By guest writer Charles Norman Stevens.
It was not an ordinary rocking chair. This one was upholstered like a sofa, only narrower in width – more like it might be called an overstuffed rocking chair.
It was my dad’s favorite chair. He placed it near the radio that he loved even more than the chair. He adored Fibber McGee and Molly, George Burns and Gracie Allen, the Jack Benny Show, One Man’s Family, and many others. He loved to laugh at the comedies and liked it even more if we laughed with him – we could always put off our homework. He was glued to that chair during USC’s football games. He followed them with a chart of the playing field that he marked. He had made a special board that exactly fit the arms of the chair and his girth so that he could place his chart there.
The radio was a small Philco, done in the gothic style, like a small, rounded church without a steeple. We had had it for about six years, and I had listened to my first radio programs on it: Whoa Bill and Orphan Annie.
After my dad came home each night, carrying his black lunchbox and giving a heartfelt greeting to the family, he gradually settled into his rocking chair to read the Herald Examiner. Being mildly conservative, he liked that newspaper, and it was delivered every afternoon to our doorstep by a reliable paperboy.
Sometimes, when my mother was out in the kitchen washing or drying the dishes, my dad would call to her and ask her to listen to it with him and enjoy the program. She came in reluctantly, carrying a drying towel. He opened his arms wide, grinning, beckoning her to sit with him. She sat on his lap, his arms around her, and they enjoyed the program, laughing together. I thought it was funny that my mother nestled on my dad’s lap. At the same time, I was happy about it because it was a rather comical expression of love.
When my sister and I were very young, we playfully attacked my father in his chair. While we tried to climb into his lap, he pushed us back. It was all very friendly and lighthearted. I would almost make it past his knees then he’d shove me down and turn me upside down. I was heading for the floor and my sister was making headway toward his lap. The struggle went on. We were all laughing, including my mother who was watching. I was surprised at the indomitable strength of my father’s arms and hands. We were a giggling mixture of arms and legs, chaotic motion and a little sweat. Finally, he said “I think we better stop now; I want to read my paper.” Exhausted ourselves, we stopped.
I was fond of that old chair too. When I was by myself, I often rocked in it, enjoying its rhythmic motion. At other times, I wanted to test the chair’s capabilities. I wondered how fast I could get it to rock. I was on a horse galloping over imaginary plains. Then it happened. It was one vigorous rock too many. Over I went, backward. The back if the chair hit the floor and so did I! The heavy cushion came loose and fell across my face. I inhaled the musty smell of it. I was alone, and there was no one to help me. As I recall, I struggled out of the situation, crawled over the floor and was safely out of the predicament. With some effort, I righted the heavy chair and replaced the cushion. As all kids eventually do, I had gone too far.
In my imagination, I still see that old rocking chair, its bulk and its dull indescribable pattern. I think about its comfort, and picture my dad sitting there.
