A woman's altar

Right after man discovered fire, I am sure that woman advised him on the best use of it.  Sure, the water must be boiled (because cooties were in the water even back then), and warmth must be obtained (because moving around with a bear on your back while tending to the kids…well, let’s just say a monkey is lighter) and even he had to admit that food took on a better flavor once it was cooked.  But woman also knew of another purpose.  Fire would lead to all sorts of crafts that would keep him busy (while he pretended not to hear cave baby crying for something).  The most important craft he would eventually take up with all his rudimentary tools, born from the fire, would be woodworking.  She was already used to stirring with a stick, but what she really wanted was a table.  Inside every woman burns the need and respect for a good table. 

In spite of all the “I will always be free and loving it” designer’s declaration that it is the fireplace that is the focal point of a home (ok, now that is just silly.  First off, if a person in the South has a fireplace, it only has candles in it or it is totally blocked off with baby guards.  Secondly, even in the Arctic regions, no one gets continually romantic in front of the fireplace.  Sure, sure, maybe a little smooching, but eventually the conversation is going to get around to comfort and waking up the younguns.  Fireplaces are usually placed in the living room and typically living rooms have no doors.  Except formal living rooms.  Personally, I don’t think I know anyone with a formal living room.  But even if I do, I certainly don’t know any woman who would agree to mess it up for something that could just as easily be accomplished in comfort in another room!) But even cave woman knew, in the end, the fire watching is a man thing.  The epicenter of any home is a table. 

When I was a child, no matter how much our family grew, we always had some sort of table we could all sit around.  Daddy was always at the head of the table so he could open the eating session with a prayer uttered with a speed that could outrun a sonic boom.  The rest of the seating order didn’t really matter, but it helped to strategically place the kids with the longer arms for passing the butter and farther placed foods.  The family gathered round and all food was placed on the table in front of us.  Once the nano second prayer was offered, there was no getting up until permission was granted. 

So naturally when I furnished a home of my own, my biggest concern was the table.  Like most newly married couples, the first table was proudly carried away from a garage sale. This table not only became the altar for experimental recipes, but also the unpaid bills desk and resting place for the morning newspaper.  As our family evolved, we added tables.  Tables that attached to a baby chair, tables to put keys on, tables to rest reading lamps on, and tables that propped up small plants and made them look bigger.  

Tables are significant.  Wars have started and ended around tables.  Lives have been saved and lost on tables.  Romances have begun and broken with a table in between.  Tables are dear to a woman.  She knows their power and their silent absorption of life.

The most magnificent table I have ever seen belongs to my cousin.  She inherited it from some great, great relative of her husband.  It is solid oak and has a little bell underneath, right next to the head of the table.  It is called a “servant’s bell”.  It still works perfectly and calls the nonexistent staff to attend the needs of all those seated around the table.  My cousin regaled me with stories of how her children and grandchildren took turns sitting at the head of the table to be the bell ringer.  Later, when her family grew, her grandchildren would argue over who would put their sleeping bag under the table for the night.  Her table fed family, entertained guests, and became a coveted tent on rainy days and family reunions.  And there was the bell.  The bell was the table’s signature.

I wanted such a table.  And finally, I got one.  It is a beauty.  It expands or retracts, depending on how many faces surround it.  It has been the centerpiece of Thanksgiving thanks, Christmas celebration, Easter anticipation, birthday wishes, loving wedding showers, and joyful baby showers.  But mostly, it stands every day to be the foundation for homework, discussion, and family gathering.  It is the most important and beautiful piece of furniture in my house.

So last night my grandchild informed me that he was working on a surprise, so “don’t peek”.  I was cuddled next to my “I knew you when you were young but I love you even now that you are a grandma” husband, so I gave him my blessing.  I didn’t peek.  Little did I know that he launched, on my perfect table, a smack dab in the middle of September… Valentine…armed with scrap paper and a Sharpie (also known as the love child of enamel paint and quick drying cement).  

After rousing from my “ain’t I a lucky woman” embrace, I was presented with my September Valentine.  It was lovely.  “I Love You Mimi” was surrounded by a heart and fireworks.  A true treasure.   I kissed the best kid on earth goodnight and we all went to bed with smiles on our faces.

This morning, I began clearing the evidence of last night’s perfection.  Oh mercy!!!! Underneath the scrap….I mean Valentine paper…..was a bunch of indelible black, Sharpie (I live forever!) marks!!!!  My table….. my perfect table!!!!  

In a panic, I hit the internet.  Cyber angels surrounded me and gave me suggestions on how to save my perfect table.  Hairspray, alcohol, toothpaste, baking soda….they all were dumped on my “I will always be with you” table.

And guess what.  It worked.  Most of it came off.  All except the faint outline of a heart.  I kept that.  Now my table has its own signature.