Sunday, October 15, 2006

My husband is a rocker. Yes, in his day, he dug Chicago, Boston, and John Cougar Mellencamp whom he listened to in his blue, white vinyl topped 1973 Chevy Malibu. But what has transcended the charts and time is his affinity for the rocking chair. Any will do. He sits, reads, rocks, does his work, tells me his woes, eats, rocks, yells at Mizzou offensive coaches, holds a baby, rocks, brainstorms our problems, watches Andy Griffith and Little House on the Prairie (favorites) and rocks. If there was a rocking competition, his toes would be taunt, tenacious, triumphant!. We have many different rocking chairs all with different squeaks, thumps, glides throughout the home. I think he needs a shawl and an aphagan and a knit cap. He'll make a natural grandpa one day.

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