I bought a rocking chair.

This chair isn’t simply an average run-of-the-mill Cracker Barrel special. It’s an authentic Amish piece of heaven from Brandenburg, Ky. and was most likely crafted by a man named Jebediah who relies on the precision and skill of his carpentry to provide for his family.

The journey to find the perfect chair was in itself a worthy endeavor. It took me four hours of driving through the back-country of the Bluegrass State to find the perfect rocker. Once I found it I knew the trip had been worth every mile.

It was made of oak and had enough lacquer on it to ensure that its celestial shine would never tarnish.

The steam bent rocker runners held it in a perfect 10 degree back-angle that invited any passerby to stop for a moment of relaxation.

As I sat down and eased back in the chair, the clouds parted as champagne fell from the skies and I realized this was what I had been searching for my entire life.

Since that day, the rocking chair has been a source of conversation during festive gatherings at my apartment.

People have called me an old man, a geriatric and an ignorant sage.

By the end of the night, however, the chair becomes an object of desire for the social smokers who wish to allow the alcohol, nicotine and rhythmic motions of the rocker to send them into a deep analysis of themselves and the world around them.

I, too, have found myself seized by its magnificent stimuli.

Listening to the wood creak as I rock back and forth, staring up at the clouds from my perch on the balcony, I am untouchable and absolved from any connection to the outside world.

I have come to terms with some of the most important questions I have about the universe and the female thought process while sitting in that chair. While rocking, I realize that there are some things we just weren’t meant to know.

The rocking chair has helped me read dozens of books since I bought it. I find nothing more relaxing than sitting in the chair, drinking a beer and reading a good book after a long day of whatever it is I was doing.

My faithful dog, Reba, joins me most evenings outside with the chair.

She knows there’s only room for one of us in the rocker and will patiently sit next to me while I read or simply rest her head on my leg in hopes that I’ll scratch her ears.

Moments like that make me appreciate the charmed life I lead.

I have a cold beer, a good book and my loyal companion with me while I watch the sun paint the sky a thousand different shades of purple and red. Life couldn’t get any better.

Reading boring textbooks about psychology or philosophy or any subject becomes almost bearable when I’m sitting in the chair.

Sadly, my dog finds these books just as unexciting as I do and rarely joins me while I read them. But, I still have the chair.

My chair was a rock of support while breaking up with a girl I had been dating for a few months.

As she cried, I good-naturedly rocked and listened to her tell me how big of a jerk I was for ending the relationship. I couldn’t help but think she was just going to miss the chair.

The chair sometimes gives me a sense of nostalgia.

Before I moved away from home, my grandfather explained the importance of having something in my life that helped me loosen up and relax.

A rocking chair had worked for him and it works for me.

Some evenings I’ll drift back to the days of watching my grandfather rock in his chair or, I’ll imagine him smiling down from heaven as I unwind in mine.

I know that 60 years from now I’ll be sitting in the chair, nursing a beer while re-reading an amazing book and marveling at the mysteries of the delightful life I’ve led.

Travis Sturgill
Editor
trsturgi@ius.edu