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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Reserved Seat Fondly Remembering One Of Life’s Simple Pleasures: Grandfather’s Rocking Chair

James Nelson Special To Families

My grandfather’s rocking chair was made of oak. It was straight-backed without arms and complete with a scruffy brown leather seat. On one side where the seat met the back, it was held together with bailing wire.

This chair enjoyed a special place of honor in my grandfather and grandmother’s home, a stately house with pillars on the porch and ivy stretching across the front.

The chair sat in their living room close to a large black, pot-bellied wood burning heating stove. No one sat in this chair but grandpa. It was his and his alone. Sort of like a throne, humble in its simplicity, in honor of all the labor he had performed throughout his life - first as a farmer, then a hard rock miner and ending up digging ditches for the local gas company. The only jobs he ever had in his 78 years were all associated with the earth and a pick and shovel. Yet he always provided food, clothing and shelter for his wife and 12 children without complaint, often being away at the mines for months at a time. He never owned a car and had little except the simple pleasures of life and the love and respect of his family.

I remember so vividly as a child, watching him rocking in his chair at the end of the day, the only time he had to sit in it. In the evening, the twilight shadows would slowly creep across the living room’s linoleum-covered floor eventually creating only a silhouette of this kindly man, while the flames inside the wood stove, reflecting through its tiny window, danced upon his weathered features. The crackling and popping of burning tamarack only added to his mystique as he slowly rocked back and forth.

I always waited with anticipation for that slight squeak I knew would come from the rocker’s wired joint as he completed his backward motion. In my mind, it added character to his melodic rocking, wump-wump-squeak.

He never sat in his char for long before Susie, his German short-haired pointer, who never pointed at anything except her dog dish, would be at his side. She knew it would only be a matter of time before his hand would reach out and find her head with his soft touch. This dog, whom he often referred to as “that old pot hound” always looked up at him with adoration and wagging tail, knowing full well she would be sleeping by his bed that night.

This scene is etched in my memory forever, along with my love for him. Every child should have the opportunity to develop a bond with his or her grandfather. After all, he is an extension of his or her own life.

The only time his chair was moved was on Saturday night. He would take it to the front room and set it next to a small table radio, encased in a beautiful maple cabinet. There he would rock while laughing at the satirical humor of Amos and Andy.

The rest of the family would retreat to the living room so they wouldn’t have to hear him say in his gruffest voice, “Shush now, I’m trying to listen.”

We didn’t have many years together - he left us when I was 12. But all of them were packed with adventure and learning. We went on hunting and fishing trips, and took long walks and had long talks. Most were filled with grandfatherly wisdom and advice. It’s unfortunate so many children grow up today without a grandfather’s strong influence.

Before I was tall enough to reach the top of their back gate, I would stand there looking through the wire, watching for him to come home from work. I could see him coming blocks away, walking briskly, his worn, shiny lunch box under his arm. I eagerly waited his arrival as we had this little game we always played. I knew he had saved his dessert from lunch for me, and as he came through the gate, I would ask, “Did you save anything for me?” He would grin, look down at my outstretched arms and hand me the lunch box saying, “I don’t know. You will have to look inside.” I would open the lid slowly, knowing full well the dessert would be there and it always was.

The deer hunting trip that sticks in my mind the most was a four-day affair with Dad, Grandpa, two uncles and me. Grandpa was in charge of bringing all the food and planning the meals. Our first night at camp he place a big plate of bread and beans before us. The next morning at breakfast we also had bread and beans. When lunch time came, he again placed beans and bread before us. By this time we were all wondering what he would provide for dinner that night. Sure enough, it was beans and bread. Finally my dad asked, “Are beans and bread all we’re going to get on this four-day hunt?” Grandpa looked at him sternly and said, “We didn’t come up here to eat. We came up here to hunt.” Nothing more was said.

But most of all, I’m fortunate to have the memory of Grandpa gently rocking in his chair with Susie at his side. He was gruff, yet gentle, and, in his rocker, represented so much more to me than just a grandpa. He stood for hard work and sacrifice for his family, not to mention the great role model he presented to all of us. These thoughts are always accompanied by a warm feeling whenever I see an old, straight-backed arm less rocker with a brown scruffy seat. I really hope some day to find one with baling wire holding one of its back joints together. It will happen.

Yes, I always puff up a little with pride as I remember the man I have always strived to be like. My namesake, Grandpa Jim.