Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I have a decorating trademark, one that I’ve never seen described in Martha Stewart’s world, although I admit I don’t frequent that world very often. My trademark is this: wherever I live, the space above my kitchen cabinets makes a statement.

I once lived in a loft in an old Sears, Roebuck warehouse where the ceilings were 14 feet high, but the kitchen cabinets stopped at the usual height. So there was an abundance of unused space above them. I filled it with old furniture: a small rocking chair, my son’s discarded toy box, a trunk I found in my parents’ garage, a child’s school desk, and other large odds ‘n’ ends.

That was the start of my interest in cabinet couture.

While my next home was being built, I lived in a rental apartment because I’d sold the loft faster than anticipated. This time I positioned books and framed photographs above the cabinets, choosing covers that lent a sense of color to the otherwise drabby white kitchen.

In the next home, the kitchen was part of the great room that also doubled as a living, dining, and family room. This meant I had little actual cabinet space, so I displayed my good China, my wine rack, and other attractive serving dishes above the few cabinets there were. Needless to say, when company arrived and I’d forgotten to get down that particular bottle of wine, it wasn’t very classy to drag out my stepladder. But that’s what I did.

I guess you could call my present kitchen statement “Family Scrapbook,” since almost everything came from family members. There are the ceramic chickens Earl and I brought from his Mother’s house in Spring City, Tennessee, when she went to a nursing home. There is the Singer sewing machine my own Mother bought in the 1950s. The wine rack is from my older son, Kevin, as is the plaque he made in eighth grade that reads “Our gourmet kitchen is closed; try our famous peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Then add the picnic basket from Earl’s daughter, the Lionel engine from my Dad’s estate, the photos of my two sons as young children, and you get the drift.

There is also a plaque that reads “Martha Stewart doesn’t live here” and another one that reads “Maybe it’s not Home Sweet Home. Adjust.” I’d let Ms. Stewart borrow the latter when she moves to the Big House, but I doubt she’ll have a cabinet on which to display it.