A few months ago we bought a small table from a country style store a few blocks from our apartment. The salesperson kept referring to it as a “farm table,” which I assumed was another term for “primitive table” as it was tagged, but I haven’t bothered to research into the colloquialisms any further. However, regardless of what you define as a “primitive table” or “farm table,” the best descriptor for either has to be “rough.”
It’s clearly a handmade table, not the sort you might pick up at Ikea (following instructions doesn’t count) or FFO (the prices justify the lack of craftsmanship). There were nails sticking up in spots that were quickly addressed with a hammer. The tabletop was stained but not painted with what appears to be the silhouettes of things that had been spray painted before. This wasn’t just a handmade table, but it was secondhand. There’s a history to the table. It has character. And, while the story isn’t all that interesting, I still wanted to preserve it with some sort of clear coat finish. You know, make it look halfway nice.
About a month after we got the table, I finally drove down to Ace Hardware, nearest supplier of all things manly, and picked up some sandpaper because I knew I had to sand the table down first. Of course, this wasn’t as simple as just buying sandpaper. Ace had six different options split into three different steps. First, you have your 60- and 80-grit for “extreme” and “coarse removal.” Then you got your 120- and 180-grit for “moderate” and “final surface preparation.” For your final step, you’ve got the oh-so-“fine” and “extra fine scruffing” at 220- and 320-grit. After a combination careful deliberation and quiet impatience, I ignored the descriptions and went for the 120-grit.
My effort to sand the table bore some fruit. In the end, I had some nice dark brown piles that had fallen from the tabletop to the hardwood floor, easily scooped up into a dustpan. Too dark to be strictly wood, so I can only guess it was only the stain.
The table was left alone for a bit longer. It was used less as a dining table and more like a laundry room table since it was so conveniently near our washer and dryer. Unfortunately, due to the lack of rags after I sanded the tabletop, there was still that brown residue from the staining leftover that stuck around to make all laundry efforts seem in vain. I claimed I would have it done by Thanksgiving. Due to hazy Thanksgiving plans and my former boss’s plan to schedule 9 PM shows all week, the laundry stayed on the table.
Sam befriended someone she met through work and made plans to hang out with her and her SO, which I was happy with considering the only people I knew in this town were some of her coworkers and my coworkers. I’ve never been one to seek out new people, but the prospect of playing a board game with folks. That and I had an excuse to finish the table.
I was unclear about the terminology. Google searches for “clear coat finish”--the phrase my father would use--kept coming up “polyurethane” and “resin.” Despite it having more syllables, polyurethane seemed like a simpler and more practical option. So on my first Saturday off, I returned to Ace Hardware and set on by an employee. He was helpful--as they usually are--in directing me where to go for the polyurethane. And like a curse, I was doomed with having to pick what size. Three different cans of polyurethane--small, medium, and large. I wanted this table to shine so I narrowed it down to the ones labeled “gloss.” I scoured the labels to see how much area this stuff would cover. They all said the same damn thing: “A gallon will cover 700 square feet.” In my research, I was consistently told that I need to apply three coats. But nowhere did it say how many coats I’d get out of this stuff. So, like a logical person, I assumed that the three coats would come from a single can. Then, tapping away on my calculator in my iPhone, I did the math to see how much the little can would give me as far as square-foot coverage. Of course, regardless of the volume contained in the cans, I was told the same message: “A gallon will cover 700 square feet.”
How many ounces do I have? 8. Google how many ounces in a gallon. 128 ounces in gallon. 128 ounces will cover 700 feet. 8 goes into 128 ounces 16 times. 700 divided by 16 is 43.75. The table is about 4 feet by 3 feet, meaning it’s 12 square feet.
This is why I studied English.
Now, I needed a brush. I asked the employee still nearby what kind of brush to get. He did not know, but he tried anyway. I was skeptical about the price so I kept looking. I recalled my research: you want a natural bristle brush. Synthetic’s gonna put streaks in your polyurethane.
A man in plainclothes addressed me: “What can I help you with?” I explained the situation, and then everything got more complicated.
“First, I’m gonna save you some money,” he said, leading me away from the brushes to the cheap foam brushes. He handed me two of them, and I just accepted them. Then he led me to another aisle. “This’ll be the most expensive thing I sell ya.” He pulled down a can of paint thinner, and, handing it to me, told me, “Smallest I got.” Then we moved to another aisle. “Got any steel wool?” I shook my head, wordless by this point. Boom. Steel wool in my hands. Then he tells me what I’m gonna do: “Get something you can mix the polyurethane and paint thinner in. Half and half. Then you’re gonna put down a coat. How big’s this table?” I tell him. “Alright, you’re gonna wanna let that dry. Get a hair dryer, a fan, whatever you gotta do. Then you’re gonna clean it with this steel wool and a rag. You’re gonna repeat this process again. You gonna put drinks on this table?” I nodded. “Third coat. You’ll definitely need a third coat.”
I wrestled by thoughts back and told him, “Yeah, what I read on the Internet told me a third coat.” Like I knew what I was talking about. He said nothing and walked away. The stranger seemed the sort to laugh at Internet advice. He knew what he was doing out of the womb. For some, this stuff is natural. I think my father is also one of those. I didn’t inherit that gene.
I started work on that table finally. Given the time it would take to dry, I knew it wasn’t going to be completed by Sunday for our scheduled playdate, but it’d at least be dry enough to throw a tablecloth over. The first coat required me to open our balcony door, which is a pain to lock back up without ramming into it with your shoulder (if you’re by yourself). The Internet told me that the room should be well ventilated. Three doorways was good enough for me. It also told me I should be wearing a mask while doing this, regardless of ventilation, so I just held my t-shirt up like someone cut a bad fart.
Maybe it’s my lack of standards or the brain damage from inhaling polyurethane fumes, but I’m happy with it, and I think Sam is too. Maybe I’ll even do the rest of it.
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