The Many Thoughts of Wanda Kidd

Several of us, with limited extended family, have gathered for holidays for years. This Easter, we went to one of the younger generation’s homes. As I stepped into her kitchen, I tilted my head and said, “Is that my mama’s table?” She said she didn’t know; it was in her dad’s basement, and he said she could use it. That was fine — I had given it to her parents when my family had no space for it. But my goodness, I was not prepared for the flood of memories that washed over me. So much of my life happened around that table.

My mother was notorious for not becoming emotionally attached to the furniture in her house or to any particular arrangement of it, but the one room where the furniture never changed was the dining room. I went with her to buy the hard maple colonial dining room suite at E. A. Brown’s furniture store on Rosemary Street in Chapel Hill. It wasn’t a furniture showroom. The person visiting Mr. Brown’s store needed a vivid imagination because there were no setups to look like someone’s make-believe room. Things were stacked on top of each other, but he knew his entire inventory. If you could tell him what you were looking for, he could take you to it and give detailed information about it, material, quality, and price. However, for you, he could do better than the asking price.

The furniture was delivered to our house on Oak Avenue, where it remained until we moved seven years later. When it moved with us to Hillsborough, it stayed in the dining room until we stored it to make room for her hospice bed. My mother loved that furniture. She was so determined that neither her children nor hot food would damage the finish that she ordered a custom pad from Belk-Leggett to cover the top. And finding just the right tablecloth was a challenge because it was larger than the average table. It required a 72-inch round tablecloth rather than a 60-inch one to provide the right amount of overhang without looking chintzy. That was important to her.

However, I did not see the table so much as a parade of images. It was where all our company meals were served—visiting preachers, young couples who sang in the choir with Mama, and anyone else who wasn’t related to us. But it was much more than a place to eat. The retractable copper light fixture provided the best lighting in the house. That’s where Daddy “took-off” plans in the evenings when he was estimating jobs for Watson Electric. He sat there studying his Sunday school lesson, surrounded by commentaries and multiple versions of the Bible, along with his Sunday School Quarterly, spread out around him. It was also where some very serious conversations took place, and salesmen convinced them to buy a swimming pool and burial plans.

But what I remember most is that this was where thousands of Carrom games took place. That is a pool-like game played on a 30-inch square board with pockets in the four corners. The goal was to be the first to get all your red or black carom pieces into the pockets, then rack them up and start again. I don’t know how most people managed to make theirs turn like a lazy Susan, but we used a 6-inch crystal ashtray for that purpose. I was never good at the game because it hurt my fingernail, but it was a gathering place for both players and spectators.

Anyone who walked through our door was invited to play. I especially remember a football season when girls from the Women’s College (UNC-G) stayed with host families while visiting Chapel Hill to date UNC boys. One girl named Candy Apple stayed with us. Her boyfriend arrived before she was ready, so he was invited to play. I still remember how frustrated she was when her date looked over his shoulder at her and said, ‘I have to finish this game before we can go.’ Daddy ran the board to ease the tension. Of course, he added, “Come back anytime, son. We’ll play some more.

I looked at the table in Tori’s kitchen. She had just cleared a puzzle to make space for us. I knew my mom would have approved. These days, it looks more like the “Velveteen Rabbit.”

“You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, you are very shabby.

But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

―Margery Williams Bianco,The Velveteen Rabbit

Thank you, Tori, for loving my mama’s table. She would have enjoyed seeing your children, on their knees, doing their homework, eating snacks, and putting together puzzles, because that is real.