What’s a rocking chair? ~ April 4, 1985

David Heiller

 What’s a rocking chair? On the one hand, it’s an object usually made of wood and screws and glue, with some polish and varnish to make it look nice. On the other, it’s one of those special things that is worth much more than its material value, and means much more.

David and Lynette with Grandma in the rocking chair.

We have a rocking chair in our son’s bedroom. It’s wood, with a leather seat that conforms to its rocker. At night, when we put son to bed, he gets the rocking treatment. As we move back and forth, he tells me about his day in 21-month-old language. “Matthew, guy boy, dee, now, house,” he says, meaning he had fun playing with his friend Matthew, who has a father and some brothers, and lots of cars, and a cat, all in a big house.

When he’s done talking, he takes his bottle and listens while Mom or Dad sing to the rhythm of the rocking chair. After a few minutes, he is in bed, relaxed, content, ready for sleep. His parents are smiling too.

The rocking chair in Noah’s room was passed down from my grandmother three years ago. It got plenty of use with her and me and my seven brothers and sisters when we were kids. We would sit on her lap, sometimes two at a time, tattered Mother Goose that was missing its first and last 30 pages. I’m guessing Grandma didn’t even need the book.

One of my favorite family pictures is this one, taken of me, my sister Lynette, and Grandma some 28 years ago. I don’t remember when it was taken, but it shows something money can’t buy, and perhaps words can’t express— love.

More passed from Grandmother to Grandkids than singing and stories while we rocked together. Patience passed through, and the soft touch of someone that listens to you and spends time with you. A feeling of confidence, and comfort, and maybe even common sense. Immeasurable things for kids that are normally racing life in overdrive, running, playing, seldom stopping. We had enough sense to stop, when Grandma and the rocking chair beckoned.

The photo has sadness, too, a kind that should be remembered. Lynette drowned when she was 17 years old. She’d had cerebral palsy, and no one except my mother loved or cared for her more than Grandma. This picture reminds me of that love, and that even though the person is gone, the memory and affection remain.

Not too long from now, my other knee will be occupied in the rocking chair. And like the photo, the circle will be unbroken.