If This Kitchen Table Could Talk
The title, If This Kitchen Table Could Talk, may be a bit misleading. The table I am writing about was actually my mom’s Duncan Phyfe drop leaf dining room table. The idea to write about this table came to me when I was writing a recent post about Valentine’s Day. I reminisced about the quality time spent with my mother each year while we sat at the table and decorated my school Valentine box. If you missed that one, you can find it here:
https://cookiesandcursewords.com/my-best-valentine’s-day-ever-plus-a-few-tips
That old table saw a lot through the years. I’m not sure exactly when they got it, because it seems to me it was always there. I asked my older sister (and my cousin Jenny), and discovered that it came from my great aunt Maggie. I believe the table was originally a lighter color, but was refinished and stained darker by my uncle Dennis. I only remember the darker version.
The Jaws of Terror..
My mom loved the table. As a kid, I hated that table. Why would I hate an inanimate object? Well,to me it wasn’t so inanimate. Mom usually kept it folded with the drop leaves down (or at least one side down) to take up less space. Anytime we were having big family dinners or company, she would ask one of us kids to put the leaves up. In order to put these up, there was a metal hinge bracket thing underneath that had to be snapped into place to brace it. It looked something like this…
I now understand why mom always asked one of the kids to set the table up. Those hinges were jaws of terror!! It is my firm belief that it was impossible to secure into place without pinching your hand. It wasn’t just a little pinch either.. it was a hard, snapping jaw that grabbed ahold of the skin and refused to let go. I can’t even count how many times I ended up with purple, bruised fingers after going at it with that table! A few times it even bled! Here is a closer shot, with the jaws of terror circled..
It Wasn’t ALL Bad..
Now that I’ve made it past the traumatic memories of setting the table up for dinner, I can concentrate on the good. We’ve all heard the saying “if these walls could talk”, but wow…if this table could talk!
If this old Duncan Phyfe could talk, SHE (I’ve decided it’s a she-only a she could have a hinge so evil) would have an awful lot of stories to tell!
She would tell you about our family mealtimes. We always ate supper at the table when I was young. We lived in a small 3 bedroom house with a “dining room” barely big enough for a table, but we always ate at the table. A few years ago, my sister and I drove by my childhood home when visiting our old hometown. I lived in that home from birth through age fifteen, so a drive by is a mandatory activity whenever we get back to Great Bend. We were shocked to see that the old rundown place was empty, and even more shocked to find the door unlocked..so we went in..and took pictures! The ugly green shag carpeting was gone, and the house seemed unbelievably small. Here is a picture of the dining area that we sat in, around our table.
If she could talk, that table would tell you how hilarious my father was with his table “rules”. He had one rule: don’t sing at the table. We could burp, fart, pick our noses (usually he was the role model for all of these)- but by no means could we sing at the table! Ha! At least this was the rule for my sister Lorna and I. My two older siblings, Jan and Jon, were already out of the house by this time. They may have had real rules, I’m not sure. Mom would say the Catholic blessing before every meal and then dad would proceed to tell inappropriate jokes that usually offended my sister, while I laughed at all of it. Many times Lorna would stomp away from the table irritated while mom would say something like “Oh, Keith, why did you have to do that?”! Good times!
If she could talk, our table would tell about the times spent doing homework, writing Christmas cards, mom writing checks for bills, making Valentine boxes, or wrapping Christmas gifts. If the light was shining just right, in the glare I could sometimes read the words inadvertently etched into her wood from past homework assignments or letter writing with the pencil pushed to paper a bit too hard.
If our table could talk, she could tell stories about Lorna or I sitting as still as possible while mom (not a beautician..definitely not) gave us home permanent waves in our hair. Lorna’s hair was very naturally straight,so she looked decent afterward. I have always had a bit of natural curl, so the permanent was a huge mistake. POOF! It looked like I put my finger in a light socket. I cried for at least a day, bought every “frizz ease” product I could find, and lived with the results for a long time!
If she could talk, our table would tell about the long hours playing rummy, usually with our cousins from Illinois. These games took place in my parents new home that had much more space. She would tell you about the beers, the snacks, the arguments over the game, and of course the hand slaps from my Aunt Goldie when somebody tried to dig through the discard pile or played a card that Goldie wanted for herself! She would also tell you about the non-stop laughter during these games.
She would tell you about the pride that my mother took in her new home, and the way she decorated the table with beautiful tablecloths to show her off.
She would tell you about the bright red tablecloth used every Christmas, or the lace at Thanksgiving that we would turn back in order to play board games after our meal.
If that old Duncan Phyfe table could talk, she would tell about the hundreds of coffee conversations with so many different people. Everybody was welcome to sit and have a cup of coffee at any time of the day. Mom was a great cook, and usually would have come kind of sweet treat to go with that cup of coffee.
Where Is She Now?
I wish I had that table. When my parents decided to downsize one last time and didn’t have room for the table, I wish I would have taken her. I’d love to be writing my blog posts while sitting at a table that held so many memories, so much inspiration. At the time, it didn’t mean a lot to me. Why would I want that crappy table that pinched my hands? What did mom see in that table anyway?
I get it now. I miss that old Duncan Phyfe, and I miss my parents.
If YOUR kitchen table could talk, what would it have to say?
