On the table

While I was babysitting today, I spent my grandson’s naptime quietly going through the photos on my phone. I was really looking for stuff I could cut.
Many Chattereaders know my husband was involved with antiques for decades. Often, he brought something home without my seeing it. I was okay with that. He had good taste and, relocating here from our previous home, we needed everything. I usually liked what he brought home. Then, there was one table ...
It was a real farm table. It’s a great antique, most likely made in the 1800s by a farmer for his wife to prepare and serve meals on but, really, 9 feet? Made from rustic planks, the diner at each end must tolerate some plate wobbling, and bits of food tend to linger between the boards. It’s no fun tooth-picking them out, but tablecloths do prevent what placemats invite.
Chosen for the library we didn’t even have at the time, my husband loved it. I did too, but only as a library table. So, being it was temporary, I went along. Eventually, the library actually did get added on. Great, right? Yeah, no. That was nearly 20 years ago and the table lives, still here, in my “supposed to be French” kitchen.
Over the decades, I’ve moved … from agreement to apathy to intolerance, but the table hasn’t budged. Every time I use it, I think, “Wow, it’s fabulous … for our library.” Still, since it came home, we’ve raised four kids, three now married with children of their own. It’s served tons of meals to large and small crowds. That brings us back to that phone full of photos.
Going through them, I realized, that old table is a member of this family. The photos show my family growing at those boards – tipped plates, crumbs, crowds and all. The pictures marked the years; life went by in time-lapse. Meal after meal, photo after photo, there were faces and smiles gathered and the crowd grew more numerous and older around that old farm table. It served for graduations from kindergarten to college as my children became adults. Boyfriends and girlfriends became husbands and wives as we celebrated engagements and weddings. There were pregnancies and infants who became “tweeners” and teens. Now, my oldest granddaughter is at college – and the table sits there, still serving.

Two generations did crafts, homework and learned to bake. We carved pumpkins, made Easter baskets, built pinewood derby cars, played games, solved problems, shared joy, made announcements and toasted. We cut celebration cakes and broke bread with family and friends on holidays and ordinary days … all around that table I hate. Okay, hate is a strong word. Let it suffice to say that it was not my choice for a permanent kitchen table. Still, it never complains. It doesn’t send out one squeak and was there for every joyful family moment we’ve celebrated around it, and stayed through some sad times too.
I was reading a story last year about a family whose parents collected a distinct style of furniture back in the 1950s. Their house was filled with it. That young family could never have known what their dad’s passion would become through the time they owned those unique pieces. They were the work of George Nakashima, a world renowned artist and a wonderful gentleman whose family has graced the Bucks County community as neighbors.
Among those pieces was a large dining table. The family talked about giving a dining table up to the world of art. It was, to them, their “family table,” around which two generations had come of age. It’s hard to imagine a family growing up at, and actually eating at, a George Nakashima piece.
Most certainly, my big old farm table can’t hold a candle to a Nakashima piece, but my temporarily permanent table has its farmer father’s hand in every board. He must have thought it very handsome with its milk paint turned legs and apron … and it is. That apron and those legs are held in with handmade nails, square heads and all. Its scrub top is simple and rough, and that may be its beauty, but it was the photos of my family gathered around it for nearly 30 years now that made me realize this: That farmhouse table is part of our family and has married its history to ours.
I’m thinking I may never get that country French kitchen.

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