Home is Where the Table Is

I carry home with me no matter where I sleep. My Southern upbringing and drawl surface when I say, “Look what the cat dragged in,” to a late student; when I’m sitting in the spa sipping a martini and refer to my husband as “ya’ll,” or when I softly draw out the syllables of “uh-huh” instead of screaming “Go away!” to someone who has ticked me off. These elements of my deepest home, my roots, sprout new flowers daily.

In addition to this heritage aspect, I consider the place my family gathers for meals to be home. Over the years we have met at tables ranging from diner-like, square, Formica slabs with metal-legged, vinyl-cushioned chairs for four to formal, beveled-glass table tops resting on carved pillars above brocade-upholstered, bullion-trimmed parsons chairs seating eight. The table we have now is a heavy, wooden square large enough to accommodate family and friends together. It exudes the warmth of natural materials and solid, simple craftsmanship. This table – as is true for the many others my family has gathered round – symbolizes “home” to me.

After all, dining tables must be the ultimate representation of a family’s life. This is where my son does homework and my husband sets up his laptop. This is the place for hours-long games of Monopoly, Scattergories, and Sorry. This is where I spread out sewing projects and painting supplies. This is the place we fold laundry, piece together puzzles, doodle while talking on the phone, and repeatedly shoo the cats off of. The family dining table is so much more than a place to eat including desk, gift-wrapping station, and toy hospital. It is the one piece of end-all, be-all furniture in our household.

Funny, the last thing we actually do there is eat, but that’s important, too. The table is the site of birthday celebrations, six-course dinner parties, and steaming bowls of soup for ailing family members. Many of my best memories revolve around the dinner table – my father regaling us with stories of Catholic school, my mother talking about living in Sierra Blanca, my brother making cowboy hats and pistols from tin foil. These childhood memories give rise to thoughts of hosting Christmas dinner, of my son playing with a chocolate cupcake on his first birthday, of potluck suppers served amid raucous laughter. We have spilled wine, chicken soup, and tears across stain-release tablecloths and napkins, which is why wherever my loved ones gather for a meal or to play, to work, to talk, is home to me.