Loriann Knapton
Returning home from an afternoon excursion, I opened the back entryway of my house and was immediately transported back to my10-year-old self. There, in the breezeway blocking my entry, in all of its splendor, sat my rocking chair.
The solid oak glider chair with its richly carved back, tufted leather seat, and delicate front wheels looked smaller than I remembered. But it definitely was the chair from my youth. As a first-grader I sat in it while I learned to read with Dick and Jane and their puppy Spot. I rocked back and forth, forth and back, when I soothed my favorite babydoll to sleep. And several times, numerous times, more times than I can count, I sat defiantly kicking my feet against the rungs when mom put me in “time out” to “think about it.” The chair is identified as a Victorian seamstress rocker and was considered an antique even in 1968, although I didn’t realize it then and frankly, I wouldn’t have cared anyway. I just knew that having it in the den of our home was comfortable. Until the day mom sold it for $50 to a carpenter’s helper.
The house where I grew up on Oneida Street in Portage Wisconsin was located directly across from the railroad depot. Built in 1848, the house was a throwback to the days when train travel ruled the United States and men earned their living as railroad conductors, brakemen, railyard mechanics, and roundhouse and depot attendants. In its day, the Portage stop was a thriving hub for traveling rail workers with “rail men” staying at the Oneida Hotel during layovers for a few days between shifts.
The houses in the neighborhood were occupied by Portage families whose fathers made their living working for the railroad. Despite being situated between four taverns and the Oneida Hotel, our street was a safe place for young children, and we roamed fearlessly throughout the neighborhood each day without care until dusk when our mothers would call us in for supper. When my parents purchased the house in the late 1950s, it was very much in need of updating. But they bought it anyway, with dreams of renovation as big and all-encompassing as their mortgage. The rocking chair came with the house, a remanent from the property’s heyday when the previous owner, a seamstress, spent her days mending and tailoring uniforms for local railroad workers.
When my dad passed away in 1967, the house was still very much in need of several updates. Mom met Mark, an easy-going young man with an ambitious spirit and a brand-new fiancée ,when she hired the carpenter he worked for to remodel our house. During the many weeks of renovation, Mom learned to appreciate Mark’s good humor and especially his patient demeanor with me, an “in-the-way” 10-year-old girl who had recently lost her dad.
Mark admired the rocking chair sitting in our den and several times asked Mom if she would be willing to sell it. At first mom resisted but as the completion date of the work drew near, she reconsidered and called Janelle, Mark’s fiancée, offering to sell her the chair.
I remember being sad the day the rocker left our house, but life went forward, and over time, I forgot about it. I grew up, married, had children, built my own life, and in 1996 moved to an old farmhouse in Columbia County’s Caledonia hills where, about five years later, I encountered Mark and his wife at a neighborhood card party.
I hadn’t seen him since I was a child, but he remembered me and asked if I remembered when he worked at my mother’s house. I did remember and apologized for being a pesty overly talkative 10-year-old during his time working for us. He smiled and with a grin said, “oh…you weren’t that annoying.” A statement we both knew was an exceedingly kind lie.
Then I mentioned the chair. I asked him if he and Janelle still had it. The answer was yes. And did they still enjoy it? Again, yes. I told him I was so glad and shared the story about how I had begged Mom not to sell it. Mark looked at me very sincerely and said, “Would you like it back?” “OH, not at all” I blustered, “My mother wanted you to have it. She always thought so much of you and Janelle you know. I’m just very happy it has a good home.” He smiled, went back to playing cards, and that was the last time I thought about the chair. Until it appeared in my back entryway last month.
I had to search to find a phone number for Mark and Janelle. I called a couple of mutual neighbors to track it down and in the tradition of the Caledonia township, found someone who knew someone who could give me a number. When Janelle answered the phone, I blurted out without preamble. “This is Lori Knapton, Did Mark leave a rocking chair in our entry way this afternoon?”
She hesitated a minute before saying, “Oh, he must have dropped it off then. I knew he planned on it, but I didn’t realize it would be today. You know, we have enjoyed the rocker over the years, but we’re downsizing and Mark thought you might like to have it.” I thanked her profusely. Asked if I could pay for it, the answer was no, so a couple of days later I dropped a heartfelt thank-you note in the mail.
The chair sits in my living room near the mahogany curio cabinet that also is a memory from my mother’s house, given to me when she moved to assisted living. It is the same curio cabinet that sat next to the rocking chair on Oneida Street all those years ago. Every time I pass by the chair, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Not by the rocker itself, although it is beautiful and I am extremely pleased to have it, but my gratitude is for the kindness of an exceptionally good man and his gracious wife who understand the value in the memories of a little girl. This is the real gift.
© 2026 Loriann Knapton
Loriann Knapton has been writing since childhood. Having crafted countless rhymes, short stories, and personal essays over her sixty-odd years she has a keen interest in ensuring her family memories are recorded for the next generations. Her writing reflects the humorous and poignant experiences of growing up in 1960s small-town America with her mom and disabled dad.
