A table stands in the corner of our dining room. It is no longer the dining room table, has not been for nearly three decades, and is overshadowed by the 12-foot, cherry-wood monster with its eight chairs, but it is there, and stands regally ready to serve.

At first glance, there is nothing note-worthy about the table. It is round, about four feet across and covered by a tablecloth that matches the decor of the room. It is made of oak and is very old. It now holds books, family pictures, and heirlooms. There is nothing remarkable about the table until you know its history.

How the table came to be in our family is lost. Those who would remember are long gone. My grandparents had it most of their adult lives. I recall being told that my great-grandfather, whose woodworking plane now rests on the table, gave it to them after many years of use in his family. It is not too much of a stretch to assume my great-great-grandparents gathered around it when they came to visit. That would make it at least 100 years old. From my grand children back to my great-great grandfather represents seven generations that have sat around that table. That’s a whole lot of people breaking bread around the board.

My grandparents gave it to me after they downsized and moved to an apartment. Being a starving student, the table was a blessing and used every day.

When I got married, it was the kitchen table as it was in my grandparent’s home. The kitchen being the heart of the home, you can imagine not only how many meals were served on it, but think of the number of pies and cakes. How many times did it hear the singing of “Happy Birthday?” How much laughter has it shared with us and how many tears have landed on its polished surface? Imagine the stories it could tell.

Two of my books are based on my great-great-grandfather’s Civil War journals. Can you hear the voice of that aged doctor who served the Confederacy so valiantly, who fought in some of the major battles in the west, was wounded, captured, and spent time in Federal prisons in the north until he was able to escape, telling of those experiences around that table to his grandchildren, my grandfather? I can see their faces fixed on his, hanging on his every word as he shared his adventures.

The table survived a house fire. My great-grandfather lived in a community outside Liberty Hill, Texas called Loafer’s Glory. I can only imagine why it is named such. I never heard the story, but the table probably did. While in church across the road, the house caught fire. The congregation rushed over and saved what they could. The table was among the salvaged items. Was it damaged? Did my great-grandfather repair it, perhaps with the smoothing plane now resting on it? That story too is lost.

I remember pranks played at the table by my tough, boilermaker grandfather. His hands were like leather from handling hot metal all day. When asked to pass a dish, no matter how hot it was, he would pass it holding the bottom, suckering the recipient into thinking it was cool enough to hold the same way. The table heard some crashing bowls, laughter and some cuss words.

Our family with eight children outgrew the table, and had to come up with something bigger, so the old table was retired, but never completely. It is honored with its place, and every year it is pulled out, decorated, surrounded by happy family as it holds part of our Thanksgiving or Christmas feast. I take joy in setting it every time it is used. It is usually designated as the “kid’s table,” but I am sure it doesn’t mind. They represent another generation of laughter, tears, and growth.

I don’t know who will get the table after me, but one of the eight will feel its spirit and want it, and the beat will go on. I wonder what the next generations will think of it, and do around it. Whatever it is, I hope it involves laughter and tears as it has for me.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted at: www.starchasers.us.