Discarded hutch in the Laundry Room of my Building

I have an irrational discomfort, yes even a dislike, for regal old pieces of furniture that are not in someone's home. I always feel sorry for them. I wonder how many truly incredible Alice Munro-like, or Carol Shields-ridden, or even Mavis Gallant continental-style stories of life and love, of family history here in Ontario are stored deep in the cells of the wood of these magnificent pieces. I ache for their solitude and yearn to hear them speak.

The ones at each of my maternal and paternal grandmother's houses smelled wonderful. Each one smelled very differently from the other, but both managed to convey feelings of comfort, and security, and sunday dinners. The hutch and the big table, the well padded chairs, the bright shiny silver for special, the huge cotton napkins jammed into my shirt collar, even the carpet itself, all represented time standing still. There was no change/no time there in the formal dining room surrounded by those tall stoic hutches and the remainder of the furniture. We all loved it.