Rocking chairs hold special memories for me. As a child, I frequently visited my grandmother in Tennessee. What I remember most is her porch with the rocking chairs placed on it. The chairs were not made of fine wood; nor were they polished to a sheen. Instead, they were roughly painted with a few splinters for the unwary. Despite their humbleness or perhaps because of it, they invited visitors to stop in and stay a piece. (In the South, the phrase "a piece" could mean anything from fifteen minutes to hours.)
As a young mother, I nursed my babies in an old vinyl upholstered rocking chair. I spent many hours there, nuzzling these sweet children, murmuring soft nonsense to them. The chair saw us through four babies, withstood vomit and other bodily fluids, and sometimes became my bed as I fell asleep with a baby cuddled close to my heart.
When our oldest daughter turned three, her grandmother gave her a tiny rocking chair. It was then her turn to "nurse" her babies, holding them and talking soft nonsense to them. (Where had she picked that up?)
As I look back now, I realize it wasn't the chairs themselves that held such tender memories for me but the feelings of love and care they represented.
So, for today, I am grateful for rocking chairs.