There's a table in the corner of my basement that sits behind the bar and supports my turntable.
The legs have been removed and put back in place countless times since I inherited this table from my parents sometime near the start of my college career. Over the past 20+ years, any time I've moved somewhere new, this small table has gone with me.
My wife often wonders why I hang on to old beat up furniture like this. Let me explain.
From the time I was born, this table was a fixture somewhere in my house. There it is in late 1975 -- seven months before I was born.
And there it is again a little later that year and a little closer to my worldwide debut.
And there's me and my baby toys hanging out with the living room table.
I got older and the table stayed put.
Occasionally it moved around the living room as other furniture was moved, but it was always there.
After a few years, around 1980, my parents invested in a full set of living room furniture -- a coffee table and two end tables to go with the couch and two recliners we already had. The former living room table was promoted at that point to "kitchen corner table which holds the 8-track player."
After bouncing around our house for years and likely spending a good amount of time in storage, the table found its way to my brother's room in the late 80s where it served as "table to support a giant clunky TV and Nintendo system." Here you see my cousins from Tennessee engulfed in a game of Super Mario.
It was five years later that I left for college and the table went with me. Twenty more years down the road and it's in my basement quickly approaching 40 years of four-legged furniture servitude.
So why do I hang on to stuff like this?
I think you know.