A STORY WORTH TELLING
“Uninvited, he sat down and opened up his mind, On old dogs and children, and watermelon wine.”
— song lyrics by Tom T. Hall
Each of those finer things in life celebrated by the American singersongwriter nicknamed “The Storyteller” admittedly possesses soothing powers. But my most trusted tool for slowing the pace of life was, for many years, something different.
My grandfather’s rocking chair. I never learned where the piece of furniture, relegated to the front porch before I was born, came from. The chair’s origin was one of many things I wished I’d quizzed my grandmother about. I had a list of questions for her, but many remained forever unanswered that October day in 1993 when she closed her eyes for the last time.
The plain wooden rocker with arms and a homemade red oil-cloth seat cushion stayed on their front porch along with the high-back cane rocker Granny called hers for at least 40 years.
It was like something magical about the chairs beckoned my grandparents to the front porch every evening after supper.
When President John Kennedy occupied the White House, he touted the value of rocking chairs as therapeutic for back problems. But for my grandparents, I think it was more than that.
My father’s parents settled in northeast Texas long before Kennedy was president.
In fact, when they moved to Pittsburg in 1930, Herbert Hoover was in his second year as president. The railroad brought them to Camp County, where Granddaddy worked for the Cotton Belt.
He retired in the early 1950s when steam locomotives were still an occasional sight.
So, it’s probably not just coincidence that the small, white-frame house where they lived most of their lives was across the street from the railroad tracks. The chair was positioned for a perfect view of approaching trains.
Rocking, talking and occasionally singing hymns such as “Blessed Assurance” were regular activities, as well as waiting for a passing train when Granddaddy would glance at his pocket watch. And, if the train wasn’t right on time, he might declare something like, “The 6:15 is running a little behind schedule today.”
My grandfather died in 1967, and with his death, regular aftersupper porch sitting also ended. My grandmother lived in the house for another 26 years before joining him, but I don’t recall her using the rockers again. Infrequent use and dirt daubers started taking their toll on them by the time Granny moved the chairs inside to the living room.
After she died, my sisters and I picked through a few things for memories. Both rocking chairs went to my Hill Country back porch, where they once again waited for company.
My occasional “rocking and thinking spells” were mostly monitoring Hill Country sunsets.
But when north winds caused Granddaddy’s old rocker to sway gently on some days, I saw him occupying his chosen chair. I thought more than once that I caught a glimpse of a curl of pipe smoke rising above the brim of his hat.
The first night the chairs spent at my house, I settled into his chair and began to rock. I relaxed and wondered, did the old chairs really possess magical powers?
Maybe, but my grandparents’ life seemed much more manageable at “frontporch time.” My rocking was more pronounced when I consulted the chair to work out details of earning a living, rearing children and other mindful matters.
“Dad, I need a new dress for the banquet,” or “Dad, the pickup’s making a funny noise and steam’s coming out from under the hood,” were met with one answer: “Give me a half hour and meet me at the rocking chair.”
Over time, the rocker became tattered and a little worse for wear, but I couldn’t bring myself to replace it.
Changing anything about the chair would change its appearance, and I most likely feared its powers as well. For that reason, both rockers retained their “as is” condition while I continued rocking and pondering.
During a move back to Shelby County a couple of decades ago, the relic rockers sustained damage. As a consequence, they were confined to storage intended to last “a few weeks.” But I never located that rare “round tuit.” They still rest in storage, waiting for their day of restoration.
With a little spare time on my hands, the rocking chairs crossed my mind last week.
Maybe it was strains of “Blessed Assurance” reminding me of their need for attention. Or perhaps it was hearing “old dogs, children and watermelon wine” on the radio.
I’m really thinking it was just the same song my grandparents heard when they rocked in the evening — the one calling them from the complexities of a hectic society and remembering a simpler time in life.
