Mr. Haley's Table

From the house of a celebrated writer to the corner of my living room.

- Roberta Messner

I’ve always had an eye for an-tiques. My home is filled with items I’ve collected over the years: pillows, prints, lamps, chairs. But one of my most prized possessions is an old writing desk, a source of inspiration, something I treasure, especially because of the writer who once owned it. I’ll never forget the moment that I first laid eyes on it.

I was in an antiques shop on an autumn day, a day as crisp as the Rome Beauty apples on sale at the farmers’ market. The proprietor of the shop, Martha, recognized me. “You’re the lady who writes for decorating magazines!” I was a nurse full-time but wrote about houses and antiques on the side.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said.

“Several of my customers have told me that my place ought to be in a magazine,” Martha said.

The next thing I knew, she grabbed her keys and was leading me out the door and over to a big white farmhouse that stood on the same grounds. It was in beautiful shape, inside and out. The living room was filled with Early American country antiques: a long farm table, a baker’s cupboard. Upstairs were some fine bedroom suites, and in the kitchen was a pie safe still wearing its original blue milk paint, not to mention six pierced tins in the coveted star pattern. There was a wonderful 1800s step-back cupboard, a grandfather clock with pewter weights and a blanket chest.

BUT THE OBJECT THAT CALLED TO me was in a corner of the kitchen, a drop-leaf table so quaint it took my breath away. I walked over and ran my hand across the walnut surface, then sat in the matching arrow-back chair, its surface so smooth it didn’t even catch on my nylons. “Where did this come from?” I asked.