20 December 2011
In any case, I noticed that nearly every room has one of two items: a writing desk and/or a rocking chair. There are two rocking chairs in the downstairs parlor, one in the kitchen, one in the dining room, two in the upstairs den (a child's rocker in addition to an adult one), and three—count 'em: three—on the verandah. I don't know what it is about the soothing motion of a rocker, but I can't imagine a home without one. (Apparently, I can't imagine a ROOM without one.)
I am the original owner of only one of these items—the "Boston" Rocker— and so I never tire of wondering about the others. Their pedigree, the homes they came from, the people who loved, used, and cast them aside. When my grandchildren visit I invariably find them, at one time or another, seated at the writing desk in the dining room, thumbing through my stationery, choosing pens from the holder, writing "letters" to me or simply scribbling drawings. Or they'll jockey for a seat at the desk in the upstairs den, tapping away at the antique Royal typewriter and poking around in the cubby holes of the desk organizer. And they both gravitate to the rocking chairs in the parlor whenever it's time to watch a film or cartoon, moving slowly backwards and forwards, surrounded by shawls and pillows.
In one man's trash is another woman's treasures.