The original This End Up couch.

We were also innocents on the subject of marketing. Without realizing it, our opening day coincided with the Strawberry Street Craft Fair. The celebration was an annual neighborhood event that drew people from all over Richmond’s Fan District. In 1975, “the Fan,” anchored by then-sleepy Virginia Commonwealth University, sat squarely between the ultra-conservative West End and the downtown Capitol. It was home to a mix of Bohemian humanity: starving artists, musicians, center-city lovers, renovators of old houses, the gay contingent and the homeless. Lazy with sunshine, a light autumn breeze and leaves turning yellow and red, the day was custom-made to suit the Saturday fair underway in the park across the street. Children laughed, balloons bobbed and adults wandered the friendly crowds.

The store was mobbed from the start with a heterogeneous crowd of happy contrarians. They wore hiking boots and L.L. Bean shirts, their square, uncool Volvos waiting at the curb. These young customers, who would later be regarded as the economically power­ful baby boomers, prided themselves on owning earthy things counter to their parents’ culture. Our rugged, original-design furniture suited them perfectly.

Within an hour I had taken the first order. By that afternoon I had written three. One man used his last check for a purchase, and he made it out to “Up Your End.” I was so excited I took it anyway. While I helped a woman interested in furnishing her mountain house, my mind scrambled furiously to calculate how many VW bus trips it would take to deliver such an order.

“How soon could I get all this? I’m in a bit of a rush,” said my customer, thumbing her wallet.

Oh my. How much better could this be?

Just then I heard people chuckling. Putting aside our book of 12 fabric choices, I turned to see the reason. Unable to find mom in the crowd, my two-and-a-half-year-old, almost-potty-trained son was doing what he thought was right. With flawless aim, he had set sights on the side of the This End Up chair and was, well, keeping his training pants dry. I could have kissed the kindly woman sitting in it for her graciousness as she rose from the ersatz toilet.

Years later in response to a This End Up customer satisfaction questionnaire, that woman wrote in the comments section, “I was sitting in the chair when the owner’s little boy went to the bathroom on it during the opening day of your Strawberry Street store. Please tell her that I bought my furniture several months later because of that accidental demonstration. Every piece is still like new after eight years. Thank you for a wonderful product.”

After settling my son on my hip, I slid the abused chair over the wet spot on the rug and returned to the mountain-house order in time to witness a granddaddy rat scurry beside the customer’s foot and smush its fat body under the couch. Baby Stew, who was learning animal names, screamed “WAT” at the top of his lungs. The woman screamed, “OH MY GOD,” at the top of hers. I barely got out of her way as she fled the store, tinkling toddler and super-rodent.

We couldn’t bear to shut the door as long as there was interest. By 9:30 that night, I had waited on so many people and answered so many questions I could hardly remember where I had placed the day’s receipts. Hiring help was immediately put at the top of my to-do list. At the top of his, Stewart listed to remind me to charge sales tax. I had forgotten it all day.

As we locked the door, headed for home exhausted and hungry while hugging two sleepy children to our shoulders, guilt about balancing work and family rumbled. The challenge I had been seeking crowned that day, like a newborn. What would this infant entity demand of me? How could I nurture it without turning my back on my own needs? I wondered why I felt so exhilarated. Three orders, a rat, tax evasion, and bodily fluids would not be a cause of euphoria for most people. But I was elated, and in my naiveté I believed that it would be fun to join my joyful new independence with my familiar, comfortable life.

"Crossroads" in heavy weather.

By the time we arrived in the Tobago Cays one evening, the all-day 35 mph winds had pummeled Crossroads and its family to exhaustion. I was weak from bracing myself against the vaulting seas and fluky currents. A potted plant, a basket of lemons, the entire CD collection — things that had not been put away or secured with a bungee cord — became a battery of missiles, but I was too seasick to clean up the mess. With such strong headwinds, our arrival time was much later than estimated and night was moving in fast. Gregg said we would have to drop anchor wherever we could since there was no marina in these cays.

The sky developed the color of a bruise and storm clouds glowered. Thunder and lightning erupted around us and Gregg fought to keep the boat in position to allow Stewart to lower the anchor. In Crossroads’ spotlight, rain jetted sideways like a wideopen fire hose. Stewart’s foul weather gear ripped open and flapped behind him, flinging hood, zipper and pull cords into a fury against his body. Unable to maneuver the boat against the heightened maelstrom, normally soft-spoken Gregg screamed from the flybridge against the oncoming wind.

“Drop it! Drop it!”

Gregg’s command vanished in the howling storm, and Stewart heard nothing. Unanchored, Crossroads slid farther into the open water as if seeking a rendezvous with the encroaching tempest.

Even with that memory still vivid, words wilt and inadequately describe the sizzling arc of lightning that cleaved the sea only a few yards from Stewart, who held the anchor chain in one hand and the metal bow rail in the other. From my vantage point inside the wheelhouse, his body turned the blue of a blowtorch flame. He released the anchor, fell sideways onto the deck, and covered his head with his hands.

A tornado-like wind, rife with ozone, whipped into the boat as I ran out into the rain.

Barge on the way to Fowl Cay Resort.

Harry stood firmly on the side that I had OK’d that arrangement, and I was positive I never would have done such a thing. At a stalemate for the time being, Harry called timeout to give some good news about the marble and granite that was six weeks late arriving. The delay had caused an island-wide work stoppage on all kitchens and bathrooms.

“By the way, the marble and granite are in Nassau being loaded onto a barge today. It should be here midmorning tomorrow,” he said. “Great news,” we agreed.

As the day drew to a close, Harry’s cellphone rang. He turned away to answer, and Stewart and I heard him say, “No. No. NO. Keep me informed.”

“What? What?” we asked.

“They put so much granite and marble on the barge that it sank.” I was speechless, but, sadly, not particularly shocked.

Harry said, “The barge was still at the dock when it went down, so they will send in divers to retrieve the materials and try reloading tomorrow.”

“Pretty lucky it’s something saltwater can’t hurt,” said Stewart. He was right, of course, and nothing could change the situation now, but we just seemed to lurch from crisis to crisis. The difference was that Stewart never considered them to be crises. If he ever decided to get a tattoo, instead of choosing “I Love Libby,” he would have to be branded, “What is, is.” Stewart was turning Bahamian as the months marched on. I was turning tail.