a fin is a fin

Three years ago I went to a fundraising auction of artist chairs in the community of Lumsden, which is a great little town about 30 minutes from here that is filled with well kept old houses, hippies, and artists, and so I put some bids of 50 or 75 dollars on items I liked but did not feel bad about not getting them, until it came to a big creepy unit that my son fell in love with and climbed up on, even though no one else seemed to dare, and so I put a bid or two in but the numbers climbed until Margaret nudged me and suggested that I could put it in the brand new department head office that was being renovated and that I would be the first occupant of, and so with that idea I bid and bid until the chair was mine. Today I had to move it for the first time in a couple of years and have slid it between the filing cabinet and the bulletin board of photos of filmmakers I know, as just one more item in a rapidly filling office, boxes and pictures climbing towards the 12 foot ceiling. My son remains the only person to happily climb into it multiple times without trepidation.