Table Tale

I've always loved my South American Hardwood table ever since I bought it back in the Pleistocene Era. I've served many a dinner party, potluck, buffet and brunch on it's surface. I've used it for Christmas parties, Easter parties, and for Passover Seders. Entire quilts have been pinned on it, holiday cards have been mass-constructed on it, and more recently it has acted as a paperwork organizer as I wend my way through this medical miasma I am currently experiencing.

Last night I said goodbye to this old friend! I sold it to a lovely couple, just starting out, who were looking for good pieces to start their lives with. I told them I was so glad they were not dirtbags! They liked that.

How awful that floor looks! Of course it's not from lack of scrubbing. It's just old and stained and discolored and 'all woe out'. In the meantime, I've set up my little folding end table to act as a pretend table. It's not right but it's the way it has to be for now.

My cousin recently told me that she hated the old adage 'there is no use crying over spilled milk' because it seems to her that is EXACTLY the thing to be crying over. Whats' the use of crying over a glass that is sitting perfectly full on a safe table? Spilled milk must be cried over in buckets. All the regrets and and 'woulda-shoulda-coulda's' must be sobbed out in gallons and gallons of spilled milk.

And then you wipe up the mayhem and face forward again.