by Carolyn Abell
I’ve always loved rocking chairs. From as early as I can remember, there was something especially comforting about nestling down in one, swaying to and fro, just enjoying the rhythmic movement. I especially loved the ones that sat on my grandparents’ big front porch. Their weathered wood had sustained several generations of rocking – wearing shallow gullies into the old wooden floor where they rested. As far as I was concerned, they were much more desirable than the grandest throne of the richest king.
Years later, as a married woman expecting my first baby, I informed my husband that we had to have a rocking chair. You can’t possibly raise a baby without a rocking chair, I explained to him. So off we went to a local furniture store to make a selection. The wooden rocker we chose became an essential part of the nursery in our home. In the interest of comfort, I did yield to padding it with red corduroy cushions.
When my first son, David was born, I would lovingly rock him in that rocking chair. Sometimes it was just a few minutes, and other times we might rock for an hour—savoring the sweet bonding that occurred while we contentedly rocked back and forth.
Two years later when Sam was born, the rocking chair continued to play an important role. Sam was my insomniac child—often waking for long periods during the night. I held him and rocked him for an hour or more in the wee hours between midnight and getting-up time, singing to him or sleepily watching some late-night movie on television.
We also had a dog – a rather high-strung female vizsla named Sophie, who loved to chew things. One day I discovered that Sophie had gnawed the front part of the left rocker leg; a pile of splinters and wood chips on the carpet served as incriminating evidence. I was extremely irritated—but not enough to get rid of the chair. Though scarred and marred, it got packed up with everything else and shipped to Germany, as the Army decided that’s where they needed me next. The chewed-up rocking chair took its place in the living room of our apartment in Heidelberg, where I continued to rock Sam. David had learned to rock himself by then, and often climbed up into the rocking chair to happily pass some time.
Since then the rocking chair has made many moves, as we lived a couple of years in England, then back to various towns in Germany. In 1997, when I retired, the rocking chair was shipped with everything else to my home in Florida. Although the boys were grown and no longer living at home, I couldn’t seem to part with that chair and the sweet memories it held.
When Miss Kitty adopted me, she took over the rocking chair. Sometimes she would curl up and sleep on the seat; other times she perched herself up on the top of the back cushion, so she could make the chair move back and forth. Now that she is almost 14 years old, she still naps on the cushion, although now it’s a dark blue one. The original red set finally wore out and had to be replaced several years ago.
I’ll be facing another move shortly, as my new husband and I combine households. Both of us have to give up some things so that we can fit into the home we’ve chosen. At first I was going to surrender the rocking chair; it’s 34 years old, with a chewed up foot, and not as sturdy as it used to be. But the more I reflected on all those memories of babies and kittens and even that confounded dog, the more I realized I can’t part with it. Even if we have to stick it in the attic, my rocking chair goes with me.
Copyright 2011 by Carolyn Abell
