The grandson who is almost 3 has learned to tell jokes--well, at least the art of delivering them. One day this week, the family gathered around the breakfast table and was entertained for quite awhile listening to his jokes. Question: "Hey, buddy, do you know a joke?" Response: "Wickely, wickely, wickely." Quick pause, then with open mouth and head thrown back, the little emcee would burst into an enchanting fake laughter which would totally create genuine belly laughs from the rest of the table.
Repeat this scenario over and over again and you can imagine our breakfast that day. While we were engaged in this routine, I was reminded of how much laughter has been shared through five generations at this very table.
In fact, my earliest memories of going to my grandparents involve this table and laughter. No matter what time of day or night that we arrived at their farm, the grown-ups would circle around the table in their ladder back chairs and the hours would tick off as would the stories and laughter. Many times I can remember falling asleep or waking up to the comforting sounds of indistinguishable words followed by the most infectious laughter you could ever imagine--just like the laughter following the "wickely, wickely, wickely" mumbled by the newest generation around that table.
My Grandma and Granddad made this table for their household and raised their 4 boys around it. I was lucky enough to be able to take ownership of it when it was no longer needed for them. It has been the breakfast table for my family for the last 30 or so years. Hence, the laughter and memories continue.
Magic must have been waxed into the grain of this old oak table. It was a plain farmhouse table--not fancy but solid and practical--important traits for furniture as well as men and women during those pre-Depression days on the flat plains of windy southwest Oklahoma. It was just a round table with three or four leaves readily available to add with the sound of a knock on the door or the sight of dust stirred up in the drive.
Those leaves magically stretched that old round table to a size capable of handling the whole Strother clan, plus a friend or two who may have popped in, certainly the mail man making his rounds two or three days a week through the dusty country roads delivering not just the mail but the latest news of friends and neighbors.
The table magically became a unifying web around a family who no longer lived and worked in the area, who maybe even didn't share the same views politically or religiously anymore. It magically reconnected the family; it provided the boys a place to relive their history, to confirm their relationships, to put their own personal spin on growing up and on events that happened while growing up. It was an animate object embracing an inanimate emotion--love. There was definitely lots of love around that table.
I can still see and hear those conversations, that love, especially those with the handsome Strother boys and their dad, my Granddad, telling stories and jokes. There was probably a lot of re-telling the same stories over and over, but the laughter was as new and spontaneous as it was after "wickely, wickely, wickely."
As I picture the table from years and years ago, I can even feel the love through those sweet memories--the men would be sitting there, elbows on the table with each man leaning in eager to catch every word. There would definitely be a cup of strong, black coffee before each man and ashtrays scattered around. The smoke was as abundant as the laughter. Each one of the four brothers' delivery was right on; the pitch, the timing, all precise. Perhaps because of the frequency of the telling or perhaps because they were all natural born story tellers.
Nevertheless, the punchline would be delivered and the belly laughs would ring out as the rickety-looking wooden farmhouse chairs holding those men would tilt back on just two legs of the chairs. I remember wondering how could they lean so far back without the chair falling over, breaking, or without Grandma scolding them for leaning back in their chairs. It was like they were extending the enjoyment, the merriment, the love as far as possible--proving, at least for the moment, that nothing bad could happen or stop this feeling, this closeness, this love.
Two of those Strother brothers, the younger crop as Grandma would call them, are still around--not around that old Strother table, but thankfully, around; and I'm sure they still are telling some wonderful stories with that same great style that their brothers and others leaned far in to hear.
Now at that same Strother farmhouse table, I'm leaning in--hoping once again to catch the punch line and the laughter of those days. I think I hear it--"wickely, wickely, wickely."
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