The Table
Sun shining and whether the temperatures want to cooperate, the birds sure are singing. Spring is on its way whether Mother Nature likes it or not. All that I am doing today is working with ice build up right at the back door. We have a bag called Safe Walk, it is a derivative of corn. I use it sparingly as I have no idea where we bought it quite a few years ago. Sprinkle a little . . . let it work. When the bare concrete shows, I move the slush of it to the next spot. I know as soon as the sun goes down, ice will materialize as we have snow melting down onto the back door. Tomorrow we will do it all over again.
Most of today I have spent at our dining room table. No . . . we don’t have a dining room. We have an expanse of an area that serves as a living room, dining room and office. The table was purchased at a garage sale many years ago. It was the first table in the home that Dennis and I built. It needed a new piece on top of quartersawn Oak. A fellow here in town did a great job on it. Dennis and I refinished it and it has been in service every day since in our home. It is called a refractory design as both ends pull out for additional table surface. Why on earth do we need a table that pulls out to 72 inches in length? For me every home needs a table of serviceable size, even if the two of us use only a small portion of it.
When I was growing up there were six sets of feet under a round Oak table. Untold number of loaves of bread were rolled out and pit into pans on the surface. School work was done on the table while Mom darned socks. Mom prepared her Sunday School lessons at the table. If a home perm was to be given, all the paraphernalia was spread out on the table. Dad spread out and read multiple issues of The Farmer magazine at the table after the milk cow chores were done. The table was an extension of the sewing area as the treadle sewing machine was just a few feet from it. Card games were played at the table when aunts and uncles visited. The less desirable duty it served was when I had buckets of chicken eggs to wash so they would be ready for the egg hauler. Dang, some of those hens would poop in their nests. Yuk! That Oak table could fill a library of tales.
No matter where Orlin and I lived, the table was always where we gathered. When the kids were small, they were tied into the highchair and slid up to the table to take part. Later on, four sets of feet were under the table for all meals. The table was used when we made sauerkraut in the farm kitchen in Boon Lake Township. The kids were in charge of tamping the kraut into the quart jars. When an apple press was present, . . . yup, the kitchen table was there getting splattered with sticky juice that didn’t get into the jars. Poultry was always raised to be butchered for the freezer. Nothing like a table to take care of the evisceration. As the kids got older, when Carrie and Kevin were home alone during a meal time, most likely it was in front of the television. Why not give the table a break! Carrie cut out fabric on the table from patterns that she would put under the needle of the sewing machine. Kevin used the table when he worked on his Cub Scout Pinewood Derby cars. Thread, fuzz or sandpaper dust . . . the table took the brunt. Nicks and scars were taken in stride. The table was the center of the family.
That may well describe why now, on Stauffer Avenue, we have a huge table in a space that could very well utilize a card table. Our table has scars on it. A pocket knife seemed just the right tool to try and loosen a rusted screw. The pocket knife spared the finger and the table got the nasty end. The rotary cutter that I used for fabric piecing happened to run off of the cutting mat during a time when I didn’t have a sewing studio. On second thought, a hot pad should have been used to spare the finish of the table. Who knew that one of the metal boxes that Dennis has spare gun shells in had a sharp corner. The table, just as our house, is here to be a part of our day-to-day living. The wear and tear that the table may show can be seen as badges of those who live here or may have visited here . . . our home. Why would we save it and shelter it so it can remain pristine? This table, in the home on Stauffer Avenue, represents all the tables that have gone before and makes for wonderful memories of my life worth nurturing.
Today, I spent the day at the table, cutting out pieces of a project yet to be. Priceless!