Both of my grandparents had a favorite chair. In my grandmother's case, it was an old cream faux-leather rocker. I distinctly remember it squeaking when she'd move lazily back and forth in it. Often she would sit in the chair while knitting, humming to herself. The chair was old enough that it had cracked right down the middle of the seat--and my grandmother had "repaired" it by taking cream yarn to stitch the hole mostly closed.
I remember spending time at my grandmother's house...it must have been a week or so one time. Maybe in the summer time. We had thumbed through the TV Guide picking out all the murder mysteries that would be on that week. My grandmother was a fan of Murder, She Wrote, but there were others we would watch together. Late at night we'd watch the mysteries, and I had taken to sitting upside down in the chair, my legs leaned up against the back of it, my head on the floor, watching the movie of the evening. I think this is where my fascination for a good murder mystery comes from.
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