It was a galley kitchen and my first "real" apartment. My first apartment on my own without a roommate. The challenge? Not the rent. Not the smell of permanent solution for hair that permeated the apartment on Saturday mornings when the women all came and got their perms, but the fact that the door to enter the apartment was blocked by the refrigerator. This was most assuredly a fire hazard because it literally only opened up about 15 inches. At this point in my life there is not way I could even enter my own place. It certainly limited my visitors to those who had small breasts, and were slightly underweight. You could get in if you shifted your body catty-corner to the fridge, pushed slightly on the back door, all the while inhaling the most you could.
There was no room in the kitchen. The rest of the apartment was spacious, to say the least. But the kitchen left much to be desired. I asked my grandfather, who at the time, was in his 80s to make me some kind of a table for the kitchen. I don't know why. Why would I want to sit two people in a four foot alley of a cooking space? It made no sense, but since he lived 250 miles away and never saw the apartment, he was glad to be asked to take part in this first step in my "adult" life.
It was, like the kitchen, long and narrow. The legs were wooden, and the table top was not a beautiful inlaid top, like all the other beautiful pieces he made. It was durable. It was sensible. It was made from left over linoleum with tiny yellow and green spots that he had from the 50s. Yes, the 1950s and he still had the same linoleum that he had on their own kitchen table, and the counter top in their kitchen. The legs were stained a funky light mahogany because I believe he mixed two colors of what he had around -- never a waster was he! So it was my first kitchen table. In very efficient manner, he had bolted the legs to the table and labeled them "A", B", "C" so I could reassemble them later, when I inevitably and hopefully, in his mind, married and reused the table. It was, in short, wonderful. It was wonderful because he made it. It was funky because it was silly with it's odd top and oddly colored wooden legs. It was my Grandfather in his sensibility. The sensibility that got him to this country and kept many a roof over their heads.
The table rarely got used at that apartment. I brought it to every place I lived afterwards, never leaving it behind, never not storing it lovingly. It was such an odd shape because it fit the odd shape of that particular kitchen, it never really got used. I still have it tucked away in my shed, with all it's legs comfortably sitting close by, ready to be assembled at any moment.
When I uncover it, I can recall how many days I sat at that table in their kitchen with the same spotted yellow and green linoleum, having chicken soup and waffles before we watched the "stories". I can recall when I sat on the funky little step stool chair that had a step stool that you could pull out underneath. I would rest my hand on the counter top and watch my Grandmother put her Cool Whip on the jello she had lovingly, and expectantly, made with canned fruit cocktail. Almost always red jello, but every once in a while, she'd throw you for a loop and make green. I'd trace the spots along the metal edging of the counter top.
I can take out that table now, all these years later, touch it with one finger and taste the jello, hear the soap operas or the "stories" as they were called. I can remember when my grandfather finished the table I had specifically requested and given him the measurements for -- his eyes were proud. He was the epitome of reduce, reuse, recycle well before it was cool, or really even critically necessary. I was thrilled because it fit perfectly. It fit better than most people who came to see me did as they came to my home. I kept flowers in a vase on it. I used it prepare things I made for others and took with me because no one could actually fit in the kitchen but me. I loved that table then, and I love that table now. Grandpa has been gone over 14 years and every time I touch that table I'm reminded of all the love and pride that went into making it for me for my very first place.
There was no room in the kitchen. The rest of the apartment was spacious, to say the least. But the kitchen left much to be desired. I asked my grandfather, who at the time, was in his 80s to make me some kind of a table for the kitchen. I don't know why. Why would I want to sit two people in a four foot alley of a cooking space? It made no sense, but since he lived 250 miles away and never saw the apartment, he was glad to be asked to take part in this first step in my "adult" life.
It was, like the kitchen, long and narrow. The legs were wooden, and the table top was not a beautiful inlaid top, like all the other beautiful pieces he made. It was durable. It was sensible. It was made from left over linoleum with tiny yellow and green spots that he had from the 50s. Yes, the 1950s and he still had the same linoleum that he had on their own kitchen table, and the counter top in their kitchen. The legs were stained a funky light mahogany because I believe he mixed two colors of what he had around -- never a waster was he! So it was my first kitchen table. In very efficient manner, he had bolted the legs to the table and labeled them "A", B", "C" so I could reassemble them later, when I inevitably and hopefully, in his mind, married and reused the table. It was, in short, wonderful. It was wonderful because he made it. It was funky because it was silly with it's odd top and oddly colored wooden legs. It was my Grandfather in his sensibility. The sensibility that got him to this country and kept many a roof over their heads.
The table rarely got used at that apartment. I brought it to every place I lived afterwards, never leaving it behind, never not storing it lovingly. It was such an odd shape because it fit the odd shape of that particular kitchen, it never really got used. I still have it tucked away in my shed, with all it's legs comfortably sitting close by, ready to be assembled at any moment.
When I uncover it, I can recall how many days I sat at that table in their kitchen with the same spotted yellow and green linoleum, having chicken soup and waffles before we watched the "stories". I can recall when I sat on the funky little step stool chair that had a step stool that you could pull out underneath. I would rest my hand on the counter top and watch my Grandmother put her Cool Whip on the jello she had lovingly, and expectantly, made with canned fruit cocktail. Almost always red jello, but every once in a while, she'd throw you for a loop and make green. I'd trace the spots along the metal edging of the counter top.
I can take out that table now, all these years later, touch it with one finger and taste the jello, hear the soap operas or the "stories" as they were called. I can remember when my grandfather finished the table I had specifically requested and given him the measurements for -- his eyes were proud. He was the epitome of reduce, reuse, recycle well before it was cool, or really even critically necessary. I was thrilled because it fit perfectly. It fit better than most people who came to see me did as they came to my home. I kept flowers in a vase on it. I used it prepare things I made for others and took with me because no one could actually fit in the kitchen but me. I loved that table then, and I love that table now. Grandpa has been gone over 14 years and every time I touch that table I'm reminded of all the love and pride that went into making it for me for my very first place.
No comments:
Post a Comment