A second hand life

Well, yesterday, I finally grew up. At 10:43 am two men and a truck pulled into my driveway and delivered a large dining room table, six MATCHING chairs, and a leather arm chair. All of it---brand new. Yes, I actually picked it out, paid for it--outright (that was fun!-F@*K the credit card companies) and had it delivered. I had to wait nearly 72 hours before it arrived. An hour later, while sitting in my new arm chair, I felt a sort of sad feeling slowly move over me, like throwing out an old but soft pair of jeans with a giant hole in the seat or finally retiring your favorite running shoes. While my house did look nice and normal, I missed my collection of second hand chairs, my rag tag arm chair and our wonky table. One of our kitchen chairs belonged to my great grand mother; long ago one of my dogs used it for a chew toy. Another appeared in my house after I nursed an entire bottle of red wine and walked home. I think it was sitting on the side of the road with someone's garbage--at least that's what I "remember". Then there was the chair that my parents found at a yard sale to go with the desk they bought me as a child. I can still remember the green and red plaid seat with black stripes, a six-year old's dream. Our former table was purchased from my old dear friend Lee. He was moving back to North Carolina and could not take it with him. It was a steal for only $40.00 and it reminded me of our friendship that stretches back to junior high school. There was a circle burned into one end where someone set down a very hot pot. The other end slanted up ever so slightly. The arm chair that was replaced I found at stuff, it was ugly but so comfortable. My daughter laid in it every morning with "snuggle blanket" while I make breakfast. My new furniture does not have any stories yet.
All my dogs are second hand, even my husband was "used." Nearly all my clothes are second hand. Each of these things (no offense honey) is endowed with a story. The way it came into my life is unusual and meaningful. While my new furniture is lovely, there is no story, it came from a furniture store, and now it's here. My parents always bought second hand furniture. They call their pieces antiques. When I was growing up we always sat around this kitchen table that my father bought at a yard sale in Bangor, Maine. He bought it over a weekend and on Monday morning the fellow that sold it to him committed suicide with the business end of a gun. Those New Englanders, always the practical sort. Of course we kept the table anyway. My dresser is another yard sale find. My parents bought it and refinished it before I was born. It was always one of my favorite things. It still is, even though it is dying a slow and painful choking death as it overflows with pajamas and tee shirts. The drawers barely close. I just can't bring myself to get rid of it. I would feel like such a traitor. The drawers are still lined with the paper bags my mom cut with pinking shears almost four decades ago.
Hopefully my new furniture will quit seeming so shiny and alien in our home. As the years go on, I know I will treasure the lunch I had with my children at our new dining room table. I told them, "You two are the first people to ever eat at this table." I wonder if they will remember.