Remembering Nancy VII: The Dining Room Table

Long story. Started 20 years ago and just kept unfolding. Unplanned, unexpected plot, one thing leading to another

It started one Saturday morning when a friend of ours in the antique business ran across a 48-inch, round, quarter-sawn-oak, dining-room table, pretty much like the one I'd told him we'd been looking for over the first two decades of our marriage. Mint condition. In fact, more completely beautiful than anything we'd ever seen before.

There I stood in his showroom with my jaw dropped to my chest. The piece was gorgeous. The top was doubled in thickness at the outside edges so that it appeared to be nearly two inches thick. Beneath that apparent depth, the apron added another three inches.

The pedestal was a trimmed 20x10-inch sturdy rectangular structure that rested upon a wide-legged platform designed large enough to maintain the table's full expanse when opened to include five nine-inch extension boards. Closed, the table seated six. Opened to its full 96 inches, for our 20th Thanksgiving on the river, it easily accommodated three times that many. It came with eight trim, pressed-back, leather-seated chairs.

The workman who had labored to fit the top must've been a master
craftsman. Ten carefully-chosen quarter-sawn planks were so closely
fit, the rolling grains so finely matched that they ran together
into uninterrupted, eye-arresting whorls.

In forty years of patient antiquing I'd never seen a table even half so beautiful.

I bought it on the spot. It was the perfect gift for Nancy on our 21st anniversary.

But that wasn't all. The dealer, an old friend, winked and jerked his thumb over his shoulder: "Got something else you been looking for."

Clearly, he hadn't seen the remaining balance in my checkbook.

But it doesn't cost anything to look. So I followed him up the stairs to his loft. And there it stood: a solid-oak, fine-grained, school-marm's desk -- 32x28-inch sloping top, lead&brass-topped ink-well, three-panel rear-skirt, and turned front legs. Sturdy and sound. Magnificent workmanship.

We bargained 'til we both broke a sweat. But my friend -- if antique dealers do have friends -- knew the limits of my bank account. So he finally said: "How 'boutcha let the school-marm decide?!" So I agreed to bring Nancy in the next day.

She didn't even have the slightest idea yet that I'd bought her the table and chairs.

The next afternoon we stood in Owl Antiques with our friend. Nancy was dazed: "But Robby, we haven't started the dining room. We don't know when Tom'll get the crew in, or how long it'll take. . . ."

I knew she wanted that table and chairs: "Called Tom last night. He says IN in two weeks. OUT in eight." Prob'ly true. We'd done four extensive renovations in the past nineteen years, and he'd always met his schedule with us. "Bob'll store the the table&chairs until we call him to deliver."

So Nancy agreed.

But when I showed her the school-marm's desk, she wouldn't budge.
I wanted the desk for her too.

"But Nancy!? It's perfect for that alcove in our master bedroom. You've
always wanted one like this. We just missed that one six months ago at
the auction. This one's better. . . ."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. She weakened finally and eye-balled our dealer: "Still here next week, we'll come in and dicker on it." Then her eye caught a lovely Windsor rocker, and she wandered off for a closer look. Case closed. Or so she thought.

Soon's her back was turned, I jotted my final offer on a card and slipped it to Bob. He shrugged -- knowing full well he'd done well with me that day -- and nodded.

But I wasn't done yet: "Nancy'll be in here before the week's out, wanting to buy that desk. Hide it someplace outa sight. Tell her some guy got it." In fact, she came back the next day.

Bob gave her the bad news: "Guy came in right after you. Hadda let it go."


Tom Bailey finished the dining room as promised. It was a beautiful 16x20 expansion of our kitchen area, front windows facing the river, back windows framing the wooded area across the drive, far-end opening onto a spacious new deck overlooking our side yard perennial gardens along the river. I'd found a graceful antique deacon's bench and some ladder-back chairs to round out the seating.

By the time the table and seating were in place, Nancy had teared up some. But when they lugged in the lost school-marm's desk, she regained her composure enough to fake a mild bristle.

Bob and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder, just a little bit cowed -- two little boys who'd been naughty during recess. Nancy was a tall, super-good-looking woman. Competent, accustomed to being in charge. I could read her face as various responses ran through her mind: surprise, consternation, puzzlement, pleasure. A long silence while she decided how to respond.

School-marms must be firm!

I mean, the total affect was daunting: the dining room table and six pressed-back chairs, the deacon's bench and ladder-backs. The wonderful woven rug she'd found. Counting the renovation, we'd spent a small fortune by her reckoning.

And now the school-marm's desk.

But I was betting on what I considered four certain bits of knowledge about Nancy. First, we'd always worked hard, saved or invested our money wisely. Second, I knew she had always been generous enough to accept from me any gift I had ever given her. Third, she was the consummate school-marm, and she knew the school-marm's desk was the perfect gift. Fourth, she knew how much I loved her.


So she dropped her fists from her hips, and reached out for me, drawing me to her side facing Bob, holding me all tight in a side-hug: "Is this the guy you told me bought the school-marm's desk? Behind my back when I wasn't looking?" This last with a sharp nudge with her hip.

Bob released a lengthy sigh of relief: "Yeah! Looks kinda like-em."

Finally she smiled her biggest smile, released a quiet chortle, and stuck an accusing finger under his nose: "Okay! Just this once! But you never let him into your store again, 'less I'm with-em!"

Then she grabbed him into her other arm and hugged us both so tight.
And then we were all laughing. And though she was smiling real big,
I thought I heard her sniffle.

In nearly forty years of blissful Nancy-Time,

that was surely one of our sweetest moments.