When I walked through the back door, I knew he would either be in his recliner or at the kitchen table.
If he was in his recliner, there was a 50 / 50 chance he had fallen asleep with a cigarette in hand and either Bonanza or In the Heat of the Night blaring from the television.
If he was expecting me and it was morning, he would most likely be at the kitchen table, facing me when I walked through the door, flipping through a magazine he had pulled from the stack that was a foot tall and rising.
This kitchen table is more than a table to me.
I sat on this table and ate my first birthday cake and drank from a mustard bottle.
I sat at this table and watched my grannie make me milkshakes.
I sat at this table and watched my pap try to make those same milkshakes.
I sat at this table and said my first curse word as I stuck a fork into a potato.
I sat at this table as he told me he would work on the tractor and I would mow the grass. I may hurt myself on the tractor.
I sat at this table with every cookbook of my grannie’s open, looking for that one chicken spaghetti recipe that my pap wanted so much to make.
I sit at this table now and write this post.
This table has been around as long as I can remember. Its solid, its sturdy, and if there is one piece of furniture that I want to work at every day, its this one. Its got a good history.
And we all know a piece of furniture with a good history is the best.
