In the center of a living room in a small-town southern Wisconsin, a decades-old card table has been erected for family gatherings since before I was born. The table itself served a multitude of purposes. For some it was the venue for a hostile game of Sheep’s Head, and for others the only open seat to scarf down an Easter dessert while succumbing to Sunday small talk. For me, my sister, and my cousin, it was the kid’s table.

Our exiled eating space while the adults took the kitchen table. A place to secretly (and sometimes, not so secretly) exchange cursed words and embarrassed looks when we overheard the adults talking. It was our little mealtime sanctuary, pulled out when we were all gathered together only for it to be wiped down and stowed away when the meal came to a close. 

This last weekend, as the undertaking of packing up my Nana’s house-made way, I heard her say numerous times how “a lot of stuff accumulates after 50 years in a house,” and how she never realized how much she had until it was time to go through it all. Toys my mother and her siblings played with were found in forgotten boxes and met with nostalgic smiles before lovingly being set aside to sell. My mother ensured she took every opportunity to ask if she thought I would use something, or “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? I can just take it if you do!”

While I politely took some things, I knew most of the things I wanted I already had. Like memories of when my sister and I made hair product potions in my Nana’s basement beauty shops and then denied it until one of us (me) likely came clean. Or the image of my childhood dog getting loose in the backyard until four grown adults finally corralled her. Games of Phase 10 were played at the kitchen table resulting in sore egos and gut laughter. Watching my husband easily become part of the family – even if it meant more NBA games in the living room. Flying kites in the adjacent field, shooting stars on the back deck, Thanksgiving day parades, and the sound of feet always pitter-pattering up and down the stairs. All these things I take with me that cannot be packed in boxes.

The older I get, the more I understand how many homes we truly get. My childhood home was blocks from the Mississippi River, my grandparents’ house was walking distance from Sunday Mass, the small town in southern Wisconsin, and now, my first home by choice, Eau Claire. I think about how, without intending to, I have brought so much of what I’ve gotten to have with me. The need to gather with those I love. Well-made beds and numerous top-offs of coffee in the morning. The smell of a family meal lingering for days after the dishes are done. Laughter so visceral it wraps around your ribs like ivy on an old house. I think about the traditions handed down quietly from generation to generation. Like the first time I realized I was doing the dishes after a meal and my aunt, who traditionally took on the task, just let me. From 11th Street to Barstow and beyond, I use these experiences as a compass to create my next 50 years. A pocketbook of past, present, and future-ready to be pulled out when I need it most.

Time passes like a car speeding in the left lane. It whizzes by without a second thought and you’re left wondering where it has to get to so quickly. As I watched my Nana’s house grow small in my side mirror for possibly the last time, I thought about all the things it has given me, both physical and not. It wasn’t until the next day when I got home, I thought of something I wanted but forgot to take.

Me: Mom, do you think I can have one of Nana’s card tables?
Mom: You got it.