Traveling solo - Rocking Chairs and Ficus Trees

8/1/25

It was the kind of tug felt on the collar that makes a poodle turn around. I did a u-turn.

Before that, I was following the arrows to gate 25 for my connecting flight and the left turn took me to a concourse with rows of ficus trees and white rocking chairs. I didn’t expect this sight at an airport, and the surprise instantly made me think of a beach, a front porch at mid-day, and the tune of a lullaby. I had a two-hour layover before my flight to my final destination, and I felt a pale desire to lounge for a while, but the idea of being at the gate at least two hours before departure has ruled my airport behavior, so I walked on, dragging my green carry-on behind. Then, just a few steps away from the last ficus tree, I felt the soft but firm tug on the leash of my consciousness coming from nowhere, and I turned around.

The atrium at Charlotte Douglas International Airport has two rows of ficus trees planted on planter boxes that are beneath the concrete floor. Two rocking chairs with a small square table in between the trees looked like a porch with a view of the sky and parked airplanes on the ground. The ficus leaves looking untouched with dust, shimmered in the sunlight that shone through the glass walls.

“It is very comfortable,” an elderly man said smiling at me as I sat on the rocking chair opposite him. The chair, made of flat, smooth, wooden slats, with about an inch spacing in between, felt smooth and sturdy as my body settled in. I laid my arms on the armchairs, and the curve of my spine relaxed as the rocking motion sent a sensation creeping all over my body like tiny rivulets from a brook.

“Yes, it is.” I said, smiling back.

We sat there quietly for a while, then he stood up. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” he said.

I nodded and closed my eyes.

Years ago, I bought a 6-inch pot of ficus to commemorate the birth of my first born son.

I repotted it several times as it grew, and it sat in the living room of four different homes we moved into over the years. Eventually, I placed it on an orange-brown 15-inch round plastic pot where it had grown a little over five feet tall. I trim the branches now and then to keep it’s shape and size.  On the main branch, I placed a nest made of nettles that fits into my cupped hand.   A cardboard bird painted white with brown wings and tail sits on it guarding a small egg. (I don’t remember whether it was a gift or if I bought it from a craft store).

I bought wicker rocking chair when my middle son was born.  It was comfortable but was poorly made. After a year, the frame wobbled, the rattan back and seat material gave way, and after gathering dust in the garage, my husband dismantled the broken furniture and threw it away. (This son was born with a di

Four years later, I was pregnant again, and I wanted to have a rocking chair.  With very little money for extras, I went to a thrift store and saw one. The frame was a solid pine, and the back  and seat were upholstered, but it looked like it had endured spills of baby formula, tea, coffee, and beer. The rockers had scratches of wear and tear and cats.  I had the money for the used-goods price and took it home. Then I told my husband that instead of spending money for repairs, it would be better for him to enroll at woodworking class offered by the community adult school program, and learn a “hobby” with this rocking chair as his project. I said he has about five months to work on it before the baby arrives.  He didn’t say anything, but one day I saw him load the rocking chair into the van.  Several weeks later, he brought it back, all refinished in its natural color, with a matching light beige material for the upholstery. It stayed in the baby’s room.

Like the ficus, the rocking chair moved when we moved. Gradually, Victor’s room became a den of laundry, books, electronics, and soda cans, and I transferred the rocking chair in the living room close by the ficus tree. Nobody sat on it but it brought nostalgia. Slowly, dust and sun, made a tear on the upholstery exposing the foam inside. I would put a shawl or a folded bedsheet to cover it and a decorative pillow that matched the drapery gave it character. Then the push and pull through the years, no matter how careful, had made its toll and unglued the right arm. I moved it to the garage, and covered it with a towel, and the rocking chair stayed there for the last five years without judgment.

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The man came back with a cup of Starbucks. “It was a long wait,’ he said settling back to the rocking chair.  I smiled in response, and after a while, got up, grabbed my luggage.

“Have a good trip,” I said.  He nodded.

I still had enough time to wait at the passengers waiting area so I googled  and read a review that this airport is “the best place to rock.” I realized that the “tug' that made me turn around and sit and a rocking chair at an airport may not happen again. Some promptings to turn back may not be to turn off the stove that is still on because I forgot to turn it off in my haste to work. The tug at the airport was to turn around just to sit, relax, and remember.

I realized that, like my ficus,  there are things that stay and thrive quietly without fuss.  I am thankful for its quiet presence.

As for my rocking chair, I decided all it needed was restoration. Life has taught me that there’s always a price to pay to restore something. In this case, it was three-hundred dollars. Five days later it was delivered to my house looking good as new. Better than when I first bought it.