Knock on Wood by Barbara Quinn

When my husband and I sit down to dinner at night, we eat in our kitchen with all its modern trappings. There’s an indoor grill and pretty pendent lighting. Large windows look out to a deck and woods beyond. The double ovens come in very handy at the holidays.

In the middle of this new kitchen sits an old oak table and four chairs. I've never seen another set like it. It is the heart of my kitchen. I’ve been eating at that table since I was a child. My parents bought the table after WW2. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t eat at that table. It moved with my family from our two bedroom apartment in the Bronx to our three bedroom one bath ranch in Yonkers, where when I went to college it was replaced by a larger table, and was relegated to the basement for extra seating at the holidays. For some reason my parents painted the lovely oak white and green. That poor table.

After I married, the table and its four chairs came to me. My husband and I worked hard for weeks stripping off the paint and restoring the wood, then staining it dark. We grew to know every inch of that table with its carvings of flowers on the sides, and its self-storing leaf that pops up when you pull on the ends. There’s one spot that we didn’t finish quite right, and I’ve grown to love that imperfection. Each sturdy chair has three elongated 0’s that make up the seat backs. The seats themselves are fabric and I’ve covered them with dozens of different patterns over the years. All it takes is a staple gun and I have four new chairs.

Many nights when I sit down to eat, the parade of the past moves by: my brother and myself as kids, my son and his friends playing, my dog roaming beneath looking for treats, the guinea pigs racing round its legs. It’s good to have something solid like this in my life, something that anchors me to more than the daily routines of life, something that shares the tears and joys. I am thankful for all the time I’ve spent at my old table and glad that my family still gathers in the kitchen on the holidays and surrounds it. Life goes on. My kitchen smells of home and safety. And I am grateful.

Oh, Brother! by Barbara Quinn

My big brother was sworn in to a ten year judicial term this week. I was honored to attend the ceremony in the beautiful Surrogate’s Court in downtown Manhattan, a courthouse with enough marble to make Michelangelo drool. NYC Mayor Mike Bloomberg presided over the ceremonies, administering the oath of office in the amber-lit setting.

Standing up there, shaking Mayor Mike’s hand, taking a family photo, I reflected back on how this brother who used to terrorize me is wearing judicial robes. Growing up Anthony was fond of pouncing on me at all times of the day, Kato-like. When I walked down the hallway to my bedroom, he jumped out and scared me. When I went to watch TV, before I switched on the room’s light, he jumped out at me from the dark.

Sometimes he used me as his guinea pig. He and his friend built a raft and decided that if it held much lighter me, it might hold one of them. Since it was rare for him to allow his little sister to hang around with him, I was happy to be included and I climbed aboard. Luckily I’m a good swimmer. They never did learn to build a proper raft.

When we lived in the Bronx we walked to school along a wooded path. After school I walked home alone on that path. In first grade, a boy became fond of waiting for me and stealing my things. A hat, my gloves, my pencils disappeared into his pockets. My tormentor was a few years older than I, and much bigger. He told me not to tell anyone or I’d be sorry. After a few days I decided to tell my brother.

Anthony told me we would lay a trap. When my nemesis attacked, my brother jumped from a tree and pounded the hell out of him. Oh, that was most satisfying. That boy never bothered me again.

I’m grateful that I have a big brother like him. Now all of NYC has my big brother, the Hon. Anthony Ferrara, looking out for them.

Watch out criminals. He’s tough. He’ll definitely pounce on you.