It sat in the middle of our kitchen. I guess middle is relative when you have a very small kitchen. The glorious round oak table of my childhood was so large that we had it resting against the back wall of the kitchen. There was a chair in the back, against the wood paneled wall, that only a very skinny child could slide into and sit. Sometimes when we didn’t think mom was looking we would push the table against the person in the back and smash our sibling against the wall so they had to wiggle themselves free. This seat was adventurous and I liked to sit there often.
The table and chairs were beautiful, made of a medium grainy oak. The table sat on a wide pedestal with legs that extended out for your feet to kick during dinner. The chairs had intricate designs carved in them that sometimes we had to clean with q-tips. I can still picture my finger tracing the design while mom quizzed me on my spelling words.
Like many families, this table was more than just a piece of furniture. It caught all the mail we threw at it, helped us color smooth lines on our coloring pages, gave us a platform for amazing play dough creations, and provided us a fort to play under. Our table was often counted on as extra counter space for mom’s cooking lessons. It’s where I learned how to make chocolate chip cookies that magically fix a bad day. Often times Dad would come home late from farming and we were sitting at the table finishing supper. He would walk in with a big smile and toss his Pioneer hat on one of our little heads. We loved being the lucky one. Remembering the look on his face, I'd say he was probably thinking he was the lucky one.
Over the years the table has lost its shiny varnish and a few of the chairs have broken. But that big Sam’s Club table has gained beauty in memories from all the knife scratches, marker stains, and worn spots. It was a table that lived with us through bee stings, long division, and our many family conversations. It still sits in my mom’s dining room soaking up our busy lives and catching everything we throw at it.
