My grandmother's chairs

My grandmother's chairs, six regal seats made of embossed wood at the beginning of the last century, have determined the character of the old Iriarte. They invite you to sit down, chat, shop slowly, and even confide.

I believe that my grandmother's chairs have determined the character of The old Iriarte. Thanks to them, the store has that halo of comfort and confidence, of being at home and among friends, which invites conversation, confidences, and even some secrets. There are six of my grandmother's chairs and they are one of those wooden chairs that are no longer seen. Huge, heavy, embossed wood and, simply, divine. They were made in a furniture store in Gijón at the beginning of the century (they all have a small plaque at the bottom of the backrest that attests to this) and they presided over the living room of my father's mother, Grandma Milagros, for as long as I remember, matching with an immense table and a huge mirror, both pieces also made with that same wood full of shapes, nooks and curvatures. After the death of my grandmother and with the renovation of the store, my father suggested incorporating the six seats into the decoration of the store, but not the rest of the furniture, which was too large, which was sold.

A careful restoration process, which included anti-moth treatment and varnishing of the wood, replacement of the seat padding and upholstery, returned my grandmother's chairs to all their splendor. They are my father's pretty girls, perhaps because of how beautiful they are and because of maternal memories, and they are capable of jumping for the jugular of anyone who dares to jump on their soft seat, rest their feet on the wood that crosses their front legs. or climb up the backrest. That is, most of the children who imagine that those enormous seats are the throne of a great King or a trampoline where they can bounce at ease to be propelled into space. They save the little ones because dad doesn't go down to the store much.

My grandmother's chairs are where most husbands sit while their wives try on dresses or fool around with the dozens of bags that rest on the shelves or on the hanger. If there is not much commotion and there is trust or a friendly colleague, we sit next to the one we are attending and enjoy the parade together. It's very fun to live that kind of back stage of hanging around the house. From that first row backstage, we make our judgments and comments.

The chairs are also very useful for clients to leave their bags or whatever they are carrying. How many times have we had to run after someone because in the excitement of the purchase they leave and leave behind what they already brought.

-Where did he go? Right or left?-

"Towards City Hall," I say to Vanessa.

And my sister goes out gunned down to return what will soon be missed.

The clients sit in my grandmother's chairs to try on the shoes. So imposing, so comfortable, so strong, they seem like thrones where you can feel like a queen. It is true that they are somewhat tall and that is why we have a longer shoehorn than usual to facilitate putting them on.

If my grandmother's chairs could talk... They are distributed, as you enter, two on the right and four on the left, lined up two by two forming an L. I affectionately call that part of the store the tea room. Because that's the only thing we're missing, a coffee table and a steaming cup. The confidences, the secrets, the sorrows, the joys, the tears or the laughter are already provided by us and you. It won't be the first time that a client, one of those usual ones who are already friends, comes in and blurts out “oh if you only knew what happened to me.”

-Come here. "Sit down," we told him, patting the seat of one of the beautiful chairs.

And it can be a disappointment. Or an anecdote. Or a hilarious fact. Or, simply, you want someone to listen to you. But the two of us sit there, or the three of us or the four of us if my mother is there. And we solve the world. We listen, advise, hug or whatever. If that's what I say, these chairs are like the couch in a psychoanalyst's office. They invite confidences and have, I am sure, a healing spirit.

They are the chairs where María sits on Friday afternoons, when she leaves the hair salon and comes to see us and chat until closing time; where Cova rests exhausted after Oto, her young Samoyed, almost drags her through the Campillín and the Winter Park; where Benjamín concentrates to find out the breakdown of the laptop he gave me; where Charlie and Nole wait for us while we cash out; where my father enjoys the passes I make every time a new season's clothes arrive; where my mother falls breathless after climbing the stairs of the parking lot and Juan Botas Street, whose asthma one day kills her or where my daughter settles down without taking her eyes off her cell phone and asks, "Are there any brunettes in the drawer?" ?” but he doesn't get up.

My grandmother, who was the one who acquired the business through transfer, was always sitting in the store, at the back of the old counter. I didn't answer, my mother and my aunt did that, but I did public relations like no one else. Perhaps these chairs, hers, are the best tribute to what she did. The act of sitting and listening. Perhaps it is its spirit, through its chairs, that makes the old Iriarte now 55 years old and much more than a store. I am convinced. We are what we are and my grandmother's chairs have had a lot to do with it.

Thank you Luz Sol, once again, for the fun family photo session that accompanies this text and for your complicity and dedication. And thanks also to Jaime, our little jumper, who had the courage to confront Dad by bouncing under his nose, and to Teruchi, our royal mannequin.