The Old Blog in the Desert

Now, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t bring much to the table. I never have.

I don’t whip up five-course meals, invent new gadgets, or even keep up with all the newfangled apps that make life “easier.” Truth is, my contribution usually looks more like a mismatched salt shaker and a joke that only makes sense three days later.

But I’m willing to sell the table. I mean that literally.

This old oak table has been around longer than my marriage, and considering we’ve celebrated enough anniversaries to put us in the “you’ve got staying power” club, that’s saying something. We bought the table at a yard sale back when my wife and I were still trying to make ends meet.

It cost us twenty bucks, two cups of lemonade, and a promise to haul it ourselves. That table has since survived moves and one particularly dicey attempt to strap it to the roof of a Ford Pinto with baling twine.

Over the years, it’s been everything from a dining spot to a homework station to an operating table for broken toys and scraped knees. It’s saw chili nights, card games, arguments, reconciliations, and one attempt by a neighbor’s cat to give birth on it.

And yet here I am, willing to sell the thing.

My wife doesn’t quite see it that way. She’s sentimental, bless her heart.

She’ll run her hand across those nicks and dents like she’s flipping pages in a family Bible.

“That scratch there,” she’ll say, “that’s from when Kyle tried to sword fight you with his butter knife.”

And I’ll nod and smile, but in the back of my mind, I’m thinking: If somebody offered me fifty bucks, this table’s gone tomorrow.

Not because I don’t love the memories. Lord knows, I do.

But I figure memories ain’t tied to the wood, but to the people. And let’s be honest—oak doesn’t pay the electric bill.

Besides, if I sold the table, it’d give us a chance to buy a new one. Something modern, maybe even with those fancy fold-out leaves, so you can host half the county without borrowing chairs.

I picture myself leaning back in one of those cushioned chairs with wheels, rolling to the fridge like royalty instead of standing up and having to trudge like a medieval peasant.

Of course, the problem with selling a table is that you’ve got to find someone willing to buy a table. Folks these days don’t want solid oak.

They want something that comes in a flat box with instructions that take a degree in engineering to decipher. They’ll trade heirloom durability for a slick finish and the ability to brag, “We put it together ourselves.”

Sure, they did—after three divorces and a broken Allen wrench from Ikea.

I reckon that’s why our table still sits in the dining room, holding everything except dinner plates most nights. Right now, it’s got three grocery receipts, last week’s mail, a screwdriver, and a basket of junk that nobody has claimed.

It’s more of a clutter collector than a dining surface. Truth is, my wife and I probably eat off our laps more often than we eat off the table.

But you know, maybe that’s the point. Life doesn’t require a polished spread.

It’s not about silverware lined up straight or chairs tucked in perfectly. Life’s about gathering somewhere—whether at a table, on the porch, or even in the front seat of a car with burgers balanced on your knees.

The table’s just a stage. The play is us.

So, I’ll keep joking that I’m willing to sell the table. I’ll even throw in a story or two for free, like the one about the cat or the butter knife duel.

And if some poor soul does come along and offers me cash, I may take it—though I’d have to check with the boss first. Because as much as I’m willing to sell the table, I’m not willing to sell the marriage.

And between you and me, I think she knows it.