The Pear Tree

Last December I started a mommy-themed column called The Mother Load for a Calgary-based, online publication called Calgary Beacon. It now runs weekly on that site, as well as in the Penticton Herald’s Southern Exposure (hard copy only). While The Pear Tree is not a “Mommy Blog,” I have started posting some of these columns here, on Fridays, as well.

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The empty cup crashes against the edge of the dining room table – my daughter’s way of letting me know she’s finished her milk.

I leap, superhero-like, from the kitchen into the dining room just in time to stop it from coming down a second time.

I suck in my breath as I survey the damage: another white scar breaking through the otherwise dark stain of the table.

“Amélie’s hitting the table again,” my son, Oliver, announces with righteous indignation. As though his designated area wasn’t thoroughly pockmarked by the end of his spoon. It looks like a woodpecker was let loose in his two-by-two foot space.

The table is only five years old, and was in pristine condition until we started sitting kids at it, less than two years ago.

Not that they’re the only offenders. I take full responsibility for the huge, wavy scratch my laptop made across the middle of the table when I pushed it out of the way last week.

Still, I’ve found myself muttering more and more often, about why we bother to buy anything nice for the house at all, so quickly it doth deteriorate these days.

And then I think about our family table growing up. I remember how pleased my mum was when she got it. It was round, with four matching chairs and a china cabinet. All in pine, with a golden honey stain.

I know she had visions of keeping it pristine, because I heard her muttering words to that effect under her own breath more than once. This, despite having three kids under the age of 10.

I don’t think that table even made it a week before the first blemish appeared.

I was the culprit. I was about to leave for school, but stopped quickly to write my name on a form before going out the door. My mum spotted it right away – the letters of my name, etched into the wood.

She was alarmed, of course, and a little bit accusatory. As though I had done it on purpose. As though maybe I had taken a knife out when she wasn’t looking and vandalized the thing.

Shortly after, she found a gouge near the edge, where someone had bumped the table with something (we never figured out what, despite the inquisition). But it was just the start.

Check marks from to-do lists, Bible verses written out, game scores and of course the requisite dings from cutlery and toys, quickly accumulated.

My mother was adamant that a padding of some sort accompany any paper that would be written on, but still the damage grew. Pine, as it happens, is a soft wood and picks up marks from everything and everywhere. If we rested our elbows on it with too much enthusiasm they might leave a dent.

After a while, we stopped noticing. The marks and scratches created a sort of patina. As long as we didn’t use the extra leaf to extend the table, and see the contrast, we were used to it.

She finally got a new one, made from a harder wood, shortly after we all reached adulthood (coincidentally, I’m sure).

She passed the pine table along to a friend, and I was strangely ecstatic to see it when I stopped by to pick something up from her a couple of years ago. I could just make out the Bible verse, and the remnants of my name. And, yes, the mystery gouge was still quite prominent.

Portions of my life were written on that table – and my brother’s, sister’s, and even my mother’s, too. Some are indecipherable now, but I know they’re there – I remember adding them.

I wonder what story my own family table will tell one day? Will my children run their grown-up hands over the marks they made when they were so small and smile knowingly? As for me, I’m pretty sure my sentimental side will flood with emotion to remember the stories and inside jokes, to see the marks they left on our wood – and on our hearts.

- Words and photos by Lori-Anne Poirier