Or I should say, the rocking chair Grandpa made for me.
My father had lost his job. In order to make ends meet, my parents stated selling their extensive antique collection.
One day I came home from school and found my clothes piled on the floor where my dresser used to be.
My mother said the antique lady my father had sold the furniture to was coming back.
And she had something else to tell me.
My father sold her my rocking chair!
I was livid!
It was MY chair!
He had no right to sell it!
So my mother and I devised a scheme to save my chair.
We switched it with another rocker in the house.
The problem was my rocker was child size.
The other was not.
When the antique lady came to pick up the next load of items she immediately saw the difference.
“That’s not the chair I bought. I want the one I bought.”
I said, “You can’t have that one. It’s mine and I don’t want to sell it.”
We argued a bit, she offered me more money. She tried to intimidate me. She called on my mother to intervene.
My mother said it was mine to do with what I liked. Either take the other rocker or leave without any.
(Mom was kind of wonderful! ♥)
So the antique lady grudgingly took the other rocker and left.
When my father got home that night I told him in no uncertain terms to lay off MY STUFF!