I don’t think it is a really good
thing to grow up in a house with
clear plastic covers on the living
room soft fabric furniture. It just
might be psychologically unsettling
with questions about parental love.
It’s hard, cold and uncomfortable.
I did and recall looking longingly
through the plastic to the beautiful,
soft, fabric beneath, that which I
could never, ever touch. If I wanted
to take a nap on the couch, I would
put my socked feet (because we always
had to take our shoes off at the door)
on the plastic, only to hear my mother
tell me to get my feet off the couch.
I would say, “Mom, my soft socks are
on the hard, cold, noisy plastic.”
“Don’t get smart, young man. We aren’t
rich and I want the couch to last a
long time.” Yes, it has all lasted a
long time — at least the memory. I
still get chilled just thinking about
lying on that couch even in the middle
of summer. Oh, I’m sorry; that’s when
I slid around and got stuck to the
clear, cold, hard, noisy plastic.
Visiting our wealthy relatives in New Orleans, we took off our shoes at the door and walked on “hard, cold, noisy plastic” covering the lovely Turkish rugs all the way through art-covered rooms to sit for our tea on those plastic covered silk sofas. All of it matched the owners rather well.
I am so glad to know you, one of the least plastic people I have ever known, Bob.
A complex story in that plastic covering … none of it easy for a young man growing up in the late 40s, into the 50s … with furniture that couldn’t be well used.