The Red Rocker

Bessie was an old blue Chevy.  Baby blue.  She was parked in the driveway of the parsonage on Hilltop Road where my family and I lived until I was about 5.  Mom and Dad were outside working, each on their own project.  Mom liked projects, especially ones involving paint and old furniture salvaged from a barn sale or antique store.  On this particular day, she decided to paint an old high-back wooden rocking chair.  She selected her colors:  fire engine red and a dash of blue and green for the flowers she would stencil on the upright back.  The rocking chair shared the driveway with Bessie.

It’s not unusual for Mom to have felt mischievous.  She answered the parsonage phone, “Rosie’s massage parlor.  How can I help you?”  And then there was the time a cat walked through Mom’s freshly baked pumpkin pie—so she filled in the holes with whipped cream and served it anyway.  After all, the guests were coming and she didn’t have time to bake a new one.  So the rest of the story about Bessie and the rocking chair doesn’t come as a surprise to me.   Not even when I think about the red paint dripping down over the rear fender off of the fresh bright red letters on a baby blue background:  B E S S I E.  Dad must have been furious.

Bessie is long-gone, but the rocker now sits in my living room in Pittsburgh—a shiny bright red with stenciled blue and green flowers. This past summer when my stepfather and I divided up the furniture that Mom owned, the rocker was one of the first things I claimed.  Having a piece of Mom’s craftsmanship as an artist wasn’t the main reason why I wanted it.  I wanted it because of the mischief that it represents. I wanted it because every time I look at it, it helps take the edge off of those painful memories of seeing my mom physically, emotionally, and mentally wearing away during those hard long five years of illness.  When I see the rocker, I see the gleam in Mom’s eye; I hear the laughter in her voice.

I used to think that people who lost loved ones shouldn’t surround themselves with the belongings of the one they lost. I thought that bound people to grief, prevented them from healing. Since Mom’s passing, I’ve realized the piano sitting in my parlor, the cabinet in my kitchen, the red rocker in my living room– these things feel like home because they belonged to Mom and being around them brings healing.  When they spark a memory, I do feel pain. But there’s something good about it.  I would rather feel that pain than never have the memory brought to mind.  Instead of forgetting or denying that it hurts, I would rather sit in the rocker, remembering Mom’s warmth and liveliness.