The Blue Chairs: A Love Story
We met in a bookstore at age 50: Dave critically examining the used mysteries available, looking for first editions in fine or near-fine condition, and me adding to my poetry collection, as well as examining the older Vermont books. In April 2002, as I worked my way up from a humiliating end to a bad dating situation, Dave invited me to breakfast in Plainfield, Vermont, at the “old” River Run. We had French toast and thick slabs of bacon, and the conversation from there never quite ceased.
We married in 2003, and honeymooned that autumn in San Francisco, working our way from one famous bookstore to another, hushed in awe in the footsteps of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, then both of us rising into a fiery passion for the stunning poetry and broadsides that Peter Howard’s Serendipity Books offered. We went back each year — until Dave’s health no longer fit into cross-country air travel. Even so, we kept a long-distance eye on those shops and booksellers, and rejoiced in each purchase.
In our home, we relaxed in two places: the kitchen, where Dave’s sturdy chair from his college career supported his girth comfortably, and the living room, a wide spacious place with a large and comfortable blue sofa that Dave…
