I have a love-hate relationship with our household table, which was generously given to us by my partner’s mother as a stopgap. It’s an old tongue-and-groove, wooden-plank door dating back to the mid-19th century, plonked on two metal trestles we think were made by Michael Draper in the 1990s. I suppose it’s antique, but not in an ornate sense. Just simple, weathered and characterful. You get the feeling this thing has seen some stuff. Until 1993, it was the back door of a Fencible cottage in Kirikiriroa. The Fencibles were retired soldiers enlisted as military reserves capable of defence, hence the name. I like all of this about it.
But to call it “repurposed” would be generous. It still has metal hinges dangling from one side, and its latch protrudes from the other. These are all sharp and regularly claim blood offerings from the uninitiated. I should really remove those things… not right now though, I’m busy. The grooves between planks collect tiny food scraps from our two sons, who oblige generously. As if vacuuming wasn’t boring enough, we now have to vacuum our table – usually right before friends come for dinner – to clear the filthy grooves of a literal buffet of shame.
We completed a fairly hefty renovation recently, transforming our dilapidated 1950s fibrolite shack into a new family home. The project was a seven-year journey with many twists and turns. It drew extensively on the skill, experience and kindness of our families, particularly my partner’s father. A retirement-denying architect of great skill and wisdom, he designed the whole thing for us, working the old-school way, hand-drawing every iteration. And there were plenty. The process spanned a period that included a death, a birth, a pandemic, a building-materials shortage, multiple pivots, resource-consent applications and amendments, and a fair bit more. These drawings were often spread across the table in question.
Describing the reno as “completed” really just means the builders have left. A new stage begins, and the work goes on, just at a lazier pace. It’s true what they say: a home is never really finished. Our table is a good symbol of this. It’s seen some stuff. I think we’ll keep it for a while yet.
Stephen Wells
Photographer
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