Not Just Any Kitchen Table

We all have them, and they come in an assortment of sizes and as many different styles and colors as you can imagine. I remember our first one. It was green and gold with padded chairs and metal legs that shone like a silver dollar. We were in tall cotton, as Pa would say.

At mealtime, my mother made sure that we all gathered around the table and remembered our manners. She was a good cook, and when you’re eating with a family of six, you better dig in quick ’cause if you don’t, you might not get any. We didn’t have a lot, but I can’t ever remember going hungry.

My sister, Cindy, who has cerebral palsy, was the last at the table, especially in her younger years before she got a motorized wheelchair. Most times Dale, Randy, or I might push her into the kitchen. Pa sat down, and the meal would commence. It never failed that someone would spill a glass of iced tea, usually Randy. Then came the familiar speech by Mama about how she wished we could get through one meal without someone making a mess. It was also not uncommon for one of us, generally Dale or me, to slip something under the table to our dependable plate cleaner — the dalmatian dog, Trey. We were all supposed to clean our plates before leaving the table, which was often difficult when Mama was serving something green. But we had figured out, with the help of our older brother, Randy, that you could wrap any vegetable in a piece of bread and ole Trey would swallow it in one gulp.

Sitting around an old kitchen table brings back many fond memories and also some that aren’t so fond. It was there that my dad got a call and we found out his cancer had come back, and it was bad. He just looked at my mother and said the words that I still hear when I think the world has given me more than I can handle, “It ain’t no step for a stepper.” We all just sat there in silence. For the first time in my life, that table served up something with a bad taste.

Time passed, as did my father, but the table that we sat around after his funeral is still in our family today. If only it could talk and tell of the good times it provided, the bond and the blend of people who had sat at it. Many good recipes were served off that table, and the ones I remember most were made with love and understanding.

Every family needs a good table, and ours had one of the best. It held not only plates but also a family together — better than any glue that was ever used to repair it.