As far back as I can remember, the footstool was always part of our living room in the house where I grew up. Made of dark wood, it had turned handles at either end and gracefully-shaped legs. The main body of the stool was done in needlepoint in dark maroon, almost brown yarns, and there was a soft floral design in the middle. The colors weren't bright, but rather muted shades that were muted even more by age.
      A small, but important and definitely well-used piece of furniture, it moved around the living room. When Dad was relaxing in his easy chair after work, reading the newspaper, he'd prop his feet up on it. I don't recall Mom using it that much, but we kids (at least my older brother and I) used to fight over it, as it made the perfect headrest when lying on the floor watching TV. And when company was over and all the chairs were full, it was the perfect size for a child to sit on and eavesdrop on the surrounding conversations.
      With time and use, the needlepoint cover became worn, in some places down to the canvas base. In the early 1960's, as we kids grew up and moved on, Grandma Spotts, my maternal grandmother, came to live with Mom and Dad, moving from her home in Duluth to their home in Minneapolis. Always a busy woman, but now pretty much chair-bound due to a series of small strokes, she kept her hands busy with a handiwork project of grand proportions—a new cover for the footstool.
      She worked at it until her final stroke in 1962. Later, Mom picked up the work, eventually completing the project started by her mother, keeping the colors true to the original. Meanwhile Dad, who always liked to have a woodworking project or two going, began to rebuild the frame. Finally, the family project was complete. The footstool was fully restored.
      Eventually, Mom and Dad moved from our family home on Second Avenue into the retirement apartment at 7500 York. Going into much smaller quarters prompted them to scale down, but the footstool moved with them. It was small and besides, it was a real part of their home and of their family.
      More years passed. Mom died in 1984, but Dad continued living on at the apartment. As he moved into his 80's and then into his 90's, every time I came home to visit, I could count on walking through the door and there he'd be, sitting in his now squished-down easy chair with his feet propped up on the footstool.
      In the spring of 1999, Dad died at the age of ninety-four. After the memorial services were over, and all the friends and relatives had gone, my brother, sister, and I went back to Dad's apartment and began the emotion-laden job of dividing up and dispersing all the belongings that were part of Mom and Dad's long life together.
      Not an easy task—it never is—as so much family history and so many deep emotions are embroidered into the intricate tapestry that makes up a family.
      My two siblings lived close by, and I was more than happy to have them take whatever they wanted—the dining room set, the couches, the hutch, the desk. Living at a distance, as I did, I had only a few requests—a piece or two of artwork, some of Mom's pewter serving dishes, and...the footstool.
      So now this small piece of furniture, once again showing the wear of time, has traveled halfway across the country to Vashon Island in Washington. And each day I admire my parents' and grandmother's handiwork, feeling just a little bit closer to them and the lifelong memories embodied in the footstool.

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