My old neighbor asked me to buy 2-3 plastic chairs for his yard—the ones with holes in the middle. I couldn’t find that exact kind of chair, so I bought the usual ones instead. He didn’t say anything, but I noticed he was upset.
Any idea why there are holes in plastic chairs anyway? Are they that important? At first, I laughed it off.
I mean, it’s just a chair. Who gets emotional over a plastic chair? But my neighbor, Mr.
Dalen, wasn’t the kind of guy who got worked up over nothing. He was in his late 70s, soft-spoken, always wearing this tan fishing hat, even though I never once saw him fish. He’d been living alone since his wife passed five years ago.
I’d help him out sometimes—grab groceries, fix his back fence, stuff like that. So when he asked me for a simple favor, I was more than happy to do it. But when I dropped off those regular white patio chairs—no holes—he gave me a quiet thank-you, then kind of stood there, staring at them like they were strangers who’d shown up to the wrong house.
I asked, “Is everything okay?”
He nodded. “Yes, yes. Appreciate you, son.”
But something in his voice was tight.
Off. That night, I couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t about the chairs, not really.
I felt like I’d missed something. So the next day, I asked him if he wanted me to return them and keep looking for the other kind. He hesitated.
“You know what those chairs are for?” he finally asked. I shrugged. “Sitting?”
He gave a dry laugh.
“Rain.”
“Rain?”
He pointed to the middle of the lawn. “I used to sit out here with Nadine. She loved the rain.
Said it made everything feel alive again. We’d sit under a big umbrella, coffee in hand, and just listen. So I got those chairs with the holes.
Because the rain would come down, and the water would drain right through. We’d never sit in a puddle.”
He looked at the new chairs I’d brought. “These ones’ll pool.
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