Marking Your Spot

 

Marking Your Spot

He hands me his latest find, a bookmark, photo of a cat,

calicoed and turned towards the camera as if posed.

The tree-edged yard framed by the window

that back-lights the translucent vein-webbed ears.

 

It is a fancy cat, with a beribboned neck.

Loved enough to be photographed.

Like Fancy the cat, who lived in the house Eric and I bought on 10^th Street,

and who rests in our backyard.

 

I had been told by the previous owner at the closing on the house

where the unmarked grave was located.

Among a thicket of sweet shrub.  Or was it forsythia?

Don’t dig too deep.

 

That next summer, warning forgotten,

I found where Miss Mildred and her daughter had placed Fancy.

A dark stain in the soil of the forsythias I was splitting out

stopped me from laboring further.

 

Now, tucked between the edge of the patio

and the row of Japanese privit

that years ago replaced the forsythia,

a remnant of marble, half hidden in the underbrush, to remember.

 

For Jim McGuire

Chattanooga for the Win

After over a year and a half of pandemic life without travel, Eric and I went, with a Ziploc bag full of cleaning products for the hotel room, on an overnight excursion to Chattanooga. The ‘Noog holds a special place in our hearts, as it is the first place that we traveled together as friends back in 2008. Since then, we’ve made many getaways to Chattanooga...for beer festivals, for Chattanooga Choo Choo Christmas lights, for concerts (Jason Isbell and Band of Horses), for minor-league baseball, and for major league food (Urban Stack, St. John’s, Public House, Tupelo Honey). This occasion was for Eric‘s birthday.

We had a late start, what with me dropping Booker off at sleep-away camp (his vet), and Eric waiting in line for the first-Saturday-after-the-third-Monday ABC Store bourbon allocations (I’m not making that up). Then, there was traffic. So much traffic.  We were staying downtown at the Courtyard by Marriott, overlooking the river, and close to everything:  food, baseball, attractions. As I was checking into the hotel and Eric was parking the car, I discovered that the Chattanooga Waterfront Triathlon (a triathlon Eric has in the past competed in) was scheduled the following day.  It just so happened that the START / FINISH line was located one block away. Our hotel was full of athletes and bicycles.  It took me almost a half hour to get our luggage and Riverside Wine and Spirits’ purchases up to our seventh floor room because there was only one working elevator. Eric had to circle away and around to find a public parking lot that wasn’t already filled to capacity...eventually we accidentally ran into each other in the lobby.

Agreeing upon a shamefully early and incredibly safe dinner, we ducked into the Mellow Mushroom for one of our greatest hits from the past, a Greek salad and gluten-free Philosophers Pie (which is no longer on the menu, but they happily offered to make for us). Post dinner was spent walking across the Walnut Street Pedestrian Bridge, venturing down on the north side of the shore, and then trekking back across the bridge to our hotel room for a quick rest before the ball game.

Philosopher's Pie, Mellow Mushroom

AT&T Field, which is home of the Chattanooga Lookouts, was one block away from the Marriott. The visiting team was Alabama’s own Huntsville Trash Pandas.  Our carefully researched seats behind home plate (good view and netting to protect against wayward baseballs) gave us one of the best vantage points that we’ve ever had at that field. With a blue sky rapidly filling with storm clouds,  both teams took turns scoring until, during an impressive stadium wave started by persistent Trash Panda fans, the Lookouts hit a home run, resulting in three runs being scored. The Trash Pandas attempted to make a comeback, but their momentum seemed to have vanished. Rain scattered fans into the tunnels below the bleachers, sending some running, never to return.  But the game continued until the top of the ninth, which is where it ended with the Lookouts victorious. We triumphantly poured with the crowd out of AT&T Field and made our way along the streets back to our hotel room, where we were able to catch (without wait) the one operating elevator.

The next morning, as some brave-hearted individuals triathed their way throughout the downtown area, we researched popular gluten-free breakfast options.  We landed on the well-reviewed Bantam + Biddy, known for their gluten-free chicken and waffles. As we approached the restaurant, a gentleman with a mohawk and a bouncer / manager-vibe opened the door for us.  At the counter, I launched into, “I have a severe gluten allergy, and I read on the Internet that you guys have the best gluten-free chicken and waffles. I don’t see that listed on the menu as being gluten-free, but I was curious to know if that’s something I could…”  I trailed off hopefully.  The server’s immediate response was, “That’s what we do here!'' Which was seconded by the mohawked-bouncer-manager-doorman’s confident, “You came to the right place.”

Gluten-free Chicken & Waffles, 
Bantam + Biddy

So, gluten-free chicken and waffles for each of us!  With a bourbon pecan maple syrup chaser!  The chicken was perfectly fried...lightly crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside.  The waffle tasted like it was full of all the gluten in the world, which it was not.  And the bourbon pecan maple syrup was like liquid bourbon pecan pie.  If I could’ve bottled that meal up, I would've worn it as perfume. Instead, I boxed it up and took the leftovers home, getting two more meals from it. And just like that, Bantam & Biddy made it to our major-league food list!

Snow flurries expected in New Orleans this weekend.

The hot chills. Sounds like something Holly Golightly would say to Paul Varjak in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. You know, while at a loud party, Holly leans in close to Paul and declares in her almost-transatlantic-accented voice, "I've got the mean reds and the hot chills..."  Except I didn't have the mean reds, just the hot chills, and they were caused by Moderna.

I received my second COVID vaccination last Thursday morning. Initially, I had absolutely no side effects. I may have even been bragging about the lack of side effects (Bragging cometh before a fall, right?).  But around 1AM the following morning, I woke to a headache and the worst cold shivering chills that I have experienced in a long time.  Not willing to leave the warmth of the bed, I burrowed deeper into the covers and went back to sleep.  Within two hours, the cold chills had been replaced with hot chills, which should not be a thing.  It’s hard to describe them. You’re hot and shivering, but you’re also chilled. The hot chills.

By 4:30AM, I had confirmed a low-grade fever of a little over 100 degrees, and had moved to the office sofa.  I was laying there shivering with the hot chills, obsessing about what kind of weather report Sally Tomato would give me if I went to visit him at Sing Sing while also obsessing about how sad it was that the directors had cast Mickey Rooney as Mr. Yunioshi instead of an Asian American actor. As a child, I found the Yunioshi character to be so funny. It wasn’t until I watched the film as an adult that I realized how racist the humor was...

In a week, Eric and I will be considered fully vaccinated.  We look forward to finally getting to safely socialize with some of our other fully vaccinated friends, while continuing to practice the CDC's recommendations of social distancing and masking...you can still get, and be a carrier of, COVID even while being fully vaccinated, and we have too many friends and family members who have health conditions and are at risk. 

I am happy to be a part of the Biden-Harris administration's 100 Million Shots in 100 Days. Which is now the 200 Million Shots in 100 Days because we crushed the first goal in 58 days. Such is competent leadership.

As an aside, about 30 minutes after my first Moderna dose, I detected a strong chemically floral smell coming from the injection site.  Eric could not smell it, even though it was incredibly strong to me. The smell followed me to bed, but it was gone by morning.  Additionally, seven days after my first dose, I experienced what some people are referring to as "COVID Arm" or "Moderna Arm," which is described as a delayed reaction to the shot.  At the injection site, my arm developed a hard, raised circular spot that was itchy, red, and hot to the touch. The symptoms persisted for about 48 hours and then disappeared.

Christmas Letter 2020

7 Dec 2020

Greetings from Gadsden!

Let me say this first:  I will not miss 2020 when it is over.  I will remember it forever, having been shaped by it in odd and startling ways, but I will not miss it.

Eric and I have small circles of chosen pandemic people we see regularly: my mom, whom I, masked & socially distanced from, happily take breakfast to every Sunday morning and together with Eric, handle yard work and various other tasks for; and our closest friends, a family of six, who live near us, and with whom we maintain a 10+ year tradition of Saturday night dinner. We have perfected Saturday Supper Club to maintain our sanity during the pandemic:  extreme social distancing with masks while outdoors, regardless of the temperature. We’ve had some incredible meals together, despite the complications.  Most recently we enjoyed salmon, mushroom-stuffed rice balls, glazed green beans, and miso soup in the bay of their two-car garage.  Both doors were rolled wide open, camp chairs were placed 20+ feet apart near the opening, and we were warmed by the flame of a portable Craftsman propane  flame thrower heater. There may also have been wine and bourbon…

Because of the lack of certain items in the grocery stores at the onset of the pandemic, and an initial fear of shopping, I started a small garden. Not a huge one, but enough of a garden to supplement our food supply with fresh tomatoes, various peppers, garlic, green onions, oregano, thyme, and lots and lots of basil. Eric would often have to help me tie up the tomatoes, as they outgrew my height very quickly. Every morning before work, I would go out to prune and weed and water. After work, I’d take a basket out and gather.  We had more than we needed, so we shared with family, friends, neighbors. That little garden produced up until two weeks ago, which is when I winterized the space. Eric has recently shared with me his idea to build a type of portable raised-bed that employs bales of hay in the bottoms ...a type of Hugelkulture.  I’m totally game.  If only there was some way I could grow toilet paper and Clorox wipes...

Our families are doing well. Mom, at 83, continues to work full time at the library in Rainbow City. My sister and I do her shopping for her, so her whereabouts are simple...home or work.  Vicki and I are the only ones allowed in her home, and we religiously practice the holy trinity of the pandemic:  mask, social distance, hand wash.  Eric‘s family is doing well out in Kansas and Missouri. Unfortunately, because of the pandemic, we have not traveled to see them this year. We miss them, but see them virtually.

We still live with our Catahoula, Booker, in our little downtown bungalow overlooking the wildlife park.  The leaves have finally fallen from the trees and the kudzu has died back for the season, giving us a winter view that we dream about during the summer months...from our kitchen window we watch the egrets dance above Lake Gadsden, the late afternoon sun turning the water a shimmering amber and gold.

Hope this finds you safe, happy & healthy.

Big love,

The Gluten Free Black & White Cookie

Recently, mom mentioned wanting a black & white cookie. Like, the NYC Black & White Cookie. We live in Gadsden, AL, so that poses a bit of a problem. It's not that black & white cookies don't exist here, they are just harder to come by in these parts. I used to make them myself, but that was over nine years ago, when I wasn't gluten free. Life was easier then, in more ways than one. But, I recently came into two bags of gluten free baking flour (gifted from a friend whose daughter had obtained it mistakenly, and NOT being a gluten free girl, was at a loss as to what to do with it), and had all of the other ingredients.

One of my favorite things to do when I lived in upstate New York was to walk up to the corner store on a Sunday morning, pick up a black & white cookie, a cup of black coffee, and a copy of the Sunday NY Times...

It has taken me two nights and two recipes to perfect a suitable gluten free version of this sacred cookie. For the most amazing gluten free cake-like consistency, I used the cookie batter ingredients and instructions at Mom Loves Baking. For the glossy icing, I used the icing ingredients (I added a half teaspoon of almond extract to the white batch when making) and directions at Smitten Kitchen. The gluten free cookie from Mom Loves Baking does not taste gluten free AT ALL. If I had not made these myself to know they were safe, I would be very skeptical of their GF status. Eric has willingly served as in-home quality control taste tester. He has approved twice. Mom will be the final judge tonight.

Lise's post from Mom Loves Baking referenced the unforgettable Seinfeld episode that featured the black & white cookie where Jerry famously says, "You see, Elaine, the key to eating a black and white cookie is that you wanna get some black and some white in each bite. Nothing mixes better than vanilla and chocolate. And yet still somehow racial harmony eludes us. If people would only look to the cookie, all our problems would be solved."

To a Contact Lens, Lost on Argyle Circle

It is 22 degrees this morning, so I politely decline my usual morning walk.  I am reminded of a poem I wrote in February or March of 2018:

To a Contact Lens, Lost on Argyle Circle

Frigid fingers finding in the lid…nothing.
Accidentally wiped from the eye
to the thankless sidewalk below.
I stumble on for another mile and a half,
and wave politely at empty cars.

Irvin S. Cobb Bridge

Irvin S. Cobb Bridge

Irvin S. Cobb Bridge.  Some people call it Danger Bridge.  Okay, so maybe we're the only ones who call it Danger Bridge.  Beautiful bridge, but it reminds me of the Scream Machine at the Atlanta Six Flags.  Not a comparison you want to make to a bridge you're crossing in the early morning fog while trying to get to the interstate from Paducah, KY backroads. This bridge reopened back in September of this year after being closed for approximately four months for repairs and modifications.  The modifications were to restrict width and weight of vehicles using the bridge...mainly to stop illegal truck traffic.  Eric and I shudder to think of what encountering an 18-wheeler or a farm tractor on that bridge would be like...

"The Brookport Bridge (officially the Irvin S. Cobb Bridge) is a ten-span, steel deck (grate), narrow two-lane truss bridge that carries U.S. Route 45 (US 45) across the Ohio River in the U.S. states of Illinois and Kentucky. It connects Paducah, Kentucky, north to Brookport, Illinois.

The bridge is named after Irvin S. Cobb, an author and journalist who was born in Paducah." (Wikipedia)

It's short closure had an economic impact:

Brookport Bridge closure turns the lights out on a local business

Sam J. Kourkos

Photo by Eric Wright, December 8, 2017.

One year ago yesterday, Eric and I were honored to be on the same flight from Atlanta, GA to Kansas City, MO as the remains of a WWII soldier who was killed in the Gilbert Islands in1943.  With a cold Southern rain on the verge of turning into the snow that would later shut the airport down, we watched silently and prayerfully from the window of the plane as Marine Corps Reserve Pfc. Sam J. Kourkos boarded in his flag-draped casket, flanked by salutes.  My thoughts on that flight were of our grandmother who had passed away the month before and whose memorial service we were traveling to attend, and of this soldier who died so long ago and was on his way to be reunited with family, seventy-four years late.  This was a homecoming for Pfc. Kourkos.  A homecoming that would end for him at the airport in MO, where family and media waited. When our plane landed, he disembarked ahead of us into the brilliant Kansas City sunshine, while we, spellbound, watched from the windows until the flight attendants had to ask us to please disembark the plane ourselves so they could allow the connecting passengers to board. 

74 years later, slain WWII Marine's remains returned to family

Funeral Announcement For Marine Killed During World War II (Kourkos, S.)

He died in battle nearly 75 years ago — now he’s coming home to Kansas

Birmingham, Alabama: Five Points

We are terrible at relaxing. So terrible at relaxing, Eric had to change out hoses on the Jeep and I had to put a second coat of stain on the front door before we could “earn” our planned-for-over-two-months-ago, out-of-town-for-one-night getaway.  This is NOT normal behavior.

With promises to each other to do better at relaxing and getting away in the future, Slim and I hopped on I-59 and headed south to Birmingham.  Our destination was the art deco Hotel Indigo (formerly the Hotel Highland…more formerly than that, the Pickwick Hotel…and even more formerly, the Medical Arts Building), overlooking The Storyteller Fountain in historic Five Points.  The inspiration for the trip was a gift certificate from the clever and thoughtful Steven and McKenna to Frank Stitt’s Highlands Bar & Grill.  A gift certificate that was just over a year old, having been intended as a gift for our birthdays LAST YEAR.  Have I mentioned how bad we are at relaxing?  The upside of waiting a year to spend a gift certificate to a restaurant like Highlands is that IT MIGHT WIN ANOTHER James Beard Award during that year.  Which is exactly what happened back in May when Highlands won “the prestigious James Beard Foundation Award as the most outstanding restaurant in America.” 

The downside to a James Beard Foundation Award for the most outstanding restaurant in America (if there is a downside), is that even if you call several weeks in advance to make dinner reservations for a Thursday evening, you may find that there are no reservations to be had.  And in a case like that, thank goodness for the bar, which requires no reservations.

We arrived in the ‘ham in time for a late lunch at Hattie B’s Hot Chicken.  Our server Kordell helped me navigate around the gluten, which resulted in a very tasty basket of grilled chicken tenders with slaw and potato salad.  Eric managed a basket of spicy fried leg quarters with fries.  After watching Anthony Bourdain sweat through a hot chicken basket from Bolton’s on his Nashville Parts Unknown, we had both ordered cautiously in our heat choice, but agreed that we’d go hotter next time. 

Maybe it was because the corporate inspection threw off our check-in at Hotel Indigo and someone took pity on us, or perhaps it was our Gadsden (and Nanda Patel) connection with the young woman handling guest services that afternoon, but we ended up with the most extraordinary corner suite of rooms with a view of Red Mountain’s Vulcan instead of a standard room with a nothing special view. Upon entering # 307 and first seeing a sofa, coffee table and TV, with a kitchen and small dining set just beyond, I thought, “Oh, no!  Where’s the bed?” We realized very quickly and quite to our disbelief that we were standing in a parlor and that down the hall, past the sliding-industrial-doored-bathroom was the bed, a closet with safe, a desk, a chaise lounge and another television.  

Swanky room left behind in favor of a walkabout in the neighborhood, we stumbled upon Charlemagne Records.  The concert-poster-plastered stairwell was just like it was twenty-four years ago when I hesitantly ventured there while killing time before my Physical Anthropology grad class.  Red carpet still stained.  Bins like a feed-n-seed store, full of old and new vinyl as well as CDs.  Two original Howard Finsters swung from the ceiling.  And although I’ve been paring down my CD collection, I purchased Cannonball & Coltrane, Son House’s Original Delta Blues, and Atlantic Jazz’s Best of the ‘50s.  Another promise made, this time with just myself, to get my old CD player from mom’s house and take time to listen to CDs again.  Slow life down some and enjoy it.

Highlands Bar & Grill was already hopping by the time we stepped over their threshold at 5:30PM.  Seated at the bar, we enjoyed an adult beverage while we daydreamed of home projects. A Pecan Old-Fashioned for Eric (Knob Creek, pecan orgeat, orange peel, Angostura Bitters), a Bourbon Crusta for me (Four Roses Small Batch Bourbon, Cointreau, Luxardo Maraschino, lemon juice). 

As we sat with our drinks and dreams, Eric’s face took on a look of someone who has seen something that they are excited about, but also want to be cool about.  “Are you okay,” I asked.  Eyes growing wider, through clenched teeth, “Yesh.  I think I just saw the guy.” “What guy…Oh, Chef Stitt?” I totally couldn’t turn around to look because it would’ve been completely rude, and would’ve betrayed my fangirl feelings towards chefs, including all of those feelings left raw and exposed from Anthony Bourdain’s death.  So, I kept my back turned and my mouth shut as we ordered another round of drinks, a Buffalo Creek for monsieur (Knob Creek, ginger syrup, lemon juice) and a Paradise Cay for madam (Appleton Signature Blend, Ferrand Dry Curacao, Lustau East India Sherry, orange, lime). 

Still full from our late Hattie B’s Hot Chicken lunch, but not wanting to miss out on the amazing food from Highlands, I ordered a Belle Meadows Little Gem Lettuces salad of cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and Green Goddess dressing, while Eric ordered the Prime Beef Tartine on sourdough with Arugula, pickled onions and Roquefort aioli.

After several hours on a bar stool and a final nightcap, we made our way back along the tree-lined streets, past The Storyteller and to the Indigo.  A pack of bicyclists pelotoned past us at one point, a festive, motley group of neighborhood riders, reminding us of the two whose gift certificate prompted the getaway in the first place, and a silent thank you went out to Steven and McKenna.  

We tucked into our decadent digs early, wanting to take advantage of the luxurious suite…and the cable TV in two rooms.  I woke the next morning disappointed that we had not experienced any of the supernatural goings on that other guests have reported at the hotel, but Eric was quick to point out that maybe all of the little odd things we experienced were our version of a supernatural force (room mix up, elevator refusing to come when called, staff accidentally opening our room up for inspection…with us in it).  A final meal at the spectacularly understaffed Waffle House allowed us time to people watch and dig deep into our wells of patience before hopping back on I-59 to head north to Gadsden.

Hattie B's Hot Chicken

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Vulcan from Hotel Indigo

Charlemagne Records

Charlemagne Records

Charlemagne Records

The Storyteller

This time, last year.

Last week, Eric and I were reminiscing about how this time last year we were in Atlanta for the American Library Association's Mid-Winter convention.  And how one night we (and Amanda & Jeremy) had dinner and drinks with Joshilyn Jackson ('cause she and Amanda are BFFs), how one day Eric met and chatted with Senator John Lewis during his book signing, and how on the final day of the convention we were witnesses to the magic show of NEIL PATRICK HARRIS, a magic show during which Mr. Harris stunned us all with one of the biggest slights of hand I've ever seen (or not seen, because hey, slight of hand).

But once we came back from convention, we got down to the business of having our retaining wall and second patio built.  We went from this:

To this, with the work of our friends from Finlayson Landscape Design:

And then, after moving some plants I'd been saving for the spot, plus the dawn of a new season, this:

Yes, that's Booker in the middle of the planting bed.  With his stick.  The three of us have enjoyed sharing that space with our people.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

I was completely hooked by the first chapter of The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón.  The chapter was enticingly entitled “The Cemetery of Forgotten Books.”  It is to this Cemetery of Forgotten Books that protagonist Daniel Sempere’s father has brought him so that he may choose a book of his own to protect for the rest of his life and make sure that it is never forgotten. 

“This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens. This place was already ancient when my father brought me here for the first time, many years ago. Perhaps as old as the city itself. Nobody knows for certain how long it has existed, or who created it. I will tell you what my father told me, though. When a library disappears, or a bookshop closes down, when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands. In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you here has been somebody's best friend. Now they only have us, Daniel. Do you think you'll be able to keep such a secret?” (page 6, Penguin Books, softcover edition)

In that sacred place, Daniel chooses a title by an author unknown to him, The Shadow of the Wind by Julián Carax. And in that same sacred place begins Daniel’s quest to find more works by Carax, works that are impossible to find because a mysterious stranger has been destroying them as if in an attempt to wipe clean the world of any evidence of the author’s existence...

Eric recommended Zafón’s The Shadow of the Wind to me with the promise of passages reminiscent of Garcia Márquez and Faulkner.  Yes.   Shadow is a lush and juicy story within a story; a literary mystery full of suspense, romance, and murder.  It is the type of book to read and re-read, to protect and make sure that it is never forgotten.  When I came to the end of this book, I thought back to a passage from the beginning, “Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.” (page 8, Penguin Books, softcover edition)

The 1965 Simmons Hide-A-Bed

I've been a lover of all things mid-century for many years, probably because I grew up in a home filled with sturdy, modest mid-century furnishings, and was raised by parents with solid mid-century lives.  It all just sort of rubbed off on me.  I also have several friends who have purchased mid-century homes, which I drool over when I visit, dreaming of the decorating, landscaping and entertaining possibilities.  Martinis and jazz, anyone?

So, when I discover mid-century pieces at local thrift stores, I have an instinct to purchase whatever it is for myself, or to photograph and text my friends to come purchase for themselves.  Which brings me to the mid-century Hide-A-Bed that I found at the local Goodwill three years ago.   It was a dusty, tired mess, but solid and heavy as a rock.  A quick search on Google revealed that it was a 1965 Simmons Hide-A-Bed Tuxedo.  Everything was original, right down to the upholstery, the small arm pillows AND mattress (frightening, I know).  And it was $65.  I convinced Eric that it was the perfect piece for The Bungalow office/guest room, that I would pay to have it re-upholstered myself, and that we would all three live happily ever after.  And one day I expect that he will stop taking my phone calls.

Three hours later, after the Simmons Hide-A-Bed gouged our wooden floor, scraped two of our door frames and drawn blood from the movers (my forgiving husband and my truck-owning friend), I made the decision that I would teach myself how to re-upholster the sofa myself because it was NEVER leaving the house again.  And really, how hard would it be to re-upholster a sofa...

With new mattress purchased, I began to research DIY re-upholstery and discovered a blog post by Abby Metz at DIY Design.  Abby’s determination, resourcefulness (reusing tackstrips and such) and attention to detail resonated with me.  The only thing missing from her post was how to recover the cushions, but that was something I was able to figure out on my own by taking apart the cushion covers myself (labeling and numbering and reusing the original zippers).  Abby’s blog post was perfect.  I read and reread it for probably a full year before I finally pulled the trigger on my own project. And it only took me two years to complete!  Seriously, it didn’t take that long...I just worked on it in two phases because, you know, life.  I tackled the cushions last summer, then upholstered the body this past January.  It is Booker’s favorite sofa to sleep on, which freaks me out because it’s like he knows all the work I put into it and he tries to psych me out by kicking off all the pillows and burrowing frantically under the pet cover we keep on it to protect it.  Many a night Eric and I will search for the dog only to discover him hidden under that cover, laughing at us.  

Fresh from the Goodwill!

Taking apart the cushion cover.

Cushions complete.

Pre-upholstered body.

 

Removing the back panel.

 

Removing the arm upholstery.

Removing old batting.

 

Fitting the new arm piece.

Cutting the front kick panel.

Pulling the front back off.

Going off script for the back.

After two days and sixty adjustments.

Done.

Where's Booker?

Right here.

Waking up.

Still waking up. Or he's laughing at us.  I don't know which.