THE TABLE AND LOVE
One day a gentleman came to the orphanage and he talked with the headoffice and they agreed to allow him to come in, every other week, andteach the children how to do woodworking projects.
I remember the night, when I was eight years old, when I finished myfirst project. It was a small table with a formica top and I was soproud of that table and I looked upon it as though I had created a life.
It was absolutely beautiful not to mention this was the first time inour whole lives that the orphanage had allowed us to use our own minds.It had taken me six weeks to complete my project and I could hardly waitto give my little table to Mother Winters, as a gift.
Mother Winters was our head mistress, the administrator of our orphanage. We called all ofour female caretakers "Mother"--it was a title we used when talking tothem. As the table legs were not dry from the clear coating that hadbeen applied, the man asked us to wait until our next session beforetaking our projects to our dormitories. But I was just so excited andhappy I couldn't wait. Besides, my woodworking project was the best oneof all. (Except for this full size row boat some ten year old nut wastrying to build.)
I moved my table toward the doorway and waited for theright opportunity to escape. Then out the door I went like a flash,running through the darkness with my little hands underneath the tabletop, just smiling from ear to ear, as I headed toward the dormitory.
When I reached the dormitory I placed the beautiful little table besidemy bed and I just stood there for about ten minutes just looking at whatI had created with my own mind. Then Mother Winters entered the room. Ipointed at the table and she smiled at me and I felt so proud. She askedme where the other children were and I told her that they were cleaningup the sawdust and would be coming soon. She walked over to the tableand ran her hand across the slick formica top. "It is very pretty", shetold me.
When she touched the table leg she noticed that the leg was still wetfrom the clear coating that I had brushed on eariler. She asked me why Ihad brought the table into the dormitory with the legs still wet. I didnot know what to say, so I just stood there with my head down and I didnot say anything.
"Were you supposed to bring this home?" she asked.
"No ma'am," I told her.
Mother Winters walked over to the little table and with her foot, kickedit over onto its top. Then she stepped onto each of the small tablelegs, breaking them off. She then opened the side door and had me throwthe little table out into the yard.
After Mother Winters had left the building, and all the other childrenwere asleep, I opened the outside door and went out to get my littletable. There was sand stuck all over the legs. I brushed and cried, andbrushed and cried, and brushed and cried but the sand would not comeoff.
I hid the table in my closet and I never returned to the wood shopafter that, ever again. About a year later I gave the little table andlegs to Mother Henderson, my houseparent, so she could throw them away.
About thirty years later I tried to find as many of the orphanagechildren as possible in order to have a reunion, which we had inJacksonville, Florida in 1991. That's when I learned that MotherHenderson, was living in Asheville, North Carolina.
Several weeks later I drove up to see her and we visited and talked for about four or fivehours. As I was about to leave she asked me to come down to her basementand help her get something important. So we climbed down into her dark,cold, damp celler.
This shaking, seventy-five year old, woman walkedover into a dark corner and picked something up. As she turned around Icould see that she was holding a little table with four broken legs.
"Do you remember this?" she said.
I just stood there with my head down and I did not say a word. I couldnot speak for fear of crying.
"Roger I want you to have this."
Mrs Henderson gave me back that table that so long ago I had given upfor lost. She had kept it all these years, never knowing if she wouldever see me again. Her intention was to save the table because she couldnot rid herself of the pain she remembered seeing in this orphan's eyes.My inscribed name that I had etched underneath the table was stillthere.
Since then, I have sanded, clear coated, and replaced the legs.That little formica table--that was my first woodworking project so manyyears ago--now sits in my grand-daughter Chelsey's bedroom, only a fewfeet from where I sit now, along with her little plastic (sissy) chairthat her poppa gave her.
I look at that table today with bittersweetmemories. I think of my heartbroken disappointment of the time MotherWinters forced me to throw my broken table out the door. But I amcomforted and rejoice at the kindness of Mother Henderson who kept thatlittle table as a remembrance--never wanting to forget the story of ayoung orphan who tried so very hard to please.
Thank you, Mother Henderson.