Field Report: How swallowing the red pill convinced me to cut the arms off of two vintage captain chairs.

My husband and I searched for years for piece of wooded land on which to build a getaway cabin and provide a place to hunt. When we finally found the property and made arrangements to build a small cabin we were both very excited. We got along tremendously at first, as I watched him run the wires for the electricity and figure out how to use the spring for water. I helped in putting up insulation, framework, walls, and ceilings, and install plumbing and a toilet. I was right by his side helping as best I could and our two grown sons pitched in when they could. Things were smooth for a year and then the contentions began between us.

What our arguments boiled down to in retrospect was our differing viewpoints on the purpose of the cabin and what constituted a comfortable dwelling.

By this time I had a picture in my head of what this cabin would look like. It would have a wood stove in the corner with glass tiles on the wall behind it, sitting on a tile floor that blended with the laminate floor. I envisioned comfortable furnishings including shelves with Americana accents and pieces of art. I am sure many of you are shaking your head at my lack of a clue, but try not to dismiss my point of view at first.

You can imagine my disappointment to learn that sheet metal would line the walls behind the stove and a steel platform would lie beneath it. Furthermore the wood stove would be supported on concrete blocks to raise it up enough to allow it to be easier filled with wood. The more my husband and sons talked, the more I realized that their vision of the cabin in the woods was a long shot from mine. My pintrest dreams went up in smoke! This was not acceptable to me at all! I had worked my ass off to help with this cabin and now it was going to be nothing more than a place for men.

The week before hunting season began, I am ashamed to admit that I let the hamster loose and it turned many rotations on its wheel. I spent two days sleeping in another room, and I have only left our bed on two other occasions in our marriage.

Him: I don’t know what is going on with you. I am so disappointed. I thought this cabin was something we both wanted, something that we were going to enjoy together.

Me: I thought the same way too, but I don’t feel like I have any say in the matter. You could care less what I want. If you want the cabin to be only a hunting lodge, that’s fine. It is pretty clear to me that you don’t want me there. It would be better if I just stay at home.

Him: You know is not true. I want you to be there and our boys want to you to be there.

To make a long story short, I cried for quite a while until I made sense of it all and I ended up going to the cabin that weekend of deer season. A short time later I started reading RPW. Now after a year and a half, I have come to the following realization: The cabin is a place where I need to leave my expectations at home before I go there. It is a place that will continue to change as we figure out what is needed for comfort and relaxation. It is a place where we both figure out a way to find the most fun and the least amount of work to attain it.

I am not saying we see eye to eye on everything, but we are compromising and the cabin has turned into a place that pleases both us.

This brings me to the point of this post: The chairs.

Our last disagreement centered on the four chairs we had brought from home to serve as seating for the kitchen table. They were a matching set, but two of the chairs had arms and my husband and sons insisted they took up too much space and it would be best to cut the arms off of them. I was horrified at the suggestion. They were vintage chairs, they were unusual, and it would ruin their value. I held firm for a couple of weeks, and then I thought about it. Did I want to fight about it anymore? No. Did I want to go to the trouble to try and sell them and replace them with something else? No.

So I got out the screwdriver and hammer and proceeded to try and pry the arms off so as not damage the chair. After an hour I had made little progress.

Him: I can cut those arms off with a hack saw in just a couple of minutes.

Me: Fine! Do what you think is best! (This is not said in a cheery supportive kind of way)

I walk out, not willing to witness the massacre of my vintage chairs that I had been ecstatic to find at a yard sale and had lovingly restored. Ten minutes later I return to access the damage. I grimace at a couple of deep gouges, but the chairs are in one piece. In fact, I realize with soaring spirits, I could fill in the bad spots with wood filler and paint them and they would be good as before.

So this past weekend I repaired and painted those chairs and I was so busy that I did not spend one minute worrying about my husband while he was out in the woods by himself with the chain saw.