Even as a young child, the claw footed coat tree that stood in our front hall was my friend. It was dark and gleaming, pledge-scented mahogany, with large old brass hooks, and a head carved like a pineapple. It held my little hand when, as a toddler, I climbed up and down the chair beneath a huge (to my little self) mirror with the eagle on top. It was standing with me when I got the brilliant idea to check out Mommy’s bright greasy red lipstick that first day of spring when the door was left open to the liquid sunshine and we had our first porch picnic without coats.
The dry cleaning hung in thin filmy plastic protecting the woolens that Clyde, the dry cleaner guy, had left on the porch chair as I hid deep in the smelly magenta couch, unattended and sick. Its translucent film sucked into my face when I took a deep breath, the way a layer of dried Elmer’s glue stuck to my hand does. I couldn’t breathe. Daddy set his hat on top of the tree as he came through the door and I hid under the coats inhaling dry cleaner bags. Bill set his hat there as well, during his Sunday visits.
At times the coat tree was draped with a mink stole or two belonging to guests who were more well off than we were. My grandmother’s almost black stole smelled like a dead animal in mothballs but felt so exquisitely soft to my chubby little fingers.
I was afraid of that coat tree after the Wizard of Oz, until it was once again buried in coats, snowflakes melting into the sheep’s wool to make a different kind of stink. This overlapped the smell of the tinkle -saturated cushion that presumably Tiny Tears had wet. The brown velour stinker balanced shamefully on the scary steam radiator for all to see.
This coat rack saw Bobo rifling through Mom’s purse and me putting the money back in her soft golden orange leather cigarette wallet after holding my hand out to him, so Bobo wouldn’t get in trouble. I was such a good little girl.
The coats on that rack became inaccessible every spring, hidden behind banks of cartons filled with hundreds of boxes of girl scout cookies. The house smelled of thin mints and peanut butter Savannas, and Bobo’s pipe.
Years later I posed on my older sister’s wedding day in front of that not so huge mirror, arranging the veil that had moments earlier been resting atop the pineapple.
That coat rack moved to Maine with us and was relegated to a dark corner behind the front door, under piles of nylon ski jackets and snorkel coats that always smelled like homemade bread or cookies or soup with a strong hint of Salem menthol cigarettes wafting in from the kitchen. Also hanging in its branches, the invitation of a warm hug in the form of bright, fringed ponchos my mother had knit to keep us more comfortable in the chilly house.
That steadfast sentinel witnessed numerous unsuccessful attempts at stealth, as any one of us came home falling down drunk or otherwise detained way past curfew, creaky stairs, Dad’s head poking out his bedroom door.
I was blessed to inherit this chipped and faded heirloom, even if we had no suitable place to keep it. It remained on the porch of our children’s home for years, draped in backpacks and sports equipment, birthday streamers, and extension cords and old ropes.
As a grandmother, I finally decided to make use of it as a plant tree. I’ve been surprised that it has held up so long and quite regretful that I haven’t made more of an effort to prolong its beautiful life. As I reflect on this object that holds so many memories I sense it sighing in gratitude for its contribution and memory and the final gift of being draped at last with plants.
Last week my youngest grand daughter became entangled with it, and it fell over, crashing to the floor in three ancient pieces, another fallen tree.
RDW2024
Creating in this garden of life