Kitchen Table

            Our kitchen table is long and narrow.  It has a chair on either end, and two long benches on the sides.  It’s perfect for our family.  And it’s pine.

            When we first saw the table in a furniture store years ago the sales person tried to persuade us to buy the oak.  Oak is more durable.  It won’t mar as easily.  But we liked the look of the pine.  It won’t hold up as well over time, the sales person had cautioned.  It will get flawed easily.  It won’t hold its value.

            Years ago a cousin of mine was showing me around their home.  We walked through the dining room and he pointed to the table, “I did my homework here one time,” he said.  “It marked all the way into the wood.  Boy did I get it for that.”  He lifted the table runner and showed me where his name was etched into the tabletop.  Now in his 20s, it was a funny story.  But the table runner was still carefully set to cover up the name.  For some reason that image has stuck in my memory.

            So we left the furniture store undecided that day.  The oak would hold its value.  It wouldn’t mark easily when busy little bodies climbed around on it. It was sturdier looking.  Still, we liked the pine better.  It was more us.

            The next day we went back.  We bought the pine table.  The sales person reminded us that although it was beautiful now, it wouldn’t hold up quite as well.  It would get marked up.  It wouldn’t hold its value.

            Shortly after we got it home our daughter Kathryn sat down one evening after supper to work on her second grade spelling list.  She worked hard writing and re-writing her spelling list. Spelling didn’t come easily to her back then.  When I finally hustled her off to bed I noticed that the table held the scratch marks of her second-grader printing.  Half a dozen words were etched into the soft pine of the table where she had been working.  For just a moment I felt a pang.  Our brand new kitchen table was already getting marked up.

            Within the next few months little Benson got promoted from the high chair to the big table, and learned how to eat efficiently with a fork.  After each bite he would happily bounce the tongs of his fork into the table at his place.  One night as I wiped up the table after supper I noticed dozens of little holes–evidence of his fork mastery.

            And four-year-old Anna, who loved doing art projects, would sit at the table in the afternoons while her older sister was at school, to color and paint, cut and paste.  One afternoon as I washed up the table after her, I noticed little scissors marks in the table.  She had seen how easily the table marked and evidently found it fascinating to see what her scissors could do.

            Kathryn and I made candles that first winter we had the table.  We gave a lot of the candles away as gifts.  But we also burned them at supper time.  I tried to teach her how to light a match.  Every time one lit it would startle her and with a squeal she’d drop it.  We ended up with a dozen or so little burn marks on the table from dropped matches.

            That next year Anna learned to write the alphabet.  She pressed her pencil down hard, as five-year-olds do, while she worked on rows of A’s, rows of B’s, rows of C’s.  I’ve scrubbed those markings, too.

            We’ve had our kitchen table for quite a few years now.  It’s had a lot of use.  It’s full of marks and scratches.  It isn’t flawless anymore.  A lot of milk has been spilled on our table.  A lot of peanut butter sandwiches have been dismantled and smeared into the cracks for the table leaves.  A lot of art projects and homework assignments have been done there.  A lot of homemade candles have dripped onto it. A lot of fingers have drummed on our table during phone conversations and dinner conversations.  A lot of evenings have been spent listening to the kids tell about their days while we ate supper at our table.  A lot of friends have sat around our table with us, eating, visiting, laughing.

            And sometimes in the evenings when the sun hits the table just right, I stop and look at all the evidence of hard use our kitchen table has had.   I run my fingers over the second-grade spelling words, and smile.  I laugh at the little burn marks, and remember Kathryn dropping the lit matches. I touch the dozens of holes made by Benson’s fork and remember his proud little face as he got promoted to the big table and worked on eating with a fork.  I feel the scissors marks and shake my head, remembering all of Anna’s art projects.   I look at all the imperfect ABCs.  And if I look closely I can find every one of our kids’ names etched into it.

            Our kitchen table is long and narrow.  It has a chair on either end, and two long benches on the sides.  It’s made of pine.  And it’s been perfect for our family.  It’s held up well over the years.  But the sales person was right.  The pine wasn’t as durable as the oak would have been.  It marked up easily.  It hasn’t held its beauty, or its value.  It has actually increased in beauty.  And has become far more valuable.