I grew up spending my spring breaks, summer vacations and long weekends in October at my grandparents house in Tennessee. They had a house that was beyond explanation. It had a front and a back porch. In the front you could watch the traffic go by and in the back you could watch the cattle. There was an abundant garden that teemed with corn, beans, okra and tomatoes that was protected by a thick row of zinnias that Nan and I planted. There were swings in the back of the yard that Pa built for the grandchildren. The bird baths were always full of birds, the hollyhocks lined the fence, the hummingbirds flitted from one feeder to the next, the laundry dried in the sun, the purple martins returned each year to their birdhouses and the house always smelled like…home.

As a child, Nan and Pa’s house was a magical place where I could pick wildflowers and help Nan pick berries. As a teenager, it was a great place to lay out in the sun and bring friends to hike to the nearby waterfalls with. As a college student, it was where I went when I needed to escape. I could escape Michigan winters with a quick flight to Nashville. As an adult, it was an easy decision to live in Tennessee just so that I could be near them. Their house became a place that I wanted to etch into the memories of my own children so that the magic would live on.

Of all of the rooms in their house, the kitchen seemed to be the place where we spent the most time. There was a huge table in the center where everyone would bump elbows as they reached for heaping bowls of fresh green beans and mashed potatoes. It was a table where no one was in any hurry to leave. Hours after the meal was over we would still be sitting there laughing and no one was thinking about phone calls that needed to made, bills that needed to be paid or errands that needed to be attended to. It was impossible to pull yourself away from the magic that the table held.

Every morning we would start out with a huge breakfast of biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs and orange juice. Nan would bustle around the kitchen as Pa barked orders. “Is the bacon burning? Do we have enough orange juice?” My siblings and I would still be rubbing our eyes as we sat down, but the day had already begun without us. Nan rarely ate anything that she cooked for breakfast. She always ate toast with peanut butter. If she could get away with it she would sprinkle sugar on top. This was always met with a disapproving look from Pa.

By this time Pa had already been in town to get the mail and catch up on the latest gossip. Every morning, without fail, there would be countless conversations about, “You know… that man who lives on Bess Town Road, the one with the daughter with red hair. Lucille, what is his name? Anyway, he was seen at Wiley’s Pharmacy driving a brand new truck…” There was nothing in this world that Pa loved more than a scandal.

After the breakfast dishes were cleared away, the table took on new uses. We piled peaches, beets, green beans and cucumbers on this table. Nan used the table to organize her ironing. Pa read the latest news about the Atlanta Braves and Carolyn and I would play Uno. I would set out bouquets of wildflowers stuffed into Mason jars in the center of the table. This is the table where pie crusts were formed, postcards were written, blackberries were canned and secrets were shared. Brad and I held hands at this table on our second date.

Later, this table became the place where Pa sat down and showed me the monthly bills that needed to be paid so that I could write out the checks for him. He knew that Nan couldn’t do it anymore. This was where we spread out the x-rays after Pa’s cancer diagnosis. This was where I sat with Nan the morning that Pa died. This was where I taped notes to Nan on the table so that she wouldn’t forget. “Please take this pill after dinner. Did you remember to lock the door?” This is where Breuklyn and Maddux played magic cave, with a quilt thrown over the top.

It was so much more than just a table, just like the house was so much more than just a house. It was a representation of a life lived. It was a beautiful life and I am just thankful that I was able to have a place in it.

That’s my take this week. Is there something in your life that has a significant meaning? Do you have a family heirloom, a picture, or even something as simple as a table that is important to you? I would love to hear about it. Leave a comment here and I will choose one winner who will win a Heidi Swapp “treasure” clear stamp. Happy April!