THOMASVILLE, N.C. — Like last summer, and probably the one before it, the city over-watered the flowers.

It's a habit here, drowning pink petunias until they yellow and die. With all the rain dumping down throughout the summer, the city would be wise to go easy on the sprinklers. But it's never that simple. So, as always, on one humid July day, Todd Sechrist and his crew went out to replant the flowers. It's an important job, given its location, and he dripped sweat while tending the soil.

Mr. Sechrist is out here regularly, prettying the landscape that surrounds the city's giant chair. It's a 30-foot Duncan Phyfe, an epic piece of squat furniture that punctuates the city's downtown like an exclamation point. It's the centerpiece, Mr. Sechrist says. The cherry on top. But thinking about it makes him sad. Angry, even.

The chair was put up in 1950 to honor the city's once-burgeoning furniture industry, but many of those companies have since collapsed. Now it reminds him of decades of layoffs. His friends have lost jobs. He's seen people move out. Four factories near his house closed, and a fifth is teetering.

He feels lucky that he chose a service industry — landscaping, something always needed in the South — but he worries for his children. His 10-year-old recently said he'd like to be a chef, and Mr. Sechrist liked that. Everyone has to eat.

Despite the worries and fear, and the years of seeing his hometown struggle under a post-industrial weight, he doesn't take it out on the chair. It may have once just been about furniture, but now it's something more, Mr. Sechrist said. It's the town's identity. It's his identity.

"What would we have if we didn't have it?" he said, as he yanked a weed out of the ground.

He doesn't answer himself.

More than 600 miles north, a city called Gardner, Mass., wonders that as well. It's similar to Thomasville in so many ways: Both are in the center of their states, with populations of about 20,000 people who live among empty, worn-down factory buildings. Both are populated by descendents of those who came looking for jobs in the furniture industry, back when the cities were bustling, and both have seen crime and the drug culture rise as the industry wheezed and shrank.

Both even have diners that were featured in Hollywood films: The Blue Moon in Gardner was in the 1992 drama "School Ties," and Thomasville's T-ville Diner showed up in the 1995 thriller "Above Suspicion." Both have courthouses and visitors centers, although Gardner's is no longer open full time.

And to cap their reputations, both former furniture strongholds have giant chairs. Huge, hulking chairs that went up with great fanfare. Chairs that seem out of context now, an echo of the throne each city once sat upon. Thomasville's is 30 feet tall, Gardner's is 20. Both cities once believed they held the honor of the world's largest. Both still call themselves "The Chair City."

Now, though, as everything has changed, residents of both cities ponder the same thing Mr. Sechrist does. What would their cities be without this chair, this object that no longer means what it once did?

And both, it seems, have the same answer.

* * *

The United States is the living room of giants.

Scattered throughout the country, from New York to Colorado, enormous chairs are perched on top of buildings and in the middle of fields. They are goofy, otherworldly structures, plopped down without irony as if left behind by ancestors 20 times our size.

Many were erected as marketing gimmicks, such as the 26-foot-tall rocking chair in Lipan, Texas, which sits next to the Texas Hill Country Furniture and Mercantile. In Anniston, Ala., Miller's Office Furniture put up a 33-foot office chair. They draw camera-happy tourists and are collected in books about kitschy roadside attractions. Locals give directions with lines like "take a right at the giant chair," because they are impossible to miss.

But the chairs in Gardner and Thomasville have settled in a notably deeper way. They were built in homage to the furniture industry that supported these cities, as a symbol of triumph and ingenuity. And because everyone was somehow connected to the industry, the chairs were shared trophies, a compliment to the masses.

"The greatest chair town in the world now possesses the largest known chair in the world," proclaimed the Sept. 11, 1905, edition of The Gardner News, a few days after the debut of its first big chair, a 12-footer. It was introduced to Gardner during a Labor Day parade nearly 100 years ago.

Thomasville's first one came slightly later, in 1922. But that mirrored the start of the cities' industries, with Gardner getting a head start. Chairs were being sold there in 1805, but Thomasville's first chair factory didn't open until 1897.

The chairs attracted plenty of attention. Both cities occasionally tore them down and built larger ones, perhaps even competing for distinction. Red Sox legend Ted Williams sat on Gardner's in 1946, and Lyndon B. Johnson, then a vice presidential candidate, made a campaign stop atop Thomasville's in 1960.

They were big objects modeled after small ones, set in small cities growing like big ones. Both places became branded, known internationally for their furniture-making prowess. People flocked to their factories, some to buy and others to work. Downtowns bustled with the luxury of hipness.

And then it all came crashing down.

"People are still asking me today, 'Why was this place called Chair City?'" said Leonard R. Curcio, who has run Chair City Wayside Furniture in Gardner since 1948. "That's how far down we've gone. I have to tell them there were 155 factories in this area, and one by one they bit the dust."

The Great Depression dealt the first serious blow to Gardner's lifeblood. It survived well into the late 1970s and early 1980s, but then cheap labor in the Southern states and consumers' changing furniture tastes began making an impact. By last count, fewer than 10 furniture and related product manufacturers were left in Gardner, according to the Massachusetts Department of Workforce Development. Those companies employed 345 workers.

Thomasville may have profited from Gardner's fall, hitting its stride in the 1970s. But international competition is now hurting it significantly, and the city's wounds are very much open. Layoffs still come in waves, and its most notable company — Thomasville Furniture Industries, with stores across the country and a distributor in Gardner — eliminated 588 jobs this summer.

It's a common story for the American furniture industry, according to Jaclyn Hirschhaut, vice president of the trade group American Home Furnishings Alliance. International factories have produced parts for years. But when those companies began shipping finished products a decade ago, American companies had a hard time competing, she said.

That hasn't been lost on residents of the two cities, who are quick to export their blame. In fact, many conversations about the giant chairs take a familiar path: Longtime residents begin by describing days of boundless prosperity, then lecture at length about the harsh realities of international trade. Reminiscing is intrinsically linked to politics.

Eventually, they come back to the giant chair.

"When you're called 'the chair city of the world,' they're going to talk about that until they die," said Pat Sendrowski, who has lived in Gardner 44 years.

* * *

Every morning about 8, a group of men gather at the Gardner Senior Center to shoot pool. Many are longtime residents of Gardner, hard workers from hard times, and some once spent their first waking hours polishing or assembling in the local factories.

On a hot July morning, one of them, Gerard E. Jaillet, had just missed a shot at the pool table. Then he turned around to see that a friend had taken his seat.

"You know what that chair means?" Mr. Jaillet said with a laugh, pointing to the plain folding chair that his friend stood up to relinquish. "It means a lot more than what you're looking at."

He was joking, of course. The senior center is filled with identical folding chairs, none worth more than the next. But Mr. Jaillet knows the value of a chair. He once worked in the city's furniture factories — and although the city has changed a lot since then, but he said he knows its soul is intact. The big chair is still there.

"It's a nice thing to see still in town," he said. "At least they haven't lost the concept of the chair. Sometimes, people forget."

As much as it's possible for gigantic pieces of furniture to seem natural, these chairs do. Some residents of both cities said they've never thought to take pictures of themselves in front of it. Some don't even notice it when driving by. The chairs are a mailbox, a tree, a neighbor. They're just there.

In the last decade, though, both cities have renewed their appreciation. Gardner's became structurally unsound and was condemned by the city in 1995 and 1998 — both times, the chair was restored to its full glory. In Thomasville, the city declared the chair its first official local historic landmark in 2000.

But those were done by longtime residents, for whom the past is worth protecting. They fear the younger generation is different, knowing only the industry's craterous footprint. The chair, to them, may be just a chair.

"I question if the younger generation are going to have any ties to the big chair," said Thomasville podiatrist Robert L. Sprinkle. "When the furniture industry is gone, what does that chair represent? The furniture industry that used to be here?"

Maybe.

Whatever it represents, 7-year-old Connor Morrill was plenty interested. He wanted to get to the top of Gardner's chair — a place his mother, Jane (Cormier) Morrill, used to sit as a kid. A place his grandparents sat, too. He's passed by it often, during annual family trips to Gardner, but the first time he ever got up close was a earlier this summer.

Jane Morrill grew up in Gardner and now lives in San Diego. She hung out at the chair and wanted her children to share the fun, and Connor took that as a challenge. It had been a few minutes, and he was peeved and determined, having already failed a few times to reach the chair's seat.

Many children have come before him; many will come after. Unlike Thomasville's chair, which is in the middle of downtown, Gardner's in the perfect spot for this: in front of an elementary school, Helen Mae Sauter School, a place swarming with tiny people who consider everything a jungle gym.

"I want to see you climb on it," Connor said to his mother.

"I used to climb on it," she said.

"So why don't you do it now?"

Youthful persistence is good for some things, but getting parents to climb giant chairs may not be one of them. So Connor turned back to the tasks at hand, grappling with its maroon frame, hugging its legs tightly and finally, emphatically, slithering his way up to the top.

"Mom!" he yelled.

Jane was distracted.

"Mom! Mom! Mom!"

She finally looked up, and scampered off to get a picture.

That's the advantage children of chair cities have over their parents. Their memories will only be fond, of climbing and mischief and showing off to friends. With so few factories left, the strange upshot is this: There are few jobs to lose.

And sure, the older generations may see the chairs and think of hard times, but nobody seems to begrudge it much. The chair seems almost frozen in time, unable to wilt. Thomasville Assistant City Manager Kelly Craver said he's spoken to plenty of people who have lost their jobs, but none sees the chair and feels sorrow.

"That's the kind of chair that to me speaks of hospitality, the warmth of a meal, the sharing with friends and family," said Maxyne D. Schneider, executive director of the nonprofit House of Peace & Education in Gardner. "It's not that I stop to think of all those things every time I look at the big chair, but I know when I look, there's such a warm, good feeling about it."

But then there are people like Jake Johnson.

He once had a home and a wife in Thomasville, but those disappeared along with his factory job years ago. Now he lives in a motel for $120 a week, and spends his days going door-to-door asking to mow people's lawns. Some days, he gives up and panhandles instead.

He wishes the factories would come back, but he knows they won't. The way he sees it, Thomasville is empty. No opportunity, no hope, nowhere to feel at home. And the chair?

"I ain't never thought nothing of it," he said. "Except it's there."

* * *

Mark Scott had a burst of inspiration, and it went like this: "From where we sit ... you can see it all!"

It's a phrase he's used like a corporate slogan, a marketing campaign to sell the city. He likes it because it evokes the furniture industry but focuses elsewhere, on the nearby NASCAR events and cities like Winston-Salem and Charlotte. People do come to shop at the nearby furniture outlets, but he wants to offer a more complete package.

As the city's first full-time tourism director — an investment Thomasville made in 2000, in a creative attempt at revitalization — Mr. Scott works with what he has.

"We've got the big chair, we've got a lot of things, but we'd be kidding ourselves if we thought we were the destination for a lot of drivers," he said.

The approach may seem odd, and almost insulting. The city is essentially marketing itself based on what it specifically does not contain — what's around it instead of inside it. But it's worked before: Kissimmee, Fla. is a prime example, thriving because it's close to Orlando and Tampa.

Gardner has tried similar approaches, although perhaps not as formally. It has promoted itself as part of the region's historical significance, with the Mohawk Trail and Johnny Appleseed as the better-known themes. But none of that made a lasting impression, according to Michael F. Ellis, president of the Greater Gardner Chamber of Commerce.

A few years ago, though, the city realized one of its images had survived unscathed. Local hotels were booked on the weekends because people were driving from nearby states to buy furniture, he said. They remembered the Chair City.

"That image has stuck. People still see it, still consider Gardner to be a community that's rich in the heritage and tradition in furniture," Mr. Ellis said.

While furniture can draw people to the cities, it's not enough to sustain the locals. So, both Thomasville and Gardner have diversified: Heywood Hospital and Mount Wachusett Community College are major employers in Gardner, and Thomasville has attracted other industries and hopes to build up its tourism. They'll no longer be tied to the fate of one industry.

The transition is slow, but it creates opportunities that may not have been available during the big furniture boom. Empty storefronts, after all, mean cheap rent.

And in Thomasville, cheap rent was a blessing for Jewel D. Leonard. Her family wanted to open a coffee shop in Winston-Salem but could not afford the $15,000-a-month rent. The price was right in Thomasville, though, and she got all the tables and chairs she needed from a nearby restaurant that went out of business. Someone's loss, someone's gain.

Mrs. Leonard knows the city isn't booming, and she knows some people might think she's crazy for opening a new business there. But she's undeterred. People will like a new coffee shop, she said. It will be a meeting place. A community center. The place to be.

"I don't think we're going to be millionaires by any means," she said. "We're going to make a living."

There's still a little more work to be done, to make everything just right. But opening day will soon come, and Mrs. Leonard hopes it makes a great impression. She hopes people will come and go home happy, that they'll say, "See you tomorrow."

When closing time comes on that first night, she'll turn off the lights and walk out the front door. And there, half a block to her right, the giant chair will be looming. Quietly keeping watch, like it did decades before. Big as ever.