01/19/2001

Embarrassing Moments

One Saturday morning a few years ago, Gordon and I and our two children hitched a U-haul trailer to our sedan and drove that plus our station wagon from Massachusetts to Connecticut to pick up a dining room set - eight chairs, large oval table with extra leaves and a double hutch - that we bought from friends who were moving to Hawaii. The teak set had been custom-made in Japan and shipped to Connecticut after Joe finished his army tour of duty in Okinawa. He and his wife decided not to move these large, heavy pieces to the islands because they wanted to buy lighter colors and smaller pieces more in keeping with a tropical decor. Gordon and I had admired the ornately carved hutch and chair backs for years, so we jumped at the chance to buy them.

We also agreed to adopt Erik, their Siberian husky, a snow and ice-loving breed, definitely not cut out for the tropics. Our kids were very excited about having a dog, especially one that they had known since he was a puppy. He would make a great running companion for Gordon, too.

On Sunday afternoon after a weekend of family games, meals and leisurely good-byes, we started loading the furniture. Erik sensed something unusual was happening and promptly disappeared under the house. We commented about his uncanny perceptiveness and continued loading. The table, several chairs and the top half of the hutch fit into the U-Haul, the bottom half of the hutch went into the back of the station wagon, and we tied the three remaining chairs to the roof rack on the wagon.

Set to depart, Joe whistled for Erik. No response. "Erik, come!" he commanded. Nothing. Not even his favorite treats lured him out. Finally Joe sent his son Brian belly-crawling under the house to attach a leash to Erik's collar. We literally had to drag the dog out. He most certainly knew that something was wrong. We lifted him into the back of the wagon, where he curled up against the back of the front seat, trembling, with his head down on his paws. It was heartbreaking. Was this the same pup that had greeted us with sloppy kisses and wagging tail the day before?

Another round of hugs and we were off. I was behind the wheel of the wagon, and Gordon drove the kids in the car pulling the trailer. During the two-hour trip home I talked to Erik and played music for him, hoping he would relax, stop trembling and fall asleep. I pulled over once to cover him with my jacket and offer him some water, but he wouldn't drink it.

In sight of our house, I pushed the button on the garage door opener, intent on getting Erik out of the car and safely into the house. I knew I had to get the car inside with the garage door closed before I could let him out. Otherwise he might bolt and run away. Partway into the garage I heard an unearthly crunching sound followed by a loud snap of metal against wood coming from the roof of the car. Oh my God . the chairs. I had completely forgotten about the chairs. I couldn't bring myself to look at the carnage. I leaped out of the car, quickly closed the door to confine Erik, ran into the dining room and slumped to the floor. How stupid could one person be?

Gordon had helplessly watched this folly unfold. He saw the garage door open and saw me turn in and keep on going. He hollered out the window, "The chairs, STOP, the ... chairs."

Without enough clearance the legs of one chair splintered and snapped off and the back of another caught on the bottom of the garage door and broke away from the seat, the pressure strong enough to snap the cable and pull the door off its track.

Gordon and the kids ran inside and found me in the dining room. They were all talking at once. I felt like a complete idiot. Poor me. My poor imported treasures. Poor Erik. Oh my goodness, what about Erik? The kids and I ran back into the garage and led him inside. We introduced him to every room in the house and kept him close to us for the rest of the evening.

In the meantime, Gordon corralled a couple of neighbors to help him unload the furniture and fix the garage door. They collected every single chip of splintered wood from the chairs and put the pieces in plastic bags. The next day Gordon bought a type of glue that cabinetmakers use. Chip by chip, splintered piece by splintered piece, he reconstructed those chairs. Like a skilled surgeon, he matched up the jagged edges, reinforced the legs so they would bear weight and restored the chairs completely, detail work that took weeks to finish. Each successful patch helped restore my equilibrium ... and Erik's, too.

The picture of Gordon hunched over those little slivers of wood, painstakingly fitting them together, will be forever etched in my mind's eye. What a labor of love. We proudly (and safely) dine at our handsome teak dining room table every single day.

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.