REFLECTIONS

About 15 years ago I undertook to build a picnic table. This was to be the best picnic table in the world. It would be constructed of good straight heavy wood. The joints would be held together with brass nuts and bolts. It would be braced so strongly that not one wiggle would ever be in evidence. It would accommodate twelve people comfortably while they partook of grilled rib eye steaks, potato salad, watermelon and Oxnard Plains strawberries on Saturday or Sunday afternoons on our patio. Not only would the construction be impressive but the eating surface would be exquisite. The brass bolts would be sunk below the surface. The top would be planed, sanded several times with the last being with steel wool. Finally, many coats of lacquer would be applied, each one rubbed and polished before the next one was applied. Several weeks were devoted to this endeavor. Finally the time came for the final coat of lacquer. It was done with great and painstaking care. When finished, not one brush hair, not one brush stroke was to be seen on the beautiful golden oak surface of the masterpiece. Only the drying of the warm coastal breezes of the Tri Counties California region were needed to produce the picnic table for the ages. That evening our daughter and her nearly five year old son were visiting along with our eldest son and his wife and their nearly four year old son. As we sat in the family room visiting and enjoying each others company, I noticed that the boys were not with us. Our oldest daughter said she thought they had gone out into the back yard. This was fine but I felt that I should just make sure they were OK. Our windows were open as well as the patio doors, to take advantage of the pleasant evening. As I approached a window I could hear strange sticky, sucking sounds accompanied by young giggles. As I looked out the window, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two small boys trekking the length of my table so dear. Out of character for me, I calmly strode out to patio confront the miscreants. "Why are you guys walking on top of my table?" I quietly asked. The response was honest and straight forward. "Because it's fun, Papa," came from the four year old, with a "Un huh," from the three year old. What response could "Papa" have to such an honest answer? There was nothing to do but take each in an arm, hand them to their parents to take off their sticky shoes. Four sets of small foot prints, all they way down and back the length of the Grand Table, where I had envisioned years of great feasting, game playing, visiting and talking now decorated the the silken clear surface. One day later in the week I found the courage or denseness to sand away the intrusion and start over with the lacquer. Shortly after refinishing the table I thought to myself, "Why didn't I leave those footprints in place?" It is only an outdoor table, meant to be used and abused, to have lemonade spilled upon it, a hot dish of baked beans placed on it's surface, left outside to endure the elements. But those small sneaker prints had been priceless for they would not stay small for ever but in my mind. This past weekend I attended a college track meet where that one three year old pole vaulted 16 ft 1in. He is now nearly 19 while the four year old is nearly 20 and also in college. The table now sits covered on the patio of our home in Phoenix. Seldom used for any purpose other than a gardening bench. I often think that perhaps my grandchildren will fight over it someday to see who gets to sell it at a garage sale. However, every time I work there I can see in my minds eye four small tracks and two small boys who said, "Because it's fun, Papa!"