Tuesday, February 11, 2014

The Rocking Chair

Humans are preoccupied with inanimate objects. Our homes are filled with special shirts from years past, books from our childhood, stuffed bears tucked away in tubs, and art pieces from a family home not quite in sync with our own personal taste, but important somehow.  These objects, knick-knacks and such make up our identity, they bring us comfort, they remind us of our past and we often attach a personality to them whether it’s the sweet stuffed kitty we got at Terra Toys or a coffee mug from a favorite vacation spot.  Just the other day I relinquished a favored mop to Goodwill. My husband whimpered a little, knowing it was a hard decision for me.  I love my housecleaning tools and I’m particularly attached to those from my dream team of functionality.  We have favorite possessions that bring us luck.  I always wear my Grandmother Oma’s bracelet when I go out for the evening in hopes that it will call her spirit to watch over me and keep me out of harm’s way. It has worked 49 years.  My husband, Joel, will never toss his green hoodie, ratty and old now. It reminds us both of a time when things were simple, less responsibilities, more drugs, sex, rock and roll and bike rides.

My son, Jake, born into this world with multitudes of objects, enough to fill a room, but arriving with nothing but simple needs and a driving force to get at mama’s milk, has chosen a very large piece of furniture as his most special object. It all started in the early morning hours of the day he was born, my baby daddy, Joel, had settled into an exceptionally comfortable glider rocking chair in our hospital room and realized that it was a definite must for our parenting journey.  His parents, eager to give us a gift after the birth of their grandson, found one just like it and had it waiting for us at home.

Jake’s life started in that rocker. I would hold him close, on-demand breast-feeding, watching tv, reading or staring out the window at the snow covered ground. Ten months later, we packed that rocker into a moving truck and took it with us to Vail.  Lonely nights as a chef’s wife were spent rocking Jake to sleep grateful for his company, his fingers clasping mine, nuzzling close. Later, when I found a job as a restaurant manager, we would alternate working nights.  I would come home to Jake and Joel settled into the rocker with beer and milk bottle in hands.  That rocker helped us through two severe cases of bronchitis, hospital stays and an oxygen tank attached to Jake for weeks at a time. The Vail Valley is a tough ride for a Texas baby.

Three years later, we once again loaded it up for the inevitable move back to Austin.  Jake was getting bigger but I could still pick him up, legs wrapped around me, and rock him through a bad dream, a scratched knee or a bruised ego.

Finally, we settled into our forever home and the trusted rocker, now scuffed and rickety, pillow frayed and stained, made it’s way front and center in the living room.  By now it was quite the eye-sore but still comfy, kids loved rocking and twirling in it. I had resorted to tossing a series of sunny sheets and red velvet fabrics over it, cursing my inability to upholster.  We had reached the point where quarterly conversations popped up about whether to keep it.  Each time we asked Jake’s opinion, was it time to let it go? Jake’s response was always  “no, I like having it around, it makes me feel safe and comfy.”  It was nice, I did like sitting in it and rocking, it brought back memories. But, our living room needed space.

We came up with a compromise.  We bought another rocker and moved it with the old one to the porch. We tossed the old cushions and found a fun splashy outdoor one. In essence, breathing new life into the rocker and giving it a buddy.  A perfect arrangement for relaxation on the back porch, coffee in the mornings watching the dog’s run and play, and evenings rocking around the chiminea.

Last year we obtained a fourth dog, a puppy, much to my husband’s dismay but that’s another story.  As I opened the patio door, the pup took two steps and leapt into the rocker. It was his safe place in the dark and he became stealth at making the leap, never touching the ground.  He has, over time, tarnished the colorful cushions with his muddy paws and gnawed at the armrests. The other dogs have found it to be a good place to sit and watch the squirrels.  We bought yet another rocker for the porch so it’s a trio. For now, the original rocker still works, a little more creaky, still twirls, a little more stiffly and still creates and spills out memories.  A splash of paint could breath new life into it and maybe a new cushion. It’s still here, it’s not going anywhere, this rocker has life and purpose and a personality.  It’s home.