The Kitchen Table

This table lived at my sister Lynda's house for probably 15 years before she passed it on to me. Her family is almost grown; mine is just getting started.

I spent a lot of time at Lynda's house growing up. It was a place of refuge, comfort, and understanding when my teenage life was in melodramatic turmoil. A lot of hours were spent at this table talking, laughing, crying, making things.

When she brought it to my house a few years ago, she apologized for the paint on the finish. She and Stephanie had done lots and lots of crafting there, and sometimes some paint was left behind. I'm happy that I got to share in some of that. Now there's even more paint from the projects I do with my own daughters.

The kitchen is the life of a home, I think, and the table is its heart. I think that might be why we're so often advised and counseled to share our meals together, sitting around the table as a family.

This year I decided to brave Thanksgiving dinner. I lost a week of sleep over it (I get myself so worked up!) When the day came around, I found myself doing something my mom has always done: I ventured outside to find whatever twigs and branches I could to use in a centerpiece. My friend brought some of her things, too, and created something beautiful. My mother-in-law brought the plates and goblets and cloth napkins that she's used on Thanksgiving for years and years. It was a beautiful setting. I wish I had taken a picture.

I have this funny habit of looking for metaphors and analogies in everything. As we put together traditions from my childhood, and my husband's, and some of my friend's, it was nice to see how well they all fit together. Life is kind of like that, I think.

I keep thinking about painting this table, or refinishing it. My inner sentimental sap doesn't really want to. We'll see.