My son Ted stood back, looking at the table.

He held a tape measure and stretched it out. It was 6 feet long. We should all have intuitively known it was 6 feet. The metal-top table has been a kitchen fixture for as long as I can remember. I was maybe 6 or 7 when my great aunt owned the house. It was there then and my parents kept it when they bought the house from Aunt Alice.  And we kept it after my parents died. 

In the last eight months, however, a lot has changed. The laundry room, the larder and a bathroom have been removed so as to open the kitchen and provide a view of the giant trees, vast sky above and glimpses of the lake at the bottom of the hill.

It’s an all new space that incorporates some of the old like hardwood floors, globe lights (now with adjustable LEDs) and cabinets that have been refinished, yet still using some of the original 1930s hardware. To make the transition, every stick of furniture, appliance, shelves of plates and glasses,  utensils, cooking ware [yes, even electric appliances, such as mixers]; closets packed with coats, hats, gloves, boots, canes, umbrellas and an assortment of other stuff from generations, all was moved into the dining room.

Ted, his brother Jack and Carol did a great job moving it all. It sat in boxes, on the floor, on shelves and on top of the dining room table.  It could have been a giant yard sale. That’s what we should have done, only nobody drives past this place in the New York woods. 

And there was another consideration. We were finding things we hadn’t seen for decades – items such as a penguin-shaped cocktail shaker that was just so unique that I wondered why my father never used it.

But here we were in new, yet old, surroundings. The radiators were gone, replaced by radiant ceiling panels, individually controlled.  Recessed lighting and white walls and stainless steel appliances made for a sterile space.

It was a clean slate, a canvas crying for creativity. And here came the rub.

We appropriated the kitchen table and the six simple, wooden unpainted wicker-seated chairs that had been its companions for decades.  It was functional and the sunflower-patterned cloth Carol had spread added a lot.

Now over breakfast coffee, we debated whether the old norm should become the new norm. Well, actually, we all agreed it was time for some of the new norm.

“Seven feet?” suggested Ted expending the tape measure for the table. There was a moment of silence.

“We could put down tape, then we would get an idea of where everything is going to fit,” said Ted’s wife, Erica. She’s a planner and went through this discourse in their house.

Perhaps, but did we have time for that?

“What about a big square table? The room is big enough for it.”

 Carol was silent.  She preferred a cozy six at the kitchen table.

Then there were questions about other furniture in the room, a couch and side table … a comfy chair? Someone suggested a large cushy round couch, but would it become a “slouch couch?” 

Was there a place for the old Jacobean sideboard, which holds some sentimental value because my father liked it? Apart from being stained a dark brown – almost black – its deep drawers could accommodate just about everything, if you could open them.

“You’ll know as soon as you bring it in,” said Erica. She had a good point.  Carol and I didn’t wait to find out. We needed to get on the road back to Rhode Island.

But before we left, we had to find a place for the shower squeegee Diana sent us for the re-situated bathroom. Ted placed it on the floor next to the glass door. It looked junky. He moved it up the glass partition. But now that was the first thing you saw on entering the bathroom. Ted kept moving it around the tile and glass enclosure. We all had differing suggestions.  

We started laughing.  The absurdity of what we were doing hit us.

It could all change … and most likely will.  Parting with the old can be tough, and agreeing on the new can even be harder, even when finding a place to mount the squeegee.