In search of a headboard for the bed my husband made some years ago, I went into Paul's place on Frederick Road, knowing I would have to turn sideways to maneuver the jam-pack of his rooms of secondhand goods.

Paul used to be in as tight a spot in Oella Mill, an age-old site that smelled of used goods and artists' paints. A few years ago, the mill was sold for transmutation into spanking new condos, and all who plied their hobbies, weekends and livelihoods there scattered like Van Gogh's spotty impressionistic paintings, into the few corners they could find in Howard County. Finding spaces that afford romanticism here -- places that don't taste like the steel of industrial parks -- is rare. The juncture of Frederick Road at St. John's Lane embraces old Howard County.

I walked around P.J.'s Antiques Etc., which shares a level with Amber's Corner, a shop full of unique jewelry and custom knickknacks, as well as a store that features handpainted furniture. I brought with me a 10-year-old, which may have been a mistake, because she recognized an old chair I had given to Paul.

"That's our chair," she said, and I agreed. "That's the chair that used to be in our family room."

I had gotten that time-worn brown chenille chair from a thrift store five years ago. It cost me 10 bucks and is tremendously comfortable. But I replaced it with a high-tone, zero-gravity, Italian leather, Danish modern piece that absorbs your body and brain when you sit in it. And your legs rest in peace on a footstool.

"That's the chair I used to do my homework in," she said. "That's the chair Dayna (our dog) used to curl up in. That's the chair I watched TV in. I was wondering where it went to. I'm not saying I don't like the new chair we have. I just like this old one."

I realized at that moment that she indeed lives what she learns and learns what she lives. She has a half-life's worth of memories in that room with that chair. Of reading. Of making jeweled bookmarks. Of checking out Barney and Hannah Montana. Of falling asleep.

A few weeks before we stumbled across that chair, I intended to move out the sofa and chairs in what I call my $105 living room. Comfort personified. I had picked out and paid for four chairs of different colors, exact sisters to the new one I had bought for my family room. A circular table was to be at the center of the arrangement. Y'know, something to put my $600 government rebate toward.

I knew I was going to cancel the order when I watched Dayna sit on the fat, upholstered arm of my slipcovered $35 sofa and bark at a dog outside. I realized then how important it is for me to allow Dayna to have her vantage point. I realized that the new chairs would be armless and that the circle would be nowhere near the window. I knew I would miss that image of Dayna reaching for the world outside from an overstuffed sofa arm.

If anybody ever told me this story, I would think they might be a little nuts, but that's OK. People have to live their lives in ways that make sense to them.

"Do you want that chair back?" And the 10-year-old asked if that is possible.

"All things are possible," I said.

Paul's mother Mary, one of the few locals with whom I speak French, was in the store that day. "Of course you can have the chair back," she said in native tongue. "I understand completely."

Soon, I will re-cover the chair with new fabric and it will go into the bedroom, as if brand new, of a little girl touched by chenille and memories.

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