Divan to Our Chairs...

It all began with a simple trashpick.

If you're a normal person, you pass some rubbish that's sitting on the curb and go on your merry way.

But if you're a trashpicker, you slow down, survey the "merchandise" and calculate if: 

a) You can fit the bounty in your super-compact auto; and

b) You really need another faux wood end table from Big Lots. 

But we were at the shore, where my trashpickin' standards are set relatively low.

And there were two nondescript yet perfectly good white plastic beach chairs among my neighbor's trash that had my name on them. 

Since our house is situated a block from the bay, I thought it would be a swell idea to transfer them to our beach permanently. No one would mind because it's what is diplomatically called a "rustic" beach, unlike pristine oceanfronts with the "no dogs, no alcohol, no running, no loud music, no fun" rules posted everywhere.

My plan worked great and people throughout the land were ecstatic with the arrangement. Folks used the chairs to watch the sunset, fish, and play with their kids.

Winters came and went, and still our Little Chairs That Could remained in their appointed spot.

But then, one winter, the chairs disappeared, swept away either by the bay's unpredictable moods or thieves. 

 No need to fret, they were replaced the next season by other (trashpicked, natch, by sharp-eyed friends/scouts) plastic doppelgangers.

One evening, as a group of neighbors sat on the chairs around a small bonfire on the beach, someone suggested that we pitch in and buy some snazzier versions, maybe a florescent Adirondack chair or two. But that idea was squashed because it missed the point of using only "recycled" beach furniture as communal property. 

Then, one recent fall weekend, our chairs vanished, too early for the bay to sweep them away.

Soon after, during a walk on the beach, my hubby Dave spotted them.

"How do you know they are our chairs," I asked.

"I just know," he replied, lugging them behind him. "And I left the people who stole them a note in the sand to keep their hands offa the chairs."

Apparently, the thieves may not have been pleased with his message. They sent one to us, presumably, via a bag of doggie-doo left on one of our repositioned chairs.

Thems is fighting words, I thought.

But then I recalled the purpose of the chairs: share with others and embrace a Zen "if you love them, let them go" mindset.

Today, though some chairs have disappeared, a collection of six salvaged seats remain on the beach.

Will they be there when next we visit?

Who knows.

For now, if you happen to pass by our little North Cape May oasis, sit a spell and give thanks to faded throwaway items that - eventually - find their day in the sun.