There is, in the far corner of my backyard, pretty well screened off by shrubs and other greenery, a table. It has metal legs and a well-worn Formica top, but it is beginning to bow a bit in the middle. Nothing wrong with that. At 84, I'm beginning to bow a bit myself.
My table's best days obviously are long behind it, and I use it only as my potting table for planting spring flowers. I should get rid of it but I am loath to do so. You see, that table and I are old friends. We go back a long ways, back to 1954 when my wife Reba and I bought it as our breakfast table after building our first house.
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