When one of my roommates moved out during my single, apartment days, she left behind a table her boyfriend had made for her. I didn’t understand why she didn’t want it. The fact that it was rough-looking added to its charm. It was a great size and had plenty of legroom.

Well, this past-tense description is misleading, because I’ve carried this table with me for 30 years. So when I got home from work and most of the furniture was out of my bedroom, I knew what I wanted in there: my use-for-anything table.

I’ve used it upstairs for sewing and other projects, but now it’s getting full-time status. It’s heavy. My daughter and I safely but clumsily got it downstairs. My office chair seems to be made for it. On went my laptop. The sewing machine will have its turn this weekend.

I guess I never morphed into the Broyhill wife. I’m ready to enjoy my rough-and-ready table again.

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