Marigolds & Old Tables

Today is my Gramma Helen's birthday.  She died two years ago.  For some reason I've been feeling her spirit for about two weeks.  So has one of my sisters.  Marigolds were her favorite flower.  They're one of the last ones to survive here before winter kicks in. 

It's crazy that marigolds were her favorite.  Every spring she and my grampa would get into the same argument.  He'd start planting his red geraniums around the yard.  My Grampa was a Marine drill sargent.  He plants flowers like he marched soldiers.  Two-by-two those geraniums marched in perfect military precision all around the perimeter. 

Every year my Gramma would pitch a fit because geraniums are annuals which means they die every year.  "Why don't you just plant perennials so they come back every year and then you don't waste time and money."  (Gramma didn't really understand us gardeners).

Yet, marigolds, her favorite flower, are also annuals.  Go figure.

But I didn't want to write about marigolds today.  I wanted to write about my kitchen table. 

I got it from my Gramma. 
It used to be my Great-Gramma's.  The top is crooked.  The leaves don't fit into each other properly.  But Gramma fixed it before she gave it to me.  Well, she slapped a coat of varnish on it anyway.  She insisted. 

Tonite it's doubling as my workbench, as it often does.  I need to shorten some boards to fix my front porch with.  My dad may have taught me *how* to use power tools....but my Gramma was the one that actually made me want to learn. 

When my Grampa would leave for meetings at the American Legion, she went down in the basement and taught herself how to use a power sander and a table saw in secret.  Using only scrap wood, she then built herself two floor-to-ceiling shelving units.

She was 65 at the time. 

I have the money to buy a better table. 

But I rather like my Gramma's crooked, ill fitting old table.  My paint splotches and sawblade scratches only enhance it.

Happy Birthday Gramma.