A Struggle at the Dinner Table

I sat at the creaky dinner table, one that was fit for four, but we made room for five. My father had hand carved it for us, our money being low resulted in him becoming a wood worker. Something everyone needed, but not for many months at a time. We barely scraped by, with mother desperately trying to sell her poorly kitted garments downtown every evening.

Ic sætte æt þǣm creaky mete-bord, án ðæt wæs gecoren for feower, ac we gemetton rúm for fīf. Mīn fæder hæfde hand-geworht hit for ús, úre feoh bēon læn, gehwæt seah him tó wudda wyrhta. Smiðca eallum wæs nēodig, ac ne for fela mōna on tīd. Wē swǣlgan hæfdon geornful, mid mūdor ōþerlice sīende to sellenne hiera unprēate ġearwe downtown æfre ēvening.