I like antiques, especially those that have been passed down through the generations of my family.
I have a few that I am pretty fond of, but my favorite is my mom's old rocking chair. It's not worth anything monetarily, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. It is an upholstered chair and the only wooden parts are the base, the rockers and the front parts of the arms. To my knowledge, these have never been refinished, although the chair itself has worn several different coats of upholstery in its lifetime.
It has rocked many, many miles. I believe it was used when Mom bought it, and this is the chair she rocked me in when I was a baby. As a child, I remember it being covered in sort of an ugly brown fabric, but I didn't care what it looked like. When Mom or Grandma rocked me in that chair, all my worries and tears disappeared. And I spent many hours rocking myself, too. The seat was soft and it sort of felt like the whole chair was wrapping itself around you, but maybe that was just a child's imagination. I would sit in that chair with a color book and crayons or a handful of Little Golden books and my imagination would soar. I would curl up there with a pillow and blanket when I was sick, and it was also the perfect place to eat a bowl of ice cream.
At one point, Mom took it to the upholsterer and had the old brown fabric replaced with naugahyde. In other words, plastic. It was textured and a dull red color and strictly out of the '60s. And this change in covering added a squeak when it rocked. But I didn't mind, as it was sort of rhythmic and comforting.
If you rocked hard, the front legs would come off the ground just a bit, making a soft thumping sound. This also added to the "rhythm of the rock." Then, when I had my babies, Mom and I also rocked them in this chair. My children did not like to sleep and fought it with every breath in their bodies, so I spent many hours rocking fast and furious in that old chair -- we visited my folks a lot back then. That "squeak, thump" rhythm usually was just the right combination to send them off to the Land of Nod, at least for 30 minutes or so.
Not too long before she passed away, Mom had the old red naugahyde removed and replaced with a silvery-blue fabric -- '80s era deco this time. The chair stayed in my dad's house until he passed away and, as we were performing the sad task of clearing out the house, no one really wanted the old chair. After all, it would need to be re-upholstered sometime soon and that can be expensive. My children were past the rocking stage now and I thought grandchildren were far in my future, so I didn't really need it but agreed to take it anyway. I just could not consign it to the trash heap. That was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
Now, I don't believe in ghosts. I believe that we all have a spirit and, when we die, our spirit returns to God to await judgment. And I firmly believe that my mother's spirit is in paradise. That being said, not long after taking it home with me, the old rocking chair began to throw over backward people who had been mouthy or hateful in some way. Well, I knew it was a bit over balanced but in all my days of rocking as hard as I could, I had never tipped it over backward. The first couple of times the chair went over, I thought nothing of it. But then, as it continued to happen, I started to pay attention. One day, my middle son, about 13 or 14 years old, made a smart comment to me, plopped his mouthy self down in the chair and over he went.
I looked down at him and said something to the effect, "Your Grandma Ruthie is not happy with you right now."
His eyes got as big as silver dollars and all of the "smart" drained right out of him. I thought I may be on to something here. Then a son-in-law was a bit mean to my daughter and, "whamo," over he went. If nothing else, getting tipped over backward was enough of a humbling experience that your anger was dissipated. It's hard to be haughty lying on your back and looking up, especially if everyone is laughing at you! These "dumpings" went on for a time, and it was always one of the male members of my family who was the victim. I will make no assumptions from that statement, I just wanted to throw it out there.
Well, before I could blink twice, it seems, I was rocking grandchildren in that old chair. They seemed to come in a steady stream, one about every three years. Five generations of my family had now rocked or been rocked in that chair. The dumpings had ceased and all the old chair did now was rock. Oh, and it also retained the squeak from the old naugahyde covering. I think there must have been a piece or two that remained behind during the last re-upholstery job that continued to rub together to create that unique sound.
Two years ago, for the first time in my life, I got to buy brand new living room furniture. Included in the package were a plump glider rocker and a love seat with gliders at both ends. Wow, I thought, I have three rockers now, I probably won't use Mom's old chair much anymore.
But the new rocker, although comfortable when reclined and great for just easy little rocks, is not a baby rocker. When you rock hard, the front hits the floor and you sort of get an abbreviated rock. The love seat is not much better because the center is stationary, so it just doesn't do the trick.
The two youngest grands are both under 4 years old and, when I rock them, I always choose Mom's old chair. It still wraps its comfort around me just as it did when I was little, and I believe that the babies feel it too.
Its rock has never failed to soothe a crying child. And, while I will never know for sure if some remnant of my mother's spirit inhabited that old chair for a time, I choose to believe it did. Someday, I will get the chair re-upholstered; but my house is not fancy and, for now, it does not seem out of place. It is still solid and sound, and I hope it will be rocking babies long after I have gone to meet my Maker. In fact, when that time comes, I may decide to hang around that old chair for a while, just to keep everyone on their toes!
Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at tamela.weeks@ gmail.com. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 04/02/2014