A Mother’s Day Tribute

I am the proud owner of a new, I mean old, dining room table.  Our previous table was purchased at a yard sale about seven years ago as we were preparing to move into our first “real” house.  It was the ubiquitous pine kitchen table that it seems everyone owns.  It came to us with its own past, full of scratches and dings and a marred finish.  It served us well and it was nice to not have to worry about all the paint smears and fork-stabbing-pockmarks that accumulated under the busy hands of our children.

But on Tuesday last week we brought home a new table.  An old table. A table from my own past; from my childhood.  My parents are moving to smaller quarters and no longer have need of a large, formal dining room set.  I managed to inherit it thanks to Sean checking his email at 11:30 every night (it was up for grabs among my siblings and I).  We moved it in Tuesday night (the kitchen table was relocated to my studio and upgraded to a craft table (hallelujah!)).  Wednesday night was our first meal around our very own real dining room set.

The silly thing is I started to cry.  Thankfully, not hugely.  I don’t think anyone even knew.  I kept looking out the window to hide my eyes.  I wasn’t crying because our prayer for a dining room set was finally answered (and it truly was an answered prayer – I pray over everything – I think it’s a compulsion).  I was crying because of all the memories that were flooding into my mind as I sat at the table.  You see, before this table became my parents’, it was my grandparents’.  And as I sat there on Wednesday night I could see my grandpa and grandma sitting there with me.  I could see the little bowls of cottage cheese and pineapple and the plates of watered down spaghetti sprinkled with parmesan cheese from a can.  I could hear my grandpa Bible-swearing about the idiots at the donut shop.  I could see the bizarre wooden artichoke candy dish that resided on the table when no one was eating.  I remember my Aunt Vicki’s gingerbread train that covered the table each Christmas Eve.  And oh, do I remember dusting that table!  Every Tuesday and Thursday my sister or I dusted that table.  Admittedly, the table seemed much smaller as I sat there with my own growing family (I was seven years old the summer I lived with my grandmother).  My son was sitting where my grandpa used to sit.

When I went to bed that night I cried some more.  I cried for my grandparents that I miss so much, that I wish I could talk to and visit; grandparents that I wish could hold my sweet children.  Last night I asked Sean what he thought Alyx would say if she could talk.  Without a moment’s hesitation he said, “She would talk about how nice Grandpa Locken is.”  And I know if Sean had had the chance to meet my grandma, he would have included her in the thought.

I know today is Mother’s Day, and I hope my mom won’t mind, but I wish to spend it honoring my grandmother, her mother.  I remember so many things about her, so many things I loved her for.  I think what I love most about her is that I knew she loved me, and my brothers and sister, and my parents.  I knew we were important to her and she would do everything she could to love us and take care of us.  I never doubted we meant the world to her.  I imagine all of her children and grandchildren felt the same way.  I honor her goodness, her love and her motherhood, and her grand-motherhood.  I miss her so very much and I look forward to holding her hand once again.

In the meantime, I will sit at my dining room table and surround it with more memories of love and family.  Until we meet again . . .