LaVonne, with a Capital "V"
This year, we’ll be sharing a weekly column by Karla Theilen, our Neighborhood Storyteller. These stories will show what it means to live a life of intention, one where our small and ordinary, everyday actions contribute to building stronger communities. All images in this piece were provided by the author, unless otherwise indicated.
For some reason, the minute LaVonne at Deerwood Furniture answered the phone, I knew I could tell her the truth. I was looking for a new bed for my dad, I told her, because one look at the assisted living apartment he’d be moving into was enough to see that his king-sized bed would never fit. I sheepishly explained that we needed to have the bed delivered by Monday, at the latest, and braced myself for the worst.
I’d been procrastinating. Delaying the purchase of the smaller bed allowed the inevitable to remain an abstraction. Less than a week before my dad’s move-in date, I called my mom in an almost adolescent panic. Though she and my father divorced in the early 1980s, she’s been an essential support during this complicated transition. “Easiest thing to do, honey, is drive up the road to Deerwood Furniture, march right in and buy a bed. They’ll deliver it and set it up, just like that. Bing bing.” My mother has an endearing habit of making something sound easy by punctuating the sentence with “bing bing.”
Turns out it was that easy. LaVonne assured me over the phone that she had plenty of beds in stock, and floor models of each so I could try them out. Delivery by Monday? Oh, you betcha.
“Now, is the current bed handy?” She spoke with the calm, reassuring tone of a 911 dispatcher. “I want you to go lie down on it and get a good idea of how it feels. We’re going to want to get your dad a bed that feels as similar as possible to what he’s got.”
LaVonne was sweeping the floor near the La-Z-Boys the next morning when I sent the bells on the door handle clanging as I stumbled into the store. (The sign on the door that said “CAUTION: STEP UP” really did mean business.)
“Hello, LaVonne?” I wanted to spell her name out loud, the way she had for me on the phone the day before. L-A-capital-V-O-N-N-E.
“That’s me,” she smiled, leaning on her broom, “And I bet you’re here to buy a bed for your dad.”
LaVonne walked around like she owned the place, and that’s because she did. “My late husband and I bought this store in 1972,” she said. 1972 was the year I was born, but I didn’t mention it.
A U.S. map that LaVonne and her late husband made entirely from carpet remnants. which they mounted on a 4-by-8 sheet of plywood in the late 1960s. It hangs in the little office nook of Deerwood Furniture.
LaVonne knew her inventory intimately. As we walked along the row of beds, she reached out to pet each mattress, describing them in such familiar, almost affectionate terms, I felt like I was there to pick out a puppy. She paused at the last in line. “Now, this is the only one I’ve got in this style,” she said, patting the runt of the litter, “but it’s a real good one.” She explained that it was a double-sided mattress, something they didn’t make much anymore. She went on to explain that the mattress could be flipped to assure longevity and even wear, and that “some of my older folks like this feature real well.”
My dad has had a strict flipping and rotation schedule for every mattress he’s ever owned. If you don’t believe me, just ask him. He’ll explain the routine in detail to anyone who will listen, and I’ve heard the spiel so often I could repeat it verbatim. Even so, I wouldn’t have known to look specifically for a double-sided mattress, and this omission would have been devastating.
I casually lifted one corner of the mattress, attempting to gauge whether or not my dad would be able to flip it by himself.
“I’m sure the nurses there will help,” she assured, “that’s why it’s called assisted living.”
At LaVonne’s insistence, I laid down on the double-sided mattress, trying hard to remember how my dad’s mattress at home felt. She stood next to the bed, giving me directions to roll from side to side, onto my back, and then my stomach. I launched into some free-form movements, curling up into the fetal position on my right side, then my left, then stretched my arms and legs straight out in all directions. Finally, I sat back up at the edge of the mattress and bounced a bit. “This is it,” I said. I wasn’t even sure it was the same softness or firmness as my dad’s mattress, but the fact that it could be flipped made the decision easy.
I was about to get up off the bed when LaVonne eased herself down into the loveseat across from me, a gesture that seemed to say, “and now it’s time to talk.” I sat at the edge of my dad’s new bed and leaned in while she recounted how when her husband first told her he bought a furniture store in a small town in northern Minnesota, she thought her life was over. “But this became my life,” she said, arms extended, looking around the store, chuckling.
She went on to tell me how her son would soon be taking over ownership. She said she didn’t mind slowing down a bit—didn’t mind giving up some of the responsibility. “When he’s here, I get to goof around,” LaVonne grinned. “If someone stops in and wants to go to lunch, I just go to lunch! Simple as that!” But she vowed she’d never give the store up completely. “After fifty years of this? What would I even do? Plus, this is where everybody knows they can find me.”
I wondered that myself, not what LaVonne would do without the store, but what the store would do without LaVonne. Who would do the telephone triage for woefully unprepared last-minute shoppers? Who would hold court from the loveseat? And who would remember that the older folks like to flip their mattresses?
LaVonne, writing the receipt for the mattress she helped me pick out.
“Now,” LaVonne said, pushing herself up out of the loveseat and getting back to business, “will your father need a headboard?” She gestured to what looked like a metal version of the wooden headboard my dad has had for decades. “This one is very nice,” she nodded, “especially for a man.”
After carefully writing out a receipt for the flippable mattress and the masculine headboard, LaVonne walked me to the front door.
“He’s going to like that bed real well,” she winked. The bells on the handle of the door jingled softly as she pushed it open, touching my arm, reminding me to step down. "I'll be thinking of you Monday.”
I wasn’t sure whether to hug her, to cry, or to ask her to go to lunch with me. Instead, I just thanked her for everything, though I wouldn’t know the weight of everything I was thanking her for until later. I stood fumbling for my keys in my purse, wanting to stay in the part of the story where LaVonne was in charge. I knew that as soon as I was back in the bitter January wind, the page would turn over to the next chapter, and I would become the narrator again.
Karla Theilen is the Neighborhood Storyteller at Strong Towns. Karla is a writer, storyteller, and Registered Nurse based out of Missoula, Montana. Her penchant to explore wild places informed early career choices as a trail builder in the Grand Canyon, and a forest fire lookout in Idaho. Her current writing inspiration comes from a different kind of wilderness, navigating healing journeys with her patients in far-flung places where she works as a travel nurse. Her writing has been featured on NPR, and select stories and essays have been anthologized. She has been Facebook-free since 1972.