Back in the late eighties, Amy Grant sang a song entitled “If These Walls Could Speak” (not written by her, but her version of it is the one I know). The imagery in the lyrics of a house with walls that could absorb and retell the stories of its people is poetic and leaves a lasting impression. What stories are held in the stone walls of this old farmhouse? Recently, a woman who dropped by here mentioned that she had spent a lot of time in this house when she was growing up. With a grin, she told of how they would take mattresses off the beds and use them to ride down the stairs. If these “hallowed halls” could talk…
And now, my story and that of my family’s, is being steeped into these dear walls. While walls bring to mind stalwart, benign bystanders keeping their place in the margins around the perimeter of the room, tables on the other hand are often central to the fray. Tables too, are privy to so much story. What tales could my kitchen table tell? What about yours?
Tables are humble in their purpose. They hold things. Be it a meal, a work project, a game, or clutter their role is typically to remain steady and sturdy.
Tables encourage conversation. Especially when there’s food on the table and a meal is being shared. Conversation has opportunity to ebb and flow, delving into this topic and that one. When there’s time to linger long after the official meal is over, talk can continue. Someone takes one more spoonful of the dressing or breaks a cookie in half while another uses the napkin rings to build a pyramid. Candles are tampered with and occasionally a glass of red is spilled on a white table cloth. And still conversation meanders and connects.
In the latter weeks of this mild winter, we gathered with some old friends around our kitchen table and shared a meal. We stayed at that table long and, as often is the case, a shared history will often prompt shared stories. Our shared experience around church affiliation and a protracted dialogue about faith eventually became the next course of our meal. One friend pondered how children might be affected by what was being presented in a Sunday school setting. Bible stories are fraught with dysfunction and when presented as non-negotiable, can leave a lasting impression on a child that can be harmful. Bible stories are also filled with hope and wisdom and can present an exploration of a third way in a dilemma. In the days following this conversation, I pondered the fact that I had had uncensored access to the whole of the Bible from the time I could read. And read it I did. From the time I could read. Other reading material was held to the light for inspection, but the Bible with all its raw, unfiltered story was thought to be safe. That late winter, Sunday dinner table dialogue led to further self reflection as I think good table talk often does.
At still another kitchen table, after another shared meal of sausage lentil stew, cornbread muffins followed by egg cheese and fresh maple syrup, I learned how to play the game Ticket to Ride. Fred was my co-engineer and together we plotted our routes and tried to keep pace with the experienced railcar layers with whom we were playing. The game conjured up both memory of my Dad who loved trains as well as early school days and learning about transportation and communication. Tables and playing board games like tables and good conversation simply go together.
Then there’s the table at which my ninety-year-old Mom sits with all her bits and bobs within easy reach. The table is suited to the height of her easy chair and situated by a window where she can watch the world go by. Sitting by that small table, she can comfortably enjoy her meals, visit with her children, or play a round or two of the marble game. The table also is home to her tablet which enables her to colour contentedly, see pictures sent her way, or “attend” church and listen to her favourite preacher, a nephew, preach a sermon.
On Easter Sunday, some of my kids with some of their friends sat informally around the new-to-us but old kitchen table that we got for our new kitchen. This table with its wide planks and open cracks through which the crumbs fall was said to have come from a convent in Pembrook. As the talk that morning wound its way through laughter and fashion, through intimate reflection and heartfelt doubt and questions, I sat back in my cook’s chair (aptly named so by my sister) and saw the waters stirred and felt Presence come near. That table has only had a year of our stonehouse stories but over a hundred years of accumulated stories of others.
Last but by no means least, is the sacred ordinary of tea times and meals of workaday fare shared kitty-corner at the convent kitchen table between my own farmer and me. He in his little black thrift chair and I in my cook’s chair verbally meander through the happenings of the day, the ever-present detail of the weather and its impact on our work, and whatever grandie anecdote may have come our way. Table talk without fanfare has the means with which to stitch two lives together.