Taming the Wild Tansu (or Kaidan-dansu)

I'd been eyeing the picture in the catalog for years. It depicted a piece of furniture that was attractive, multi-functional, and unique. I'd even researched the tansu. The tansu step-chest (kaidan-dansu) was used in Japanese households as a storage cabinet and as a stairway to another level. The Japanese were taxed according to the size of their home. Forewarned of the coming of the taxman, a homeowner would re-assemble the stairway into a mild-mannered cabinet and, thus, disguise the fact that there was more to the home than met the eye. The tansu step-chest wasn't just a piece of furniture; it was a form of subterfuge.

So, finally, I caved. I was not scared by the Assembly Required. I am a veteran of the furniture assembly wars. I'd assembled most of the furniture I own and everything's all still together. I'd downloaded the instructions from the catalog website. It didn't look too daunting. How hard could it be?

The tansu arrived in two huge heavy boxes. One came up to my shoulders. One was chest-high. I wrestled them into what we townhouse owners laughingly call a foyer. I regarded them with awe and trepidation for the better part of two weeks. Monday, I squared my shoulders and took the assembly plunge.

What is there about catalog copywriters, instruction makers, and packers of boxes that conspires against the end-users? Odds are that the purchasers of the tansu are going to be using it as a way to deal with living in a small space-- much like its original use in Japanese homes. Why then, were the pieces scattered among the two boxes instead of with the levels together? Why then was the description in the catalog different from the instructions and the piece of furniture (not five drawers but, instead, three drawers and two cabinets masquerading as drawers)? Why then, were the instructions so illogical? You build from the ground up, right? This is a heavy piece of furniture as demonstrated by the heft of the shipping boxes. You need to put the base level where you want the furniture to go- preferably with sliders underneath it in case it needs to be moved. Why then, would the instructions start with the top level? Do they think we have room to safely place all the finished parts until it's time for the final assembly?

I shuffled through the instructions looking for a reason why it was in this order. Since it was a print-out, it was easy to put it in the order I needed. When I was skimming the instructions I found the words: Two people may be needed for assembly. Oh, great! Now they tell me. It takes a village to build a tansu? We'll see about that. Five-six hours, some swearing, and a sore back, hands, and legs later, I was almost finished. I'd coped with there just being one of me to put it together. All I have left to do is put on the backing and fasten the levels together. This is something that goes against the original purpose of the tansu- but it's not big enough to reach the next floor and, besides, the taxman already knows the size of my place.

Early in the process, my cats -uncharacteristically but correctly- surveyed the situation, opted for self-preservation, and found a place to go until the danger has passed. Against my predictions, they have avoided the tansu- so far. I fully expect to come home to find them playing a game of "King of the Mountain". Or find that one of them has discovered the sliding panels and climbed inside. Yes, I'd considered all that before I bought the thing.

Lessons learned?

• You forget the frustrations of furniture assembly over time. This loss of memory keeps the manufacturers of pre-fab furniture in business.
• There is a reason those little camlocks have arrows on them- even though the instructions don't bother to point that out.
• Nor do the instructions tell you what you were supposed to have done with that tiny bottle of glue.
• Following the instructions when they don't make sense isn't always a bad thing.
• Cats don't always react the way you predict they will. It's part of their job description.
• Sometimes, what the product description gets wrong turns out to be just fine. I like those two doors disguised as drawers. They give the piece a sort of tromp l'oeil feel by deceiving the eye.
• Asking yourself "How bad/hard could it be?" is never a good sign. The Fates have their time-honored way of answering that question.
• Though... sometimes that answer isn't too awful.

(Update: This past Monday-I put the back pieces on the tansu, bolted the parts together, and slid the tansu into place.  The instructions were sorta fuzzy, so it took two hours. Not "the easy part" I expected it to be.)