Shelley Terry

Shelley Terry

Hubby and my styles are very different. I like to purge and throw away on a regular basis. He likes to keep everything forever and ever and ever.

I’m not kidding when I say he keeps everything — broken appliances, car parts, motors, flower pots, furniture and more, just in case he may “need” them in the future.

He gets mad if he finds me giving away clothes that he hasn’t worn for 40 years. He says stuff like, “I’m keeping them in case I get skinny,” or “We could sell that at a yard sale!”

Trust me, faithful readers, neither of us are ever going to fit in the clothes we wore in the 1980s. As for the yard sale, I’ll carry something out of the house and he will carry it back in.

It’s infuriating.

Last weekend was spring clean-up day in Jefferson — the perfect time to get rid of his broken camouflage-colored recliner, or so I thought.

Last year, on the day before clean-up day, I got him to carry the recliner out of his man cave, thinking we could buy him a new one.

He moved it out of the man cave and on to the front porch, promising to take it to the curb the next day. It never happened.

For the past year, we’ve had that old recliner on the front porch, adding more than a hint of hillbilly-ness to our home.

Come clean-up day 2023, I insisted he take it to the curb. He balked at the very idea.

“We can’t throw that away! Darwin and I sat on that chair,” he said.

Darwin, our beloved one-eyed Jack Russell terrier, died last year at age 15. We both miss him terribly but it didn’t change my feelings about the chair.

I’m not heartless! I understand the sentimental value.

If that faded old chair could talk, I’m sure it would speak of our precious pup, nestled in laps or settled in its comfy cushions, leaving drifts of white hair as fond reminders of his life.

It could tell the story of each of the stains on its arms left by Hubby’s countless snacks and meals.

It could talk of various toys and tiny treasures lost in its cushions and abandoned by Delightful Granddaughter.

It also would most likely sing about the layers of melodious flatulence buried deep into its upholstered depth.

Even so, I wanted it off my front porch.

“Only hillbillies put inside furniture outside,” I said, trying to reason with Hubby.

Instead of being ashamed, he was proud.

“I’m getting back in touch with my roots. My dad was from West Virginia, so I’m half hillbilly!”

I gave up and went back in the house.

About 10 minutes later, I heard a racket on the front porch followed by tooting of car horns.

Come to find out, Hubby had thrown the recliner in the front yard. The recliner landed upside down next to my flower bed.

Passersby pointed and honked their horns at the sight.

I ran back inside, hoping no one I know saw it. But I suppose if they know Hubby, they didn’t think anything of it.

When he came inside, we had words.

“There’s only one thing more hillbilly than indoor furniture outside on the front porch,” I said. “It’s indoor furniture upside down in the front yard.”

Hubby, convinced the chair was worth hundreds of dollars, bet me that a passerby would see the rickety recliner and immediately snatch it up.

We made a verbal bet. In retrospect, I should have bet money.

Hubby then carried the chair to the curb and we waited on the porch. Sitting on our front porch rockers, we waited and waited. A few lookers, no takers.

We waited until dark.

When Hubby got up around 5:30 a.m. Saturday, his favorite chair was still at the curb. He shook his head sadly as he watched workers haul it away.

I thought that was the end of the camo chair saga.


Faithful readers won’t believe what Hubby did next.

After I left for the grocery store, he rolled an office chair out of his man cave and onto the front porch.

As I drove up the driveway, he waved from his new found perch.

“I like this chair even better,” he said, laughing.

I give up.

Marriage is a matter of give and take, but so far, staff writer Shelley Terry hasn’t been able to find anybody who’ll take Hubby! You can reach her at

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