She forged a life with three marriages and from what I hear, good men–but wild hairs, in double-digit numbers—that I would come know as her lost lovers. She was an adventurer; a dreamer; she was my paternal Grandmother, Stella. She was as sharp a shooter, as she was with business. She worked in the mountains as a cook, for the forestry. She was also was a dietician at the hospital in Klamath Falls, later on in life—and that was how she saved the money to buy her little row of apartments in front of the Pelican Elementary School, blocks up from Klamath Lake. It was in this little row of homes, that I came to know her.
Grandmother Stella was a woman of might; she made her place on this planet and she stood strong, while she was on it. She could be in heels on the roof of her homes—reroofing—while a scarf of sweat, steeped in a day of man’s work, reminded you there was nothing she would or could not do. She would never leave her home without wearing a fine dress; a matching coat; broach; hat and gloves. She was my hero until the day she drew her last breath.
Everyone loved her—she entered a room and you were immediately attracted to her: her honesty; her story; her laugh. I could see that as a very young girl. She was glamorous, but with no pretense—just plain as an old shoe. And in my own personal world? My Grandmother, the woman who would have paper tea parties with me; take me shopping by taxi; speak to me of womanly things—or certainly conversation I never had with my sister or Mother.
My Grandmother loved family and as she aged, always had big dinners with her siblings, children and us Grandchildren. At one time, she worked at the Wells Fargo Hotel, in Lakeview Oregon. And when it closed she took the dining table, chairs and buffet with her—which sat in that old hotel for almost 75 years. And Grandmother had it another 50 after she left.
I suppose if you’ve made it this far in this family recollection, you will be surprised that what you’ve just read is a back-story, because the star of the story is the dining table from Wells Fargo Hotel. Every meal I had, while visiting my Grandmother as a young girl, was on that old table. All of my Aunties; Uncles; Cousins; Family Friends ate at that table with me. We played cards on that table; and wept when Aunt Velma died at that table; we rolled noodles out on that table and had profound conversations.
When it came time for my high-school graduation, Grandmother asked me what I would like from her, as a celebration gift. I asked her if I could one day have that table, buffet and chairs. She said yes, she would love for me to have it.
Fast forward ten years after I graduate; I’ve managed college; lived a little and was ready to make a home. She sent me a tatted tablecloth that she had labored over and a check to make arrangements to have her dining table, buffet and chairs shipped to me.
I couldn’t have been happier than the day I was unpacking that table in my dining nook—in an old sailor’s house in Portland Oregon. I was in love and there I was, now sitting at this table full of my life; my story and the dreams and stories of others, looking at the man I love, while we drank morning coffee. Years passed, about 40 of them now, where every friend I’ve ever known has sat with me at my table. And all I see, when I see that old table is a patina made from love… some small specs of paint, from Grandmother, when she used it to stand on while painting her kitchen. Some swelled up wood, where noodles were made on it; shine from where her tablecloth lies over it: Waiting, for more stories to come.
Now, Gary and I are preparing a move to Costa Rica. We are “down-sizing” our home and the Mighty Oak Table has come under fire. Intellectually, I understand his logic. We can buy a table in Costa Rica for much less than pay to ship it. It is very old. I could give it to other family to carry on the traditions which it commands. But whom, I ask? I have no one.
This debate, I imagine, will continue on until the last box is packed. But about a year ago I wrote a little poem about The Mighty Oak Table… in hopes its legacy will live on, with or without me.
Thank you for indulging this annotation—I suppose it was the long way around to say, sentiment is a powerful currency in the heart—there are many things priceless, and this is priceless to me.
The Mighty Oak
The Mighty Oak:
limbs which weather
storms of love;
deep in roots
reaching to the depths
of creation;
winter kisses
adorning its
barest form.
The Mighty Oak:
made to shelter–
families—
to dine with grace
at its dressed table.
Ghosts seated
from generations past,
pulling out chairs for the mortal
as they take their turn
to give their unknowing thanks.
The Mighty Oak:
how many ways
might you gift us?
Comfort;
warmth;
remembrances
of those who rode,
fought,
loved,
and gave.
The Mighty Oak:
deciduous,
but never naked;
bare boned,
but never shallow;
rings of history
silently sounding ‘neath your worn varnish;
Strong enough to hang from,
as your melody caresses the aching wind.
The Mighty Oak:
You sing your song for every season;
In every key.
The Mighty Oak:
Silhouetting definition,
of all I hope to be.
The Mighty Oak:
You dress the wild,
then set us free…
The Mighty Oak:
You’ve been a home for me.