I’m fascinated with big wooden tables. Always have been. The thought of King Arthur and his knights sitting around a huge table, drinking mead from heavy mugs and gnawing on legs of mutton always struck me as the ultimate in cool. And the conversations they must have had, tales of dragons, and treasure, damsels, (and yes, that friggin’ grail), to tell on a winter night before a raging fire. To talk of things of import and gravity, to parlay, to listen and to be heard. I realize that the truth was probably more along the “groveling in filth” world of “Rude Tales and Glorious” and Monty Python, but I don’t dwell on that. I’ve romanticized it in my mind for all time. By the way, if you don’t know the book “Rude Tales and Glorious” by Nicholas Seare, which is a retelling of the Arthurian tales, you should remedy that asap. The Feat of Sir Bohart is a classic story that never makes it into the official version.
So anyway, tables. I’ve always wanted a place to put a big one, now I have it. A dining room that should swallow a twelve or fifteen foot long behemoth made of wood. With room left over for sideboards, a piano, and hopefully a wall lined with musical instruments. The room is full of an odd assortment of smaller pieces of furniture for the moment. Plus that piano. But in my head it’s a fait accompli. A room to gather in for discourse, food and drink, and music if we’re so inclined. A place for friends to gather and discuss important things, or trivial, interesting hopefully, possibly even occasionally inane.
Some of the more observant among you may have asked the question; How the hell are you going to get a fifteen foot table into the house. Simple, it will have to be finished in place. No extensions, no leafs, just solid wood, unyielding and substantial. I picture a Mennonite carpenter, using reclaimed wood from some old barn or such. Something with a history to be retold through the decades. Distressed, I suppose is one way to say it, however, since I hate the whole idea of distressed items (an Eric. Clapton model Stratocaster complete with cigarette burns anyone?) , I would not put it so. More like permanently marked by the previous lives of the lumber from which it is built. And the chairs? I foresee a glorious mix and mess of styles and colors, a cacophony for the eyes, with only one thing in common; comfort. The kind of comfort that lures you in, gets you in a talkative mood, a contemplative mood, perhaps even a pondering mood. The room will have a permanence, once in place that table isn’t going anywhere. Not in my lifetime anyway. I hope it becomes a room haunted by the events that occur there, by the conversation and camaraderie, by friends past and present. A room of memories.
What I’m really talking about is a symposium, old time Greek style, or at least a riff on that. Women, of course, are allowed, even encouraged. And there will be no watering of the wine, regardless of how uncouth we shall be. The krater will be of a ceremonial nature. But the idea will remain the same; take interesting, possibly even educated people, (no certificates required, any observant person will eventually become educated) of varying backgrounds and beliefs, and gather them together to discuss… pretty much anything. It would be easy to say that wine will be the common denominator, but I think the thing that will bind us together will be a love of crafted things, and the people that craft them. People that care more about quality than quantity, more about a gift of time than one of money, who pay enough attention to details that they recognize the difficulties of making anything by hand, even if it’s something they don’t understand. People that are capable of acknowledging talent but, more importantly, capable of recognizing the effort needed to turn talent into something even more remarkable, a passionate expression of individual humanity.
The idea of the symposium, with it’s intricate rules for the watering of the wine, was to grease the skids enough with wine to produce a mild lowering of inhibitions and loosening of the tongue. This was not drunkenness typically, in fact it was considered vulgar to get drunk. Not that drunkenness never occurred, as described by Dionysus himself:
For sensible men I prepare only three kraters: one for health (which they drink first), the second for love and pleasure, and the third for sleep. After the third one is drained, wise men go home. The fourth krater is not mine any more – it belongs to bad behaviour; the fifth is for shouting; the sixth is for rudeness and insults; the seventh is for fights; the eighth is for breaking the furniture; the ninth is for depression; the tenth is for madness and unconsciousness.
Semele or Dionysus, Eubulus
Of course, that is the god of wine talking, perhaps he has a vested interest in drunkenness. I think the rules for my symposium will, at least in this respect, be a tad more conservative. No subject off limits per se, just a requirement for respect and polite behavior. Being altered past the point where this requirement can be met, whether by drugs, alcohol, or life in general, will get one sent to a “sleep-it-off” room. Repeat offenders risk being ostracized. I guess to be succinct I could say, “just handle your shit” or equally, “don’t be a dick”. Other than that, all that is required is for everyone to bring something interesting to the table; a bottle of wine, a delicate morsel, a fascinating or quirky story, even an attentive ear will serve the purpose. In another nutshell, I just want to gather together a group of you that will be so interesting to listen to, I won’t even want to talk. It’s a big undertaking but I feel you are all up to it.
So, let’s set this conversation aside for awhile (I could say table it, but that would be unforgivable) while I have a glass of wine and look out over the bluff of Keuka. I’m pondering things that haven’t occurred yet, people I haven’t met yet, friends to be, meals to be savored, wines to be shared. I look forward to seeing all of you there.
Cheers, Jerry.