Table

by Hilary Jocelyn

I know you are supposed to have big albums of glossy photos to ponder lovingly over, after the birth of your baby. Especially when it’s the first one. And so, maybe you will think there was a serious gap in my parenting skills and judgment, if I confide in you that by the time baby gorgeous was three months old, the number of pictures we had taken of our gurgling wee lassie, could probably be counted on just one hand. Of course, relatives and friends, and doting grandparents on my partners side, added to our meagre collection, so maybe we can be excused for this act of unspeakable neglect. But, you have to understand, the main reason for this faux pas wasn’t to do with a lack of parental pride, or a reflection on our intense  happiness with our bundle of joy, but was just because we didn’t have a functioning camera that we could lay our hands on. 

This was, of course, well  before the time of the cell phone, and so taking a picture required a specialized device called a camera .Mine had seized up a week or two before the magical moment of  birth , and as financially, things were a bit tight back then, we had to spend our  tender pennies on diapers, food and shelter, rather than on things that went “smile please,” with a  click and a flash.

But then came Christmas, and under the tree lay a small box containing a much sought after camera. Given to us by the indulgent grandparents who lived reasonably close by. Moments later, we discovered  a mysterious envelope that lay buried deep under a small pile of opened  gifts. An envelope  that came from the other kind-hearted  grandparents, who lived  far away across the ocean in Bonnie Scotland. Yes, you guessed!  It contained a generous amount of money, with the specific  and detailed instructions that we spend it on a respectable camera. Afterall, they couldn’t reach out over the sea to cuddle baby, and so a regular supply of photos would at least keep them in the loop in someway or another.

Well, we  really didn’t need two picture taking machines, so we looked around the room of our sparsely furnished apartment, and for sure, there was something significant that was lacking. Something that every home really needs. Probably  even more than a camera.

A table.

Yes, we had a wobbly card table that we had found by the side of the road, before it got snaffled up by the garbage truck, and it did sort of serve as a spot to gobble down a bowl of cereal, or to enjoy a cup of tea, but what we really wanted, was a fully fledged dining room table, that would serve as the heart of our simple home. I hadn’t bought a piece of new furniture ever, in my entire  life, and our apartment was a mish mash of bits and pieces collected from our kind sister-in-law, from friends who had moved out of town, or things that were  rejected by  previous tenants. And of course, several gems that we had  found abandoned on the dank city curb.

I had vaguely heard of a Swedish place that sold new and somewhat affordable  furniture, so I asked around, and discovered that it was called  IKEA,  and was probably the place that might step up to the plate and met our  new table  needs. This mammoth -sell- everything- including the kitchen sink,- store  lay on the west side of the city and so off I set one morning on the first leg of my  big, exciting, hunting expedition, which involved three busses, and several minutes of walk. All with a three-month old baby in tow. We made it there finally, all in one piece, after some long bus waits, a few wrong turns, and, of course, snowbank versus stroller struggles. It was an airport type of building  that stood proudly, flashing its internationally recognised blue and yellow IKEA sign, and taking up several blocks of suburban city streets as it did so.

Of course, negotiating our way to the table buying department meant winding through the maze of every household item anyone had ever seen fit to invent. I think I would have found it easier to find my way to my intended  destination, if I had been out on a misty mountain, or schlepping  through unmarked territory in a mysterious and unknown land. Luckily, my three-month-old was oblivious, exhausted by the intriguing  journey we had just accomplished. She slept solidly and adorably, as I made my way past beds of all shapes and sizes, artistic sheets and towels, and  exotic lighting systems. Finally, we  ended up in the kitchen and dining room section, where, like exhibits in a museum,  many fine specimens were on display and  begging to be bought.

 As I glanced at a price tag, I gasped in dismay and horror. These gorgeous pieces of pine, so near and yet so far, were utterly and completely  out of my budget. I clutched my dog-eared  envelope of  Christmas gifted cash, and realised, with a thud of sorrow, that the kind of  table I had dreamed of, was not going to be mine anytime soon. Yes, I could probably have  stretched to buying  a fake wooden one, something laminated and shiny and faux looking, but the solid wood one that I wanted, suddenly stretched away into the distant future. Not for the kind of  family like ours, where one adult member was  in the process of  full time and demanding school, and the other one was at home with a baby.

I made my way back though the various lanes of the Ikea highway, and as I was leaving, disappointment laden and  emptyhanded,  ( I mean who on earth leaves Ikea empty handed? )  I noticed that baby was beginning to stir and to squiggle and squirm. I realised, with a jolt that unless I fed her in the next few minutes, life would become unbearable for her, for me, and for  all the other customers and bus passengers I was going to rub shoulders with in the next wee whiley.

I asked  an earnest IKEA  employee, who was  surveying  the ever-flowing foot traffic close to the exit door, if there was a secluded place where I could hunker down and feed baby. ‘Oh yes’, he said, ‘right next to the  As Is Section. There’s a quiet room where you can nurse  your baby.” So, off I snuck, following his directions to a calm space where baby’s culinary needs were able to be met. After the deed was done and  her belly was full  to bursting again, my curiosity was piqued, and I tracked down the illusive “ As Is Section. ” What I discovered in this particular  corner of consumerism, was a place where they sold  the stuff that was not quite up to scratch. A bit like the ‘past the sell by date’ cart  that you  discover in the grocery store, where you can indeed uncover slightly  stale bread, squishy vegetables, and brown soft bananas.

I went to have a poke around.  Wobbly beds, kitchen counters that were the wrong size, chairs with small stains on them, and many more items were lined up in front of me. All significantly reduced. And  yes, you know what comes next, there in the corner was the kind of table I was hunting for. A table where people could gather around, and eat, and drink tea, and be merry. I approached this chunk of Swedish pine and looked cautiously at the price tag, and  my smile deepened as I discovered that yes, the money in the envelope would just about  be enough. Nothing about it seemed imperfect to me, as it had four  solid legs at each corner, and a smooth dent free surface that looked like still, calm, water. After a close and thorough inspection, I  finally saw why it was labeled as damaged goods and thus was to be  sold for roughly half  its price. I then grinned wide enough to tickle each ear.  Because, on the underbelly of the detachable  extension piece in the middle, was a small scratch. An almost unnoticeable one.

As if!  Three cheers for “ As Is!”

Money exchanged hands, and delivery arrangements were made, because I certainly couldn’t bring this thing back  on the bus with me. Baby cried loudly and decisively  all the way home, earning me irritated looks from some  bus riders, and sympathetic smiles from others. She cheered up completely  once we got home, and  we had a well earned  celebratory snuggle. And then, in a day or two, our proud purchase came up the three flights of stairs, and installed itself regally in our kitchen.

This was more than three decades ago now,  and  our resilient Table has moved many times, witnessing the stories of our lives, as they have unfolded around the now, deeply scratched, and well- worn wooden surface. Happiness. Anxious Moments. Painful  Experiences. Joyful Milestones.

But what I love above all, are the memories of  the many Celebrations that  hover permanently  in Table’s cracks and crevices.  As I look around, and welcome  the gathering of friends and  family, I rejoice that we can all  squeeze regularly around the solid rounded sides and share a joyful meal together.   

 And, of course, drink hundreds and  thousands of cups of tea.