The Table

Bryce drove along the north shore lost in thought, which was easy to do for most people given the surrounding beauty of the drive. Anyone expecting white sands and turquoise blue waters to match their google image searches would be disappointed. But this was the real north shore to Bryce; the steel blue waters of Lake Superior, the jagged cliffs carved out to make room for the voyageur road, and the endless expanse of pine trees giving much needed air to a brain deep in thought.

Bryce pulled over at a scenic viewpoint just north of Two Harbors to stare out into the presumed lake that may as well be an ocean. He had a problem. He had a solution to that problem. That solution caused further problems. He needed to think on how to solve those problems. Bryce worked at a state park about an hour outside of Duluth; he was happy with his job, happy with where his family lived, and happy with his family, mostly.

His current initial problem for which he had a solve, was that his two young boys, ages four and two, were already too enamored with screens, tablets, toasters, or really anything that ran on electricity in his opinion. As a state park representative and someone who survived thirty years of Minnesota winters to still come out in the positive opinion side of the area, he felt like he was losing a battle with his boys. The solve he had, was to build a kitchen table for their home. Some of his fondest memories with his parents were playing board games and sharing ice cream at their kitchen table.

His wife and himself moved into a home just before his first son was born and in the inevitable shuffle and never-ending war with unpacking, they just never got around to filling the space in their kitchen. The result was dinners on the couch with the TV shouting in the background. Having a place to sit as a family for dinner and play games was a necessity. For some reason the world, nor Bryce, will ever know, he felt the need to build the table himself. But Bryce was not a carpenter, he had not won his boy scouts pinewood derby, nor did he have an expansive wealth of tools to complete the task. Oh, and of course there was the problem of all the white pine that was in his truck bed currently waiting to surprise his unknowing wife.

Undeterred and having come up with absolutely no real game plan, Bryce returned to his truck and drove the remaining miles home. His wife Phoebe was in the front yard tossing a ball to their two-year-old son, Travis. Their older son, Ryan sat on their porch with Pheobe’s phone in his hands playing some kind of game of course. As Pheobe’s eyes landed on Bryce’s grey Ford F150 her smile slowly faded to an exhausted stare as the large planks of wood grew in her field of vision.

Pheobe spoke more exasperated than angry, “Bryce, I don’t know what half-baked plan you have now, but I cannot take another project! Your beer brewing kit, the smoker, and that rust bucket already take up half of our garage!”

Bryce put on his best innocent face to mix with his defense, “First and foremost a Chevy Nova is not a rust bucket no matter how little of an engine it has. Secondly, I think you’ll appreciate the direction of this new and fully baked plan.”

Bryce gave a nod to his oldest son playing the games on her phone. It wasn’t like their children only played electronic games, but Pheobe even was beginning to get concerned with them enjoying screen time a little too much. He could tell she was intrigued so he had made it past the first hurdle and went on to explain his idea of building a kitchen table. She was hooked like a Minnesotan to a table of hotdish.

The next three weeks might as well have been a journey through the stages of grief. There was denial; both on Pheobe and Bryce’s part on whether the project would come to fruition. There was anger; mostly on Bryce’s part on why the hell these pieces of wood wouldn’t cooperate with him. Bargaining; again, talking to wood trying to convince it to do things. Depression, evident. Finally, acceptance that the table would forever be called rustic, but was none the less a completed farmhouse style table with five planks across the top with a natural finish coat.

The thing was laid out. Bryce stayed home and got some help moving the completed table into the kitchen while the kids were at daycare; visions in his head of the kids running home with great excitement were springing to life. However, the initial night of the table’s existence did not go necessarily as planned. They sat down for dinner and the kids barely ate anything before wanting to get up and play or go watch cartoons. Bryce and Phoebe finished talking about their day though with a great feeling of connection, so all was not lost.

The next day they decided to do family game night. They pulled Candyland and some bags of popcorn and the kids yelled with excitement. The table took its first battle scar that evening as Travis had some wax weapons holstered in his pockets. He drew out the colorful pistols and proceeded to draw lines on the uncoated legs of the table while the rest of the family finished up their game. When Pheobe saw him and grabbed the crayons from his hand, she thought Bryce might be upset given the work he put into the table, but he just smiled and said to Travis, “thanks buddy, the table was missing some character.”

From that moment on, the table became the focal point of the family’s evenings. They did story time with three of them sitting around one side as the others would share. They did art projects that were varying degrees of fridge worthiness. Phoebe and Bryce budgeted their bills after the kids went to sleep. The crayons weren’t the only damages taken either; milk, toys, keys, food, and glass being unceremoniously dropped at one point or another. They fought, they played, and bit by bit the table soaked up the life around it. The grains of wood becoming veins bringing energy to each board and leg.

The weeks turned into years and the table felt all the ups and downs the family experienced. The table was there to support Ryan’s head when he came home crying after his first day of elementary school because he didn’t think he would make any new friends. The table held up all the goodies proudly for the celebration of Bryce’s father beating cancer. The table remained when the couch was removed, when the fridge was changed, and the kitchen floor remodeled. Each year that passed the table could feel what the family felt more and more because Bryce, Phoebe, and the boys put their lives out to it.

Years turned into more years and the boys had left the house to start their own lives. Bryce and Pheobe decided to move near a lodge near the boundary waters to live out their golden years. Moving boxes were stacked on the table as it felt the gravity of moving from the home. Bryce shifted a box and some office supplies scattered to the floor. As he knelt down to pick them up, he looked over at the table leg and smiled. The wax had faded over the years, but Travis’ crayon markings remained tattooed upon the table and in that moment the table was able to share all the memories it kept within. Tears started collecting in Bryce’s eyes as he reached out to touch the table; it was a totem for all that their family was. He stood there for a moment allowing the warmth and calmness of the tables memories to pass over him and knew that the table would be there for him again.