The hidden secrets of my sofa

It's my own little corner of the world! When I was quarantined aboard the COVID ship on the North Sea, I often thought lovingly of my sofa. I had longed for an adventure, but it did not include being locked in my cabin for three days. However, the experience inspired a story written on the back of a paper menu.

I scored my sofa at Emmert Auction a few springtimes ago. My auctioneer buddies knew that I wanted it and needed it, so they declared, "Pam wants this!" And it was mine. They schlepped it over to my place and took my mother's old pink tapestry sofa out the front door of my pink house. I get attached to material objects, feeing like they’re old friends, a condition called anthropomorphism, but it had served its purpose.

It's now, as always, a reservoir for lost objects. I’m sure everyone has lost an item that once seemed ordinary and that you took for granted, and felt the pain of that loss. And at least with me, the beauty and allure of the now "lost friend" grew in my mind all out of proportion. I've misplaced at least three valued possessions lately. Maybe I need to purchase some of those jellyfish memory pills I've seen advertised on TV.

I can remember and totally recite Shakespearean sonnets that I was assigned to memorize in high school by Mrs. Wanda King, my favorite English teacher – but I can’t recall where I place treasured possessions. Late one night several moons ago, while sitting up on the sofa at 3 a.m. before going to sleep, I said to myself, "I will take off my alien earrings and place them in their box so they don't fall off with my thrashing about on the pillow of my gypsy bed, the victim of wild dreams.” I placed them gingerly under their own fluffy pillow in their very small box that sat on my coffee table.

They were my favorite go-to alien earrings, a surprise gift from my daughter Misty that had been flown over from England and arrived at my front door on the UPS truck. She knows I love alien jewelry. If a spaceship ever lands on my roof or along my favorite Cave Neck Road at night, they will beam down and know that I am a friend. Anyway, the next time I opened the box, it was empty!

I know those earrings are somewhere in the house! I used to say a short prayer to St. Anthony of Padua, the patron saint of lost objects, and it often worked, but not lately. Jeff said my inquiries are trivial to the saint, and this is why he now ignores me, so I've resorted to my trusty rusty Ouija board, which has proved helpful in the past. Jeff won't touch what he considers radioactive, a fortuneteller's tool, so I have to try to maneuver it with both my hands. It hasn't worked either the past few times, but I did have one notable success back in the day. Usually now the board vaguely just says, "It's here."

Recently, I lost another earring and a large abalone fish from Taxco, Mexico, on a chain too big to miss. I'm still fishing for it! I've spent at least two days each looking for these objects, and I suppose I'll just have to do what I've heard mothers say to their temper-tantrum children in stores, "Just let it go!"

If any of my readers happen to have or have found any alien earrings, please give me a call or email me. I'm planning a trip to the Alien Capital of the World, Roswell, N.M., to try and find another pair.

My sofa has now weathered and settled in a bit with dropped pills and cracker crumbs in its crevices. It's like the pocketbook I used as a child when I took piano lessons and had to walk two blocks to the house of Mrs. Agnes Hazzard for those dreaded sessions. My mother wanted me to play the piano and sing like her, but I wasn't musically inclined. Today I can't even tell you where middle C is. I had decided early on that I would never be pounding out Chopin on her grand piano with the windows open to Chestnut Street to entertain and amaze passersby, and convince them I was a cultured person.

Incidentally, the Hazzard name belonged to the descendants of the fabled early shipbuilders of Milton, aka the Clipper Ship Town. Mrs. Hazzard seemed almost that ancient and had yards of braids, like the ropes of a ship, wrapped around her head. She would rap my fingers with a ruler when I messed up on the ivory keys. Her face only broke up in a broad smile when I reached into my purse, filled with cookie crumbs like my current sofa, to fish out the two quarters I owed her for the ordeal.

It's good that I usually found them. There must have been a St. Anthony watching over me back then!