The table at which he sat was five feet long, crafted beautifully from hard maple, with only the top and edges of the boards planed smooth, but each fitted so snugly into its neighbors that no cracks could be seen. Six chairs stood around the table, the number decided more from a desire for symmetry than the needs of his family. Ethan was always pleased when one of their rare visitors commented on the workmanship of his furniture. The chairs were made entirely of white oak, including the seats, woven from strips of inner bark, now hardened and polished from several years of use. All pieces had been smoothed with a spoke shave and then a scraper, and were locked inseparably by driving them together while they still contained different degrees of moisture so that the drier rungs and curved back slats would expand and the relatively green legs and high-back frame would contract as the moisture equalized.

A shallow-lidded bowl of grease was on the table, with a wick protruding from inside. Either this crude lamp or candles made of beeswax or tallow provided a local source of light when Ethan and Epsey needed to supplement that from the fireplace. They usually went to bed before it became dark outside, and even in the daytime there was no source of light unless the door or outside shutters were opened, and even then little sunlight could penetrate the greased paper that was tacked inside the window openings as a cheap substitute for glass. A spinning wheel and loom now stood in a corner, and along the wall on one side of the door were a number of pegs driven into the middle of a log at about head height, on which he and Epsey usually hung most of their clothing. Those nearest his cot held a long black coat, a buckskin jacket, a coonskin cap, a broad-brimmed hat with a flat top, and a spare homespun shirt, long enough to reach down to Ethan’s knees.