Tables, desks and other concerns

I love my kitchen table. The table began its service for us as a new Canadel table with a beautiful, polished wood finish. The salesman promised that it would stand up to the rigors of family life with the same capacity as laminate. I believed him. He was wrong. The table now has water marks, marker marks, scratches, and funny little holes that look like stabs of a pencil. Pencil stabbed many, many times... huh?

Our kitchen table is the workhorse in this house. We have an open concept floor plan with the kitchen, dining and living room areas being one big room. Of all the furniture and surfaces in this big room, the table is used more than the kitchen counters, more than the sofa, more than the easy chair and certainly more than the stove and sink. It is the center of our home school. It is where the bills get paid, the pictures get processed, the family pow-wows are conducted and disputes settled.

Did I mention family dinners? No? Imagine that!

As such, I hate my kitchen table, I really do. I have officially declared it a thorn in my flesh. My kitchen table is a disorganized pile of papers, books, pens, pencils, calculators, cameras, tape measures, CDs, dirty dishes, remotes, cell phones AND cordless handsets (and, let me tell you, they all look alike) boxes of crackers and bags of chips. Everything except my keys, which I can NEVER find! If Peter Walsh came in my house, he would zero in on my kitchen table and ask me those pointed, emotional, get to the heart of it type of questions that he is so darn good at! I can hear him now, in that charming Aussie accent:

“Now, leapinlily, does this table enhance and advance the vision you have for the life you want or does it impede it?”

“Mr. Walsh, there is no table in this room. What you're seeing is my desk and I'm hungry. Who can eat, eh!?

I recently watched a PBS biography of Mark Twain. It was a fascinating story set in a time far removed from the busy, loud, wired times in which we now live. During his married life in the mid to late 1800's, Mr. Twain lived in a large, Victorian style house full of character and genteelism. One particular sepia toned still of a table with four large wicker chairs sitting around it remains lodged in my mind. A square table cloth graced the round table, the corners of the cloth nearly touching the floor. The table had a bouquet of flowers set in the middle, goblets for water and tall, slender glasses for iced tea. Imagine that!

And, while I couldn't see the dishes themselves, as a former antique dealer, I could visualize a charming set of antique porcelain china gracing that table. The kind of dishes that weren't made for dishwashers or meals on the run. I loved them and sold them but never once did we eat from them.

So, I would tell Mr. Walsh that my vision for my life may only get as far as keeping up with all the activity that happens on my kitchen table. But, once in a while, just for grins, I'll get a big Rubbermaid tote and clear my busy, loud and wired life from my table and create a lovely table set with flowers and linen, goblets and my best Corelle Ware. We'll sit down as a family and eat a meal. Imagine that!

Cheers!

leapinlily

PS - this is the last post about my kitchen table, I promise!