The Kitchen Table Is Life

Now and then Patri­cia and I go into IKEA to buy meat­balls. There is a direct route from the entrance to the meat­balls (which are, in fact, next to the exit), but that takes all the sport out of it, so we obe­di­ent­ly fol­low the yel­low arrows through the store, pass­ing all man­ner of home fur­nish­ings, most of which are designed for per­sons younger than us. But I have a rebel­lious streak, and I have been known to have the absurd, rev­o­lu­tion­ary idea of buy­ing a new kitchen table.  Such think­ing needs to be squashed mercilessly.

Our kitchen table has not been with us for fifty years. Not quite. But Richard Nixon was in his first term when we got it. A white top and a var­nished yel­low wood­en frame. Four lad­der back yel­low chairs with woven straw seats.  Seemed just per­fect at the time. There were only three of us, and one was in a high chair. We fig­ured it would do for a while.

And it has. There was a mild cri­sis when the three grew into five and peo­ple out­num­bered chairs, but we came up with a white lad­der back chair with a woven straw seat, and that has done the job. After a few years the five went back to four and then to three and then, for a short time, up to six. These days it is nor­mal­ly three, but has been known to swell to eight. There’s anoth­er white lad­der back chair and a youth chair which the youngest mem­ber of the clan is still will­ing to sit in. A stool is occa­sion­al­ly involved.

The kitchen table has trav­eled with us from state to state, from house to house.  From time to time one of the chairs has had a struc­tur­al prob­lem, but noth­ing the fam­i­ly handy-per­son (which is not me) can’t handle.

I am not a good enough math­e­mati­cian to cal­cu­late the num­ber of meals that have been eat­en at that table. Or the con­ver­sa­tions, rang­ing from deliri­ous to tear-filled. Or the num­ber of Christ­mas cook­ies dec­o­rat­ed there­on, or the num­ber of cross­word puz­zles solved, or the num­ber of ser­mons writ­ten there, or the num­ber of card games played, pic­tures drawn and col­ored or paint­ed.  Nap­kins and place­mats and can­dles have come and gone, but the table has stayed, and I believe it will for a few more years.

That kitchen table, you see, is life. It is us. Home just wouldn’t be the same with­out it. All I need from IKEA is meat­balls. And maybe some lin­gonber­ries to go with them. To eat at the kitchen table. THE kitchen table.

Steve McKin­ley is a retired pas­tor, dot­ing grand­fa­ther, occa­sion­al author. Wants to be a poet when he grows up.