Four Legs Good

My poor wife will attest that though my Green credentials may not be all that good by modern standards, I have never been able to resist the chance to recycle things. In consequence our house, garage, and garden sheds are littered with stuff I've collected or refuse to throw away, because I plan to fix them when I have time, 'one day'.

I remark this, because I've just been out in the garden with the dogs, late on this Sunday evening, and coming back into the house through the kitchen, was struck by one of those strange moments when something triggers a brief startling glimpse of a long stowed memory. Unexpected new light on old things. In this instance, the bright warmth of the darkening wooden top of the old kitchen table, glowing in the new clear halogen lights.

It was maybe 26 or 27 years ago. News came that up the hill in Bircotes the old parish hall was being demolished and its contents were to be scrapped or burnt. There might be chairs to acquire for the Parish Room, or trestle tables and things like serviceable fire extinguishers, and I was deputed to go and see. As it turned out there wasn't much left by the time I arrived; most of the scavenging had already happened. But poking about I came across the scattered remains of a table, battered and warped but (I decided) recoverable. I begged them from the caretaker, who had been preparing to throw them onto his bonfire, gathered the broken parts into the car and made for home with my treasure.

In the event, the most difficult thing was flattening the table top, which had become warped, probably from standing outside in the rain. Clearing the legs of the screws and metal brackets, the debris of generations of crude attempts to reinforce their joints, was simple enough. But how to flatten the top? In the end I soaked it again in water. Laid face down on the garage floor, with heavy planks across, and the car driven over them so the weight of the rear wheels could squash the whole lot flat as it dried. Bush Carpentry at its best. I was proud of that ! I remade the original leg and frame joints with new dowels; filled the gashes on top and varnished its surface, and hey presto! we had a usable plain old-fashioned kitchen table.

Rescued from that fire, it has served us well for over a quarter of a century, and is still going strong, though now covered with new marks, each with its story to tell, where something was dropped, a hot pan left too long, or a child carved an experimental groove. For me it has become a treasure-trove of memory, and a parable of ministry. A process of rooting out unconsidered trifles, whether church buildings or people: straightening them out and fixing them up, finding them a new life, who were intended for the rubbish heap. Both feel unusually poignant as I ponder them in the quiet of the late evening when everyone else is asleep. I wonder if any of our children will remember what the rescued table may have meant to me, or want keep it - when I am gone?