If I had company, I’d buy furniture

I don’t get much company.

My son, James, drops by once a week for Stupid Movie Night. (This week’s showing was Maximum Overdrive, written and directed by Stephen King, who must never be allowed to direct again. Sorry, Steve.)

In the summer months, my daughter visits every few weeks. Aubreii generally has anywhere from two-to-five grandkids in tow. This is pretty much pro forma when G-pa lives in a house overlooking the beach.

That’s about it. The rest of the time, I’m here alone.

I have friends, but not the kind who swing by for a beer. They’re work friends; guys I perform with in my weekend bar band. I love ‘em, but I see enough of them on weekends. I mean, there’s only so many conversations I can have about 1) girls we have known, 2) drugs we took for fun back in the ‘80s, 3) drugs we take now for high blood pressure, 4) who’s still playing the wrong damn chord on the bridge of “Into the Mystic,” and 5) other girls we have known.

Of course, this time of year I have almost no company because my house is virtually inaccessible. As I’ve mentioned before, I live atop a fairly precipitous hill; the driveway is steep and twisty and can’t really be plowed effectively. Even a thin scrim of ice is enough to make ascending it impossible.

The back entrance is worse. There’s no drive, just a long, narrow, vine-covered stairway (usually buried beneath snow and ice to the point of invisibility). Anyone attempting to approach from that direction will likely not be found until spring and heaven knows what sort of condition their body will be in by then.

There are yogis living in caves on Tibetan mountainsides who are more easily reached. I feel I should have some sort of “meaning of life” wisdom to impart to anyone who actually does make it to my front door, just so they won’t feel cheated. I’ve been debating between “Have patience with all things but first of all with yourself” and “Hang in there, baby!”

I’m fortunate in that I’ve lived my life in such a way that folks rarely expect wisdom to spout forth when I open my mouth. So I’ll probably go with the “hang in there” thing. It’s shorter and more easily inscribed onto the plastic key-chains I plan to sell at the Mountaintop Yogi Gift Shop.

You’d think I’d get lonely here, all by myself. You’d be right. I do.

But no more than a lot of people are lonely. Everybody’s got a hard luck story to tell and mine is no worse than anyone else’s, not nearly as bad as most, in fact. At least by my estimation.

Also, on the plus side, my lack of visitors means I don’t have to do anything about my furniture situation. I have exactly two pieces of nice furniture: my bed and my piano stool. Everything else is junk.

Instead of a sofa, I bought a futon. The thinking was this would give me some fold-out sleeping space when the kids visited for a weekend. The problem is, the futon is the second most uncomfortable place to sit in the world.

The first is my armchair, which was already here when I moved into the house. It’s a wing-back thing with oak trim, situated in a brutally upright position perfect for an elderly, 90-pound woman sitting primly with a cup of tea balanced delicately over her lap.

Drop a 200-pound guy with a beer and cheeseburger into that same chair on Super Bowl Sunday and you can be arrested for practicing sadism without a license. All the chair requires is a couple restraining straps to qualify as a medieval torture device. Prisoners have been electrocuted in more comfortable chairs.

Then there’s my dining room set, which also came with the house. It’s true “cottage furniture.” Circa 1966, hard, inexpensive wood and Formica with lots of loose joints and scuffed surfaces. In the 1966 Sears catalog, I’m sure this table was listed under “Shotgun Shack Home Furnishings.”

But it gives me someplace to eat my eggs and bagel in the morning, so I’m not complaining.

I should point out all this furniture is just fine for me, living here by myself. I’m not particularly fussy and despite the thrift shop decor, the place remains cute and cozy. I love it a lot.

But if I’m ever asked to host the Lake Association Formal Cotillion, I’m going to have to do a little shopping first. Maybe it’s just as well I don’t have much company.