important than that."

Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.

One day this gentleman came to the orphanage and he talked with the head

office and they agreed to allow him to come, every other week, and teach

the children how to do woodworking projects.

I remember the night I finished my first project. It was a small table

with a formica top and I was so proud of that table and I looked upon it

as though I had created a life. It was absolutely beautiful and not to

mention, this was the first time in our whole lives that the orphanage

had allowed us to use our own minds.

It had taken me six weeks to complete my project and I could hardly wait

to give my little table to Mother Winters, as a gift. As the table legs

were not dry from the clear coating that had been applied, the man asked

us to wait until our next session before taking our projects to our

dormitories. But I just could not wait because I was just too happy and

excited. Besides, my project was the best one of all. Well, except for

this full size row boat some ten year old nut was trying to build. I

moved my table toward the doorway and waited for the right opportunity

to escape. Then out the door I went like a flash, running through the

darkness with my little hands underneath the table top, just smiling

from ear to ear, as I headed toward the dormitory.

When I reached the dormitory I placed the beautiful little table beside

my bed and I just stood there for about ten minutes just looking at what

I had created with my own mind. Then Mother Winters entered the room I

pointed at the table and she smiled at me and I felt so proud. She asked

me where the other children were and I told her that they were cleaning

up the sawdust and would be coming soon. She walked over to the table

and ran her hand across the slick formica top. "It is very pretty", she

told me.

When she touched the table leg she noticed that the leg was still wet

from the clear coating that I had brushed on eariler. She asked me why I

had brought the table into the dormitory with the legs still wet. I did

not know what to say, so I just stood there with my head down and I did

not say anything.

"Were you supposed to bring this home?" she asked.

"No ma'am," I told her.

Mother Winters walked over to the little table and with her foot, kicked

it over onto its top. Then she stepped onto each of the small table

legs, breaking them off. She then opened the side door and had me throw

the little table out into the yard.

After Mother Winters had left the building, and all the other children

were asleep, I opened the outside door and went out to get my little

table. There was sand stuck all over the legs. I brushed and cried, and

brushed and cried, and brushed and cried but the sand would not come

off. I hid the table in my closet and I never returned to the wood shop

after that, ever again. About a year later I gave the little table and

legs to Mother Henderson so she could throw them away.

About thirty years later I tried to find as many of the orphanage

children as possible in order to have a reunion. At the reunion I found

out that Mother Henderson was living in Asheville, North Carolina.

Several weeks later I drove up to see her and we visited and talked for

about four or five hours. As I was about to leave she asked me to come

down to her basement and help her get something important. After we

climbed down into her dark, cold, damp basement. This shaking,

seventy-five year old, woman walked over into a dark corner and picked

something up. As she turned around I could see that she was holding a

little table with four broken legs.

"Do you remember this?" she said.

I just stood there with my head down and I did not say a word. I could

not speak for fear of crying.

Mrs Henderson gave me that table and I have sanded, clear coated, and

replaced the legs. That little formica table now sits in my

grand-daughter, Chelsey's bedroom, along with her little plastic (sissy)

chair that her poppa gave her. Otherwise, the story would have just been

titled: "THE TABLE."

Thank you, Mother Henderson.

Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.