from within. Though it couldn't hide all the flaws, there was a soft richness to it.  The bench would never again be what it was, but it was finally whole again.  Functional.  Valuable.  Different, certainly, but repairing the damage, transforming its flaws and protecting it with a thin sheen, allowed a quiet, simple beauty to emerge.  On completion, it had a dignity that might actually have rivaled its original.

Looking back now, she thinks of that sweet bench as her last gift to him, along with his freedom.  She has since often thought of asking him for it, doubting he values it as much as she.  Today she hopes he is using the bench in his daily life, possibly finding some comfort in its simple beauty and the lifetime of memories it holds for him.  Mulling it all today, she has to admit she no longer has a need for the bench.  It has served what purpose it could offer her. 

Ultimately, the bench project became just one of many tools used for a very different project.  Forced to take on a something she would never have willingly faced otherwise, she is now content with the progress of the transformation.  It has evolved far beyond her best earliest hopes.  “Still a work in progress,” she reminds herself.  Very different, certainly.  What was once vulnerable and gaping has now been covered tenderly...lovingly.  What was seen through other eyes in a different life...seen as little more than the history of a time lost, or something retained thoughtlessly, out of guilt or simply habit, the project has become something valuable, whole and sturdy.  It is covered with a warm, protective layer.  Not invulnerable, but certainly resilient.  Today, smiling to herself, she sees the dignity and simple beauty of it.