Today, when I should have been packing for tomorrows crack-of-dawn road trip, I decided to remove the seat cushion from the last of the 120-plus year-old chairs my late wife Linda had redone. (When moving from Helena to Nashville I tossed a couple of the chairs without removing the seat cushions. That, without a doubt, was the biggest mistake I made during my move.)

After carefully removing the fabric, I realized THIS WAS NOT LINDA'S HANDIWORK. When moving, I had tossed the two that she had spent untold hours doing the intricate and brightly-colored needlework for, and kept the one that had its original, faded seat pad.

So, while seething over my blunder, I proceeded with the job of breaking down the chair so I could put the pieces in the garbage bin. As it turned out, some of the screws simply would not break free. (After 120-plus years, the screws were bonded with the wood -- that, and the fact their rusted slots made it impossible for a flat-head screwdriver to get a grip.) I finally got mad enough, and the adrenaline was flowing fast enough, that I ripped it apart with my bare hands. The Incredible Hulk would have been impressed.