The maple chest of drawers was designed and handcrafted for Great-Grandfather Walter’s bride on her wedding day. It was one and a half meters tall and two meters across. The number of drawers, small on the top, with larger drawers on both sides and across the bottom, fit snuggly in their place. The wood came from a forest near the Turnbull’s farm in Delhi, Ontario.
This piece of furniture sat in the bedroom of the homestead until Great-Grandmother moved to a nursing home in her nineties. The bureau had too many memories to sell. One of the relatives disassembled the piece to store it in his basement.
My father saw the neglected piece on a visit to Canada. He had many memories of the drawers in his grandparents’ home and asked if he could have it. No money was exchanged. His uncle wrote a letter stating that this was a gift from one family member to another. This would be needed for passing through customs.
The pieces of the drawers were packed into the back of our 1960’s Ford station wagon to make the trip back to the States.
It was a rainy, overcast day. The customs official looked in the wagon and saw the wood.
“That looks like an antique.”
My dad was tired. He just wanted to return to Northville.
“Here is a letter from my uncle that this is a gift from him to me.”
The official insisted that this was an antique and had value. My dad had enough.
“Take the piece and throw it in the river if you don’t believe the letter.”
The customs inspector didn’t want to remove the heavy pieces. He relented and allowed us to leave Canada without paying a fee.
Once we were back home, my mother called Mr. Kelly, Pearl Kelly, who was married to Dad’s cousin and lived close by in Plymouth. He was an expert in rebuilding and restoring furniture. He put the piece together, and it took four strong men to take it to the second floor of our home. There it stayed for the sixty years.
When Dad died in 2018, my brothers and I met at the homestead to divide up our parents’ possessions. If more than one person wanted an item, their names were put into a box, and a non-bidding sibling drew a name. Since I was blind, I was the one to draw the names. My brother Mike’s name was drawn for the bureau. The piece moved to the Pittsburgh area.
With my brother’s death and his wife, Kathy, moving to a smaller home, I suspect that one of the four children inherited the family heirloom.
From the Canadian woods to Pennsylvania, that piece of history connects the Turnbull family clan. To all the Dads in my family, I wish you all a Blessed Father’s Day.
Poem. ***
The Bureau
With a craftsman’s care, he selected and planed the wood.
Canadian maple, from the farm.
A wedding gift for his new bride.
There it stayed for eighty years.
After Great-grandmother’s death.
It was disassembled and stored in a basement, forgotten.
Until my Father saw the piece, memories stirred.
He asked for it.
With a handshake, the bureau was passed to another.
Traveled to Michigan’s shore.
Heavy with memories, it stayed for 60 years.
Now the passing time once again.
Traveling to Pittsburgh and beyond.
Wherever it lands.
This precious heirloom,
was touched by many hands.
carolaspot@aol.com copyrighted 6/21/26
traveling up and down the blind highway 