Like a ton of bricks.

A few months ago, my Mom dragged the parts of a solid pine table from her attic, and with a feat of strength one wouldn't think possible, she hoisted it into the back of her somewhat-aged SUV and drove it to Maryland. 

B/c we needed something sturdy.  A table that wouldn't groan and sway under the weight of a beautiful granite slab and one that was tall enough and big enough for Harper to safely play under.

After I cussed it out of her car and into our house, it sat.  It sat for three months, until a few mornings ago, fueled by too much coffee and a toddler eager to be entertained by something new, I decided that I had put it off long enough.

"We" flipped it over and began to assemble the necessary parts.  As I finished tightening the screws on the first leg, it hit me: That my dad made this table and the very nuts and bolts that Harper sat "organizing" were the ones that he used, too. 

I was way too young to remember, or he may have even built it before I was born, but I can picture the scene almost exactly.. the shop, the flannel shirt, saw horses, colorful rhetoric. . . usually with himself.  Whatever he may have been thinking when he crafted and assembled this solid piece of our family, I bet he never imagined this scene: