The Heartbeat of the Kitchen Table

Cousins and fun at the kitchen table.

I don’t remember much about the first house I lived in. We moved from there when I was almost four.

But I do remember the front porch. And the upstairs bathroom with two sinks and a big mirror. I remember the backyard ice skating rink – which my dad built for us during the winter months.

And I remember our kitchen table. It sat smack in the middle of the room. A whale of a table – a requirement with five boys. And, most memorably, it was a picnic table.

A six-foot long redwood picnic table. Complete with two benches flanking the sides.

Why did my parents have a picnic table in their kitchen?

The truth – so they told me years later – was they couldn’t afford a nice table. And because they couldn’t have what they wanted, they figured out how to make it fun. And fun was the best way to describe what sitting at that table was all about.

Mealtime in our house was more like a tour through an Army mess hall. And our mom managed the process – including shouting out everyone’s duty in her sweet but oh-so-in-control voice. Her pots all looked like five-gallon buckets and her apron rivaled that of a short-order cook. Our plates were plastic and we drank out of old jelly jars (no worries when one was inevitably broken!). There was always a loaf of sliced bread sitting in the middle of the table, a pitcher of milk, and much-needed stack of paper napkins.

I don’t remember the food (sorry, Mom) – but I remember the feeling of sitting at that table. Squeaks and creaks and all.

And that feeling was fun. It was brothers. It was grounded. It was belonging. It was the smell in the air and the laughter drifting in and out of ears. It was voices layered upon voices.

It was the ritual of a prayer. It was passing butter down the line. It was an older brother pouring milk.

This was fun.

On an old picnic table.

Memories born.

Because this was family.