Rocking chairs. A constant fixture in the home. They are full of character, scratches, marks, scuffs, and smudges. Some creak, some slide, some make no noise at all. But, oh, the stores they keep.
I remember my parents buying a dark brown finished rocker when I was just a small child. I loved it. I remember climbing all over it like a monkey. We didn’t have that shiny new rocking chair very long when I scratched it with my little dress shoe. A big noticeable scratch … right through the shiny dark chocolate finish. Oops. Of course, I lied to my mom when she asked me about it. I know my cheeks probably turned hot and I recall being sick about it. I hated that scratch. I hated it because I lied, I hated it because it was so obvious. I knew the truth. The rocking chair knew it, too. That scratch stared at me for a very, very long time.
That chair still sits in my parents home. It has heard many a fight, listened to my dad’s belly laughing, and probably has heard a secret or two. It has seated children, teenagers, adults, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. I’d imagine that it has hosted hundreds of bottoms … thousands of times. It has watched me grow up, and it has experienced some very special people in my life move on. My Nan sat in that chair. It knew her. My grandfather sat in that chair… what a treasure for such a solid wood chair to carry much valued history. That rocking chair has celebrated birthdays, baby showers, wedding showers, receptions, Christmas and holiday celebrations. It has held us when we cried during funeral dinners.
My mom bought me my own oak rocking chair for my birthday and first Mother’s Day (I was born on my Mom’s first Mother’s Day). My belly was swelling and stretching as my oldest swiftly ran out of room. That oak rocker was my friend, gave me a hard … wide … seat that I could easily get up and down from. My rocker has celebrated over eleven years with this family. It has heard some horrid fights, rocked three newborns … caught a few tears … it has even hosted the bottoms of a few loved ones who have passed on. It is a permanent fixture in my home. My solid oak rocker is part of the family ... because of the stories it keeps.
That white scratch on my mom’s rocking chair is still there. I look at it every time I sit in it. It blends in now with hundreds of other scratches … the finish is worn and fading. It has lulled babies and grand babies alike to sleep as it rocked back and forth. And though that dark brown rocking chair is getting old and tattered … it is a strong, solid reminder of the very precious time we spend with those we love.
