Only a Table

When we had been married only a few years, I saw the most beautiful walnut dining room table that,

Our dining room table

with its extensions, served 12 people at ZCMI. I could see it surrounded by family—children, parents, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren, much as my parents’ round oak table had been. Since we had just purchased a new home with a dining room, I purchased the table and the matching china cabinet.

A number of months later, in January of 1966, my husband got notification to come in for an exam to see if he was healthy enough to be drafted. These was during the Vietnam War Era, and if you were going to school full time, you could get an education exemption. Since our marriage, Ed had been taking classes at the University of Utah, and working, so he was exempt. However, that semester he’d dropped a class and since he was then not a full-time student, he suddenly became eligible to be drafted into the war. Of course, he was healthy enough, and his draft board said he’d receive a draft notice within two weeks.

Ed was determined not to be in the infantry, so he looked at all of the programs available for those joining the Army. He found one that he could get flight training in helicopters, and become an officer, so that’s what he signed up for, and within a month he was gone.

We lost our house, and I moved back home with my Dad and younger siblings. We sold a lot of things, but Dad stored my precious table in his garage. Ed went through basic training and the first part of his flight training in Texas, while I continued to work to earn money. By Summer, Ed was advanced enough in his training, that we decided I would join him. My Dad drove my car, and my uncle drove Dad’s car down to Weatherford, Texas (West of Ft. Worth) and dropped me off before they went home in Dad’s car.

Ed's graduation from flight school

Ed orders stated, “no personal vehicles or dependents authorized during flight school,” but I found a furnished apartment close to the base and joined the brave wives who did not want to be left behind. The flight students had to live in the barracks, and we could visit them from 7:00 P.M.  to 9:00 P.M.   most evenings and they had from noon Saturday until Sunday night at home with us before returning to the barracks. It wasn’t ideal, but we were with them.

It was right before Ed was transferred to Enterprise, Alabama for his final part of his training, that I miscarried for the second time. I wondered if we’d ever have children to go around the table.

When Ed finished flight school and was awarded his wings, his officer rank, and his orders to Vietnam, we had a month in Utah before he left. I was blessed to get pregnant during that month and moved into a tiny apartment in Bountiful while Ed left for war. There wasn’t a lot of room for my table, but it fit into the apartment. In December my first son was born while Ed was flying near Saigon. My dreams were still alive.

While Ed was in Vietnam, he sent me a 12-piece set of china and silverware to go with the table. That table went all over the world with us, including back to Bountiful when I had two little ones and expecting my third and Ed went back to Vietnam to war again. Most of the time it was used as a kitchen table and I put oilcloth tablecloths on it to protect it from the little kids eating at it. I began to see my dream come to fruition. We ate on it; we played games on it; we did puzzles on it; we did crafts on it, we celebrated birthdays on it. It was truly a family

Athena's birthday party

table.

It went to the Big Island of Hawaii with us, where we had a dining room. It went to northern Italy with us, where again we had room for it to serve as a formal dining room table. It went to three stations in Texas, Alabama (twice), Nebraska, Chicago and Sacramento with us. I remember in Hawaii, when our stuff arrived in the dock, a forklift had smashed through the corner of the container. Luckily it destroyed a desk and lots of other stuff but missed our table.

It was used more as a kitchen table than a dining room table during most of those years, and since Ed was an officer, we entertained a lot on it. It looked beautiful, and I loved it. But it still hosted a lot of kids doing homework and games, and I even used it to sew on. We went through a lot of dining room chairs during those years, but the table kept going.

Family dinner

In February 1990, we moved to our house in Centerville, where the table served another purpose. It served extended family, my parents, siblings and their families, friends and my children’s friends. When we first moved in after Ed’s retirement, he refinished the tabletop and gave it new life. It was here in Centerville that it realized its purpose as our children married and had children, and it hosted many a family dinner, including Sunday dinners throughout the years. The dream I’d imagined those many years ago became fulfilled as we often added the extensions and we did games on it after dinner.

50 years after we purchased the table, Ed decided our table had outlived its life. We ordered a new solid-walnut dining room table (with extensions to hold 12 people) for Christmas in 2014. However, Ed passed away before the new table arrived.

Our treasured old dining room table went to my daughter, where it could continue to serve her family.

It is a silly thing to treasure a piece of furniture as I did for so many years. But it wasn’t the wooden reality of it that was so important to me, but the symbol that it stood for—loved ones of several generations gathered around it, eating, playing, talking, being family. It realized its purpose.

My Father’s Legacy

My father was an ordinary, blue-collar man. He never accumulated great wealth, or served as president of an organization, auxiliary or club. He never wrote a book, invented a new machine, won war medals, or did anything to make him well known or famous. When he died, there were no buildings or streets named after him, no colleges endowed by him, or long obituaries written for him. What legacy did he leave for his children? He left a legacy of a strong work ethic, a willingness to help others, a love of learning, loving support, and a testimony of Christ.

When I was young, I never realized my father had a testimony, because it was hard for him to show it. I assumed he believed in the gospel because he always took us to Church. However, because he was Fay 1957 shy or whatever—I don’t know why—he never blessed, baptized, confirmed, or ordained any of us older children. He did participate in priesthood confirmations and ordinations, so I never felt deprived. That was just how it was. Looking back, I never recall a time when he gave me a father’s blessing during my early years, but maybe I never asked him for one.

I never saw my father gradually take on the mantle of noble patriarch of his family, because after I married, my husband’s work took me far from my childhood home. Even after my mother’s death, as Dad remarried and reared a second family, I was never around to see him magnify his priesthood.


My sister was more fortunate because she lived only a couple of miles from Dad. It was Dad who blessed and named her first son, who helped ordain her husband to the Melchizedek Priesthood, and who participated in all of her sons’ ordinations. He came to their Family Home Evenings and always participated. She recalls that every Christmas Dad would tell of his love of Heavenly Father.

It was 25 years later, when we moved back in my home state with children of our own, that I realized what a strong family leader my father had become. He participated in every ordinance that his many children and grandchildren received. He helped give my children and grandchildren priesthood blessings, and I received several very special father’s blessings that I will never forget. He went to the temple with each prospective missionary, and sat in the special place of honor at their weddings.

It was in May of 1998 that I first heard my father bear his testimony. He had helped name and bless a nephew’s newest baby, and afterwards he stood in the fast and testimony meeting and bore a simple, heartfelt testimony.

“So many of my family are here today, that I can’t let this opportunity pass without letting them know I have a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel,” my father said gripping his canes to keep his balance. “I love the Savior. I know he hears and answers our prayers. I know that we have a prophet at the head of this Church.”

My brothers and sisters and I looked at each other in amazement, because although we had assumed our father had a testimony, we had never heard him bear it before. How grateful we were for that treasured testimony, because soon afterwards he suffered a massive heart attack and never had the opportunity to bear his testimony in public again.




Although my father had difficulty expressing his testimony, his life was a testament of his concern and love for others. He was always the first to help someone in need, to mow someone’s lawn, or fix someone’s car. He shared the bounty of his gardens with everyone.

My father was always intrigued by technology and progress. I recall that we had one of the first television sets in 1950 before there were many channels or shows broadcast. He never lost that enthusiasm for learning new things, and in his 80s, he embraced computers, e-mail, and scanners. I’ll never forget his words in the Intensive Care unit, “I can’t die yet. I haven’t learned how to use my scanner yet.”

My father attended all of our activities and those of our children. He sat through countless recitals, concerts, plays, and games as he cheered his posterity on, and took us out for ice cream afterwards.

Like many of his generation, he was a hard-working man, who expected us to carry our own loads. But, even as he taught us to work hard, he helped us realize how exciting work and training can be.

Although my father found it difficult to express his love when we were young, he more than made up for it telling us how much he loved us in his later years. We never left his home, but that he said, “I love you and appreciate all you’ve done for me.” You knew it wasn’t ritual or meaningless phrases, but came from his heart.

Although his faith was a quiet, unspoken kind, he demonstrated it in countless ways. I recall a time when I was living in Hawaii and had to have a biopsy of my breast. Because my mother had died of breast cancer, everyone was very worried. My father organized a special family fast, and gathered everyone together afterwards for a special family prayer. I wasn’t aware of the fast, but half a world away, I felt the effect of their father and prayers, when I had a special answer—I felt a peace enfold me that helped me face the challenges ahead. It was a real demonstration to me of my father’s and my family’s faith.

Faith cannot be weighed on a mortal scale. Nor can the value of a father’s example be counted in coin or currency. The worth of a life is not always reflected in the number of scholarships endowed, or buildings bearing one’s name. It may not even be measured by the length of a man’s obituary.

Sometimes a man’s legacy is reflected only obliquely through his posterity’s faith, lives and testimonies.