I sold my mothers dining room table last night: the one that stood in my childhood home, waiting in the dining room for a worthy occasion. It lived in a museum mostly; housed the living room/dining room sphere, which we were never allowed to enter. Sometimes I would sneak in and lay under the table staring up at the chairs or on the chairs, completely hidden since it was always under the protective pads, a white tablecloth, and a crocheted table cloth on top of that.
There were always matching candles standing tall and a decorative bowl of fake fruit in between them. The spirit wreaked of the 50s, a time long gone. It stood next to a matching server that also had the beautiful clean lines of a mid-century modern design. I’m realizing now it probably was one of only a few pieces in her house that she bought brand new.
I remember having to dust the chairs and server as part of chores or to get ready for a party. As a dutiful child, I would move my little fingers through all the slats with old English on a rag. I can hear the sound of the glub when you tip the bottle and some pours out: that is the sound of my mother.
As I get older, the table became less adorned with waiting silverware and stacked china. It was always the place they did taxes together and it became more covered with bills as they grew apart. When my mom went back to school, a word processor took up home on it. I remember my sisters typing high school papers late into the night in the silent corner of our house. Secretly I longed to one day sit in the same coveted “head of the table” spot but like many things from my youth, the family ceremony faded before I truly “arrived”.
I always loved the shiek look of the table - it never went out of style. Nancy and I had it at our Wash Park house on Logan. It sat in that big beautiful dining room lined with windows covered in vines. There was plenty of space to move around it. Nancy use it as a workspace for law school.
When I moved in with D that table came and sat lovely under the modern light he hung in the living room. I stored away the leaves and covers to let it stand free and admire it’s design. I also recovered the seats with bright orange fabric.
Yesterday when a guy came to pick it up, it occurred to me that this table has been in both my girls lives the entire time. Here on Race street we have gathered around it so many times. I was sad to see it go mostly because it’s been around for 50+ years and marks the end of a few eras.
One of the last things my mother mentioned to me, in her right mind, was what a poor job I was doing taking care of it. She was right. I wasn’t keeping it as pristine as it was all through my childhood until she gave it to me in my 20s. There were water stains and marks from hot plates, a missing chair and scratches from every day life. I longed to sand it and bring out it’s natural beauty for another 50 years. But I know I don’t have that drive. Some part of me believes it came alive in the second part of it’s life, rather than sitting lonely in a room waiting for people to commune around it only a few times a month.
So I busted out some Old English and a rag, tipped the bottle for the glub, and polished it one last time. The orange fabric on the chairs was worn and tattered - surely that will be the first thing to go. Adam and Riley brought it for their first home; they plan to give it a second life by refinishing it. It matches many of the designs currently on the market. That seems hopeful to me.
I like to imagine my mom would enjoy that story; although really I know she would be disappointed I let it go. But such is life: I outgrew it and now it can live in my memories. I’ve got a new beautiful table of my own.
