John Widdicomb
“It’s a John Widdicomb,” I hear my mother utter when referencing the sturdy bedroom set acquired in the first months of her marriage. An attribution made with nostalgic pride, though unknown if anyone else was familiar with the self-described Makers of Fine Furniture. Mom’s delight echoes in my head even after she is gone as I contemplate the fate of the last remnant of the home where I grew up.
The dresser (hers), and matching wardrobe (his) — along with queen bed, night tables and mirror — comprised the largest purchase the young couple had ever made. Despite the durability of their investment, parts would be compromised over the next 50 years. The bottle of perfume that spilled onto the glossy wood surface of the dresser left a permanent stain that would be covered by careful placement of a porcelain lamp. My mother never forgave the babysitter responsible on the night of the incident. “He had a girlfriend over and it sounded like they were wrestling,” I reported the next day. My mother surmised differently, though it would be decades before I came to realize what must have really happened.
Widdicomb Furniture was founded in 1858 as a cabinet shop in Grand Rapids, a far cry from the Brooklyn apartment where these pieces would be delivered. They would go out of business in 2002 but one of their mahogany mainstays would continue to hold clothing, undergarments and various valuables behind its two doors and six drawers until my mother’s demise 69 years after its acquisition.
Sifting through dusty envelopes stashed on closet shelves as I clean out her home, I stumble upon the receipt documenting the 1954 sale; a yellowed leaf of ephemera underscoring the magnitude of that transaction five months after her wedding.
Only when I remove the drawers do I discover the wood burned signature of its maker. More evident are the grain marks and occasional nicks on the side of the armoire that once loomed over me, against which my brother’s and my growth spurts were measured. The click of the metal clip snapping the doors open or closed conjures the memory of my dad coming home from work, retreating to his bedroom and changing out of his business attire.
Clandestine scouting missions when alone in the house would find me exploring hidden treasures slid into back corners of my father’s drawers. Mercury dimes, Buffalo nickels, Liberty quarters, and silver dollars filled tea tins and cigar boxes of various shapes and sizes. After his death, a careful examination of every pouch and satchel mixed among the sock balls and boxer shorts revealed a wad of $20 bills squirreled away. We use it to fund the luncheon following his funeral.
When it became necessary to move Mom to Assisted Living, the wardrobe would be the one item of the John Widdicomb set that would accompany her while the others were regrettably put to the curb as trash. Following her death, not quite ready to let it go, I secured a storage unit and paid a monthly fee to forestall the decision regarding its ultimate fate.
A year later, I rent a U-Haul van to extract the piece from Public Storage and unload unit A188 of the artifacts of my parents’ lives. Recovering this relic rekindles a connection to my father two dozen years after his passing. A whisper of his being is somehow present in this piece of furniture he once touched daily.
Its French Provincial style clashes with the contemporary decor of our new home, introducing unanticipated challenges regarding its placement. Too heavy to carry upstairs without any certainty of where it is to be parked, it stands in the middle of the garage awaiting a verdict. Diverse emotions are triggered by its arrival and its polarizing effect on son and daughter-in-law.
The rediscovery of a soul unexpectedly conjured by an inanimate object and ensuing sadness at the prospect of losing something just found prompts me to write this essay unpacking unspoken yet deeply felt emotions. I do so the day after the chest has been repositioned in the garage where it now stands in the corner designated for outgoing items to be dragged down the driveway for discard.
While occupying this space, it demonstrates surprising utility as an impromptu china cabinet where we find ourselves stowing dishware from the old Brooklyn homestead for use once a year during the Festival of Matzah when separate plates are required to recall the haste of our ancient tribes’ Exodus from Egypt. The bottom drawer now holds dozens of journals penned by this nascent author in his youth with the hope they would someday be discovered by a grandchild who might appreciate a primary source documenting life a century ago.
Behind the doors, I place a printed copy of this essay.