If This Table Could Talk...........

            I recently purchased a small hand sander. I hoped to find treasures, laden with dirt and paint, and sand them into valuable antiques.  I did manage to do this (although I don’t know about the valuable antique part) with a bench that I purchased for $20.00.  I sanded and sanded and then oiled it and it was passable enough to place in my bedroom (my bedroom, you may note, not the guest receiving living room).  I was so pleased with this project that I decided to sand my round, all-purpose coffee table.  I lugged it to the garage and got the sander out, but…….

             I could not do it.  I looked at this table and was flooded with memories.  My father made this round coffee table from a top he found at the dump.  Many of you may remember that a trip to the dump could be an exciting experience, not like now where everything is neatly organized.  You could find all sorts of discarded treasures.  Well, this table top was one of them.  He refinished the top and made legs for it.

             I was living in a small apartment in New York City at the time and one Wednesday (his day off) he drove down with the coffee table on the top of his little Corvair.  It fit so nicely in that tiny apartment, serving multiple functions…..coffee table, dining table, boudoir table, desk, telephone table, etc.

             When I married and moved to a larger apartment, the coffee table came with me.  We were quite social then and had many a party.  We all drank and smoked to excess, often missing the coasters (if there were any at all) and ashtrays.  All of this is well documented on its top.

             When I was pregnant with my daughter, we moved to a house in the suburbs of New Jersey and the coffee table came along, by now showing much character.  My daughter learned to walk around that table.  Around and around she could go and never fall, her little hands leaving imprints.  It had no sharp edges to hurt her.

             Within a five year period, three very important people in my life died. My best friend died of cancer, my father died suddenly, and my husband developed a brain tumor and died within two months.  I spent many a night on the couch with my feet on this table, in a grief-generated stupor, contemplating what to do next.  By now the drinks had been replaced with herbal tea and a more sensible way of life.

             After 20 years in the house in the suburbs, I remarried and the table moved to a house by a lake in Pennsylvania.  Here it sat in a sun room, more civilized in its function….drinks with coasters, coffee table books, bouquets of flowers, and no ashtrays.  And here it stayed, well dusted and cared for, for 6 years, until I finally realized the staid life was not for me and I longed for my freedom.

             So now I have brought this table back to its origins.  As I was about to attack it, sander in hand, I realized I was about to perform a major face lift…..an erasure of every character line that so enhanced its surface. 

             I don’t want to bring this table back to its youth. I want it to grow old with me and show every one of its 40+ years, and then some.  I want my grandchildren to walk around and around it.  I want my daughter to inherit it   I love this table…..it talks to me. *

*As a postscript – I wrote this piece several years ago.  With my constant redecorating, the table no longer fit in.  I offered it to my daughter, but she passed on it.  It was shipped out to my niece in Colorado.  I am so glad it is still in the family.