A Steadfast Rocker

FICTION A Steadfast Rocker Daisy L. White Rocking chairs are not as prevalent on front porches up and down the creeks and hollows ofAppalachia as they once were. They seem to have been replaced largely by recliners which conveniently hold all the items necessary for successful television viewing. Rocking chairs were and still are pivotal pieces of furniture in my family, however. Having a rocking chair was important to my mama. "The first piece offurniture we bought when we got married was a rocker," she told me. I could picture her rocking away, waiting for me to be born and patiently embroidering tiny rosebuds on my baby clothes. I like to think I developed my love of rocking while still in my mama's womb. I'm not sure I remember that first chair, but I have dim memories of two others: one with a lumpy seat that denied comfort and always tiireatened to eject anyone not firmly planted on the prickly upholstery. The second was a swivel-rocker which had more swivel than rock and was prone to turn over backward. When Daddy went over in it, the chair disappeared. I learned much later, when such things began to matter to me, that the chair I remember longest and best was a Boston rocker. The arms were worn to a smooth maple sheen. It had developed its own squeaky voice over the years. I know the noise couldn't be stopped because Daddy often tried to fix it and finally gave up. "Just don't rock so hard," he said to Mama and they laughed. Mama believed in rocking her children. She rocked them to sleep. She rocked as she read to them. She rocked away their hurts. With the one baby she was able to breast-feed, she rocked with a sense of fulfillment and contentment I don't tiiink she ever felt again. Mama sang as she rocked. Her babies got ballads with their bottles. She knew a lot of verses about "Barbara Allen" and I cried every time about the rose and the briar entwining. She sang about a high road and a low road and someone called Maggie and long ago days. She sang of Kentucky cabins and Old Black Joe. There were fun songs too: one about Jingleheimer somebody and one about an Irishman whose whiskers Daisy White lives in Monticello, Kentucky. This is herfirst appearance in Appalachian Heritage. 40 kept blowing offin the wind, then blowing in again. The rocker kept time to her songs with a rhythmic squeak-pop, squeak-pop. Fast or slow as needed Mama even adapted some tunes and gave us each our own song which we asked for many times. I've forgotten the songs she did for my brothers and sisters but mine was to the tune of "Waltzing Matilda" and the last line was a resounding "Alice Melinda, Melinda Melou!" I thought for years that was my name. I even quite proudly, told Mr. Hale at the store as I stood by his pickle barrel that I was Alice Melinda Melou! Sometimes when Mama was busy with sewing or mending or maybe reading for herself, Daddy would take over when we were in bed and read us our story. One such evening we all remember well. I could hear mama's rocker doing its slow squeaky-pop and I knew she was listening as we settled down for the story. It was about a silly chicken who thought the sky was falUng down. It repeated a lot and Daddy was reaUy getting into it. He was a good reader and soon began to act like the animals. He clucked, he gobbled, he hopped, he growled, he snapped his jaws and made us laugh. Mama's rocking stopped. She came to see what was going on. We weren't going to sleep! The story just got more lively and at the end when the Uttle chicken was saved, we hurt from so much laughter. Even Mama had laughed until she was crying. We asked for that story over and over but it was never quite the same as that one magical night. Just before I went to...