The Old Rocking Chair

My brother, Brian, was born while we still lived on Winona Avenue. He was fourth in the long

line of Hohlfelds. I think I was in sixth or seventh grade when he came along. I considered him

my own little play thing. The fact that I was the only one who could rock him to sleep was also

a feather in my cap. The house had a large sun room that looked out into the back yard. The

furnishings were sparse. A toy box, a desk built by Mr. Shellenberg, and the televison. The only place to sit was an old rocking chair that had belonged to my Grandma Hilda. I can't remember why there wasn't any other chairs in the room.

At nap time or bed time, I would rock Brian to sleep singing "Love Letters In the Sand."

He was too young to realize I couldn't carry a tune. The more I rocked, the farther I scooted

across the tile floor. We would start out near one door, and by the time he was asleep,

we were at the opposite side of the room.

I loved that song. Sometimes, even after Brian had fallen asleep, I would keep belting it out.

Some times other family members would ask, "Isn't he asleep yet?" "Can you sing a little

softer?" " Do you know another song?" I was not deterred. I sang my heart out.