My mother’s Heriz rug, in my first post-divorce home in Los Angeles
In retrospect, the worst thing about my relationship with The Grifter was not his rampant infidelity, run-amokery with my Amex card, or dark moods — it was the fact that he and his untrained, 200-pound dog ruined my mother’s Oriental rugs, the carpets that had been the throughline in my life from childhood into my 50s. The fact that The Grifter had been a family friend, someone my parents had taken under their wing, made his disrespect for my mother’s prized possessions seem like the most heinous betrayal.
Her beloved Heriz, featured in the photo above, was maybe 9x12. Or it could have been 12x15, I don’t remember, and I’m not good with dimensions. But it was grand, plush as velvet, boasting deep reds, blues and golds. She bought it from a local rug dealer and showed me how the off-kilter medallion in the middle proved it was hand-made, not machine-made, God forbid. When she referred to the rug she called it The Heriz, in a dropped, reverent tone, as if she were speaking of her Faberge Egg.
I remember Sunday afternoons in front of our living room fireplace when I was a teen, lying on my stomach on top of that rug as I read The New York Times Magazine. One birthday, I think it was my tenth, my mother surprised me by placing gifts in different spots on The Heriz, and having me search for them, treasure-hunt style.
I took possession of that rug in my first post-college apartment, and it accompanied me through various marriages and homes, always the centerpiece of any room. My mother gave me two other Oriental rugs, but that one, The Heriz, was the crown jewel.
Tossing it into the dumpster six years ago crushed me. But at the time I couldn’t afford to clean and repair it because all my spare cash went to paying off the staggering Amex bill that The Grifter had stuck me with.
Downsizing after my second divorce, and then post-Grifter, I was forced to divest myself of other rugs as well. By the time I moved into my Asheville condo in June, I had exactly zero rugs to cover 1300 square feet of hardwood flooring.
I spent weeks this fall looking at rugs online, but found the process overwhelming. Nothing I saw that I could afford came close to the grandeur of The Heriz. But the truth was, I didn’t want to replace it. How could I replace it? In some way, it felt like replacing my mother. Maybe I should just stick the rug money in my IRA and live carpet-less.
But then last weekend The Boyfriend and I went rug-shopping. We stopped at Togar Rugs, the best rug store in town that also sells Orientals, because they were having a 20% off sale. I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to afford anything even with the sale. And then the salesman showed me a slightly worn vintage Turkish rug — hand-made, not machine-made, God forbid — with rust and teal stitching that miraculously echoed all the hues in my living room.
And you know what? With the discount, it was almost exactly what I’d budgeted for a new rug!
So now it’s mine.
My new rug!
When I walk into the living room and see that rug, I feel my spirit soar. It’s the same exuberant feeling I got whenever I looked at The Heriz, so I may start referring to it as The Vintage Turkish. When I gaze at this rug, I’m not reminded of lost years and ill-advised relationships, or of letting my mother down. I just see the lush new life I created.
I know Mom would be proud.
Fantastic!! And I’m thankful for Thursday mornings when I get to read your Substack!
Lovely and inviting space, you have created. Your artwork above the mantle has such a happy vibe, and I've never seen a coffee table like that. Enjoy your space!