American Rocker

Beaty bought the American rocker, it was her chair. Grandpa Davis would rock me in it as a baby and small child. When he died and Beaty lived with us it sat by the window in our front room. It became my Cinderella carriage and my sleigh at Christmas or, sat astride facing the back, I galloped wildly accompanied by the pranging sounds of the springs. Most often it was our stagecoach, Dave and I jammed in side by side rocking like crazy, me whipping the horses, him shooting over the back. Until we were caught.

When I bought my first flat Beaty gave it to me. I waxed the woodwork and had it re-upholstered. It reined supreme among the floor cushions. When I moved in with John it muscled into our rented flat in London. Dad sat and rocked Emma as a newborn baby in our first house. It was the comfy chair Belle curled up in the dining room of Grange Bank.

All my life it has been ready to comfort and soothe with its motion.

It now sits by the fire in the cottage. I must now be the age Beaty was when she bought it.