The faded black Boston rocking chair has been in our family for more than five decades. Comfortably situated in a place of honor near the fireplace in our Edgartown home, it holds cherished memories accumulated through the years. And when the need arises to meditate, relax, or reminisce, there is no better place to be seated than in that rocker.
It was a cold January day in 1985 when we signed the papers that said the house in Edgartown was ours. As my husband, Ray, and I roamed from room to empty room, there was a lonely feeling, and we wondered if we had made the right decision. But when the moving truck arrived with our furniture a few days later, the house began to take on a personality. A desk here, a couch there, and as soon as the old Boston rocker assumed its place in the living room, the house became a home.
Recently I had the idea of painting the rocker. I thought that after all these years, it needed some attention. “Paint the rocker?” Our oldest daughter, Diane, was aghast. “How can you even think it?”
Granted, it’s still sturdy, helped by a few repairs, but it clearly shows its age. The gently curved arms are worn to a satiny smooth surface, the black paint fading into the wood. Gold stenciling on the backrest has nearly disappeared, with only a few ghostly shadows hinting at its once-brilliant luster. There’s a familiar little “knock” that happens when you reach a certain point in rocking. It’s always there, and has become a comfortable part of the chair’s rhythm through the years. To our children, the rocker is an icon of their family life.
“Mom, please think about it,” my daughter continued. “Painting would change the whole character of the chair. It’s been that way since I was born, and I love it.”
After Diane headed back to her home in Oak Bluffs, I sat down and took a good look at the rocker. The memories started to flow. Ray and I were married in February of 1954, and six days later he left for a year-long tour of duty in Japan during the Korean War. The rocker was the first piece of furniture I bought for our new apartment before Ray returned home. It was beautiful then, jet black decorated with gold stenciling, and had a feeling of quiet dignity. It held a place of honor in the apartment, and I would often sit there and dream: What would our life be like when he returned, and how many future children would we rock in that very chair?
Later, when I carried our first child, the nights were sometimes long and sleepless, and the chair gave me comfort. After Diane was born, my favorite times were in the stillness of the night, rocking with her held close in my arms, her soft head and fuzzy hair tickling my chin, the air filled with the scent of baby powder. Such peaceful memories are precious beyond words.
Thousands of bedtime stories were read to our four daughters and one son, and how they loved those quiet times together. One afternoon became a special memory, snuggling with my youngest daughter as we listened to my favorite opera, Madame Butterfly. She herself is a mother now, and when she hears that music it fills her with the warm memory of that time together.
The years passed, our children married, and grandchildren came along. Their families come to celebrate Christmas on the Island, and the rocker has served us well – all nine grandchildren were rocked and soothed there at one time or another. When my aging parents came for a week’s stay, they too enjoyed the comfort of the family rocking chair.
After my trip down memory lane, I decided not to paint the rocker after all. I scrubbed it down really well, and observed that its vintage look is right in fashion – and its memories intact. Now the old Boston rocker sits in its familiar spot by our Island hearth, where I hope someday to rock my great-grandchildren.
