After my great-grandmother’s funeral - in the early 60s - the family, except for my grandfather, went back home to bed. They all crammed into the space available: my mother and one uncle shared one bedroom, the other uncle and my grandmother the other. It was summertime, and the air was hot and humid; they left the windows and the doors to the front hall open, to get the air circulating. That particular area of the house was rather large, and the parquet floor squeaked beyond belief. In the middle of the front hall, there was a table. It was actually a 200-year old table with matching chairs. Because it was an antique, my grandmother wouldn’t let anyone near it, afraid that we would damage it.