Natalie Robinson

I swear one of my Grandma’s biggest fears is that our family will forget all of her life stories. She lovestelling us about her past, I could probably recite her whole life from when she met my grandfather until present to anyone right now. In fact, being the oldest of all 18 grandchildren (and because I am minoring in History), she has already labeled me the “family historian” so that I will be able to share our family’s history for the many years to come, thanks Grandma. She thinks that we can always learn from the past, and that we should always know where we are from, to help us figure out who we are. She keeps a diary, and writes in it every day, so that when she dies, we will be able to have a piece of her. In her mind the state of the human condition rests in accurate and long-lasting documentation. So, her biggest accomplishment is that everyone in the family has at least one item from her past, and my family has her dining room table. The table was made by my great-grandfather, a carpenter, and resides in our dining room. This tiger wood table has had a long life, as my grandma sat around it with her family, I sit around it with my family. Here, my two brothers, Jack and Sam, and I have spent late nights studying (or trying to) for our upcoming assignments from Bethesda Chevy-Chase high school. My youngest sister, Elisha, has spilt the glue, paint, and sparkles of her latest craft and my other sister, Jessica, has placed her sewing machine, tearing up cloth and dropping needles on this sturdy table. Around the table my parents have sat down to fit together all our lives into one, who picks me up from volleyball? Who takes Elisha to her flag football game? Who goes to Sam and Jack’s track meet? How is Jessica getting to her friend’s house? My family has literally and figuratively dumped our life onto this table, and even though my grandpa needs to find a way to keep it from falling apart every time he comes to visit us, nothing connects my family like this Tiger Wood Table.