Most mornings of my early childhood began in the kitchen, sitting in my little upholstered rocking chair, watching Captain Kangaroo.
The kitchen was the warmest room in the house in winter, and it was where my mother spent most of her day. While I watched television, she cooked, baked, and moved quietly around me. The air always smelled of something good. I felt safe there. Cozy. Loved.
I don’t remember the house being cold — but I suppose it must have been, especially the floors. Instead of slippers, Mom bought me a pair of ankle-high fur-lined snow boots to wear in place of slippers. She had a pair just like them in her own size. We matched. I liked that.
Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Grandfather Clock, and Dancing Bear felt like members of our household. They were part of my mornings, part of my growing up.
Our farmhouse had no central heating, like many rural homes in the 1950s. Two oil stoves heated the main floor — one near the bedrooms, one in the kitchen — and none upstairs, which we used mostly for storage. Winters were cold in the Midwest, and that was especially evident in our living room, caught between the two stoves. So my parents brought a television into the kitchen instead. A portable set with rabbit ears. And a child-sized upholstered rocking chair just for me.
There was a long counter along the west wall with no cabinets underneath. That became my little house. I played there for hours. Close enough that Mom could see me, far enough that neither of us would trip over the other. I didn’t know it then, but it was the perfect arrangement.
Where my mother was, I was.
And where that little rocking chair sat — that was home.
Through My Eyes, Gently 