My maternal grandfather had five surviving children. He made each of them a walnut library table that they could take with them, when they married and left home. He wasn't a great craftsman, and I doubt this plain piece of furniture would be worth much to anyone outside the family, or even to those in my family; but to me, it's special.
I grew up with this thing. I imagine I first pulled myself up on that bottom shelf, as a toddler. I recall dusting it as a child, and sometimes using it as a desk. As far back as I can go in my memory, the library table was there. I don't know when Grandpa made it, but I know Mother took it with her to set up housekeeping, when she married Daddy, in 1932.
It used to have a thick coat of varnish; I stripped it many years ago, wanting the beauty of the natural wood to show. The trouble is, it sat under a chimney upstairs where the roof leaked, so now it has dark stains on it. And from some years of my own neglect, it began to dry out badly. But it's responding, now, to Old English lemon oil applications I give it once a month or so. I suppose, really, the stains just add to its character.
Perhaps we aren't supposed to "love" inanimate objects. But I confess, I love my mom's library table. Oh, if it could only talk, the tales it could tell!