Tag Archives: Mesta Park

No Place Like Home

31 Saturday Jan 2009

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I love pulling family together to celebrate life around a dinner table.  In my best dreams, it happens every Saturday night here in my Mesta Park home.  But, in reality, where I gratefully live on mere scraps of my dreams, I rejoice whenever it happens – within those seemingly rare moments of time where competing schedules line up and opposing interests disintegrate.  Ever thankful for these rare times, I still long and hope for more.  So this mother-of-invention has set her sights on a new strategy that — over the next nine months — will move my family beyond the world of Mesta Park to a choice of restaurant spots across the metropolitan area.  As I consider the differing tastes and personalities of individual family members, I can’t wait to see where this dining adventure will take us.   

Last night we enjoyed our first moveable feast, thanks to my future son-in-law Glen.  We convened family around a large table at Benvenutis, a virtual slice of Italy that dwells on Main Street in Norman.  The food that was great was made even better by the company we kept – that circle of familiar faces that love you no matter what.  But the fact that all of this was happening at one of Glen’s favorite spots made it even better, because it was a place he loved enough to share with all of us.

I think I’m going to like family outings almost as much as having my chicks gathered in the nest at home.  But let’s wait until March to find out, because next month is mine.  And I want everyone gathered at home in Mesta Park, where together we’ll celebrate my son Kyle’s twenty-first birthday.    

So now, with the promise of my best dream awaiting me in February, I close my eyes and click my ruby slippers.  There’s no place like home.      

Bon Appetite

28 Wednesday Jan 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, The Great Outdoors

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It’s a gorgeous day in the neighborhood.  With snow on the ground and sun in the sky, Mesta Park just sparkles.  Evidently the dogs think so too.  They are outside frolicking in the snow.  But I see they’ve stopped to grab a quick bite to eat.  Oh, cute — they’re making snow ice cream.  It must be from an old family recipe — all from scratch.   

First, find a nice patch of clean snow.  This seems to be their most time consuming step – as I believe most French chefs will attest, the importance of fresh ingredients cannot be overstated – so take your time to sniff out the freshest ingredients possible.  Next, with one front paw, scratch the surface to excavate the snow into a small raised pile.  It’s best to go all the way down to the ground, bringing up little specks of dirt for the top of the pile.  Think of it as nature’s very own chocolate sprinkles. 

Bon Appetite.  No need to worry about calories.  Their snow ice cream is the perfect diet food.  French poodles don’t get fat.

 

Who needs an alarm clock?

27 Tuesday Jan 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Mesta Park, Soul Care, The Great Outdoors

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They say our icy weather will not be as bad as last time.  Even so, when I woke up early to the sounds of ice pelting my rooftop, I could not shake off memories of last year’s storm.  So I got out of bed to let my sleep-robbing thoughts out on paper.  Maybe they’ll stop whining.

I tell myself there is nothing to fear, but something is bothering me.  What is it?  I know we weathered last year’s ice storm all right.  Compared to many in the neighborhood, our losses were minor – no heat and power for three days and one old Elm tree gone forever. 

But, as I remember this, I wonder whether the brevity of our suffering was a rare sort of grace given to those in mourning. 

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Two days before the storm hit, we had laid to rest my mother’s body.  And because the ice storm followed mom’s death so closely, I fear I may forever associate them together.

Will I always wake up at night when I hear ice hitting the rooftop? 

Will I always recall that moment of fancy–while living in our dark and cold home during last year’s storm– when I wondered whether slinging around ice was mom’s way of venting anger at death from the grave, in the same way she infrequently resorted to slinging around a pot or pan, or slamming a door or drawer to vent her anger at life when she was alive?

As I write this, I realize mom was not an angry person by nature nor was she angry about dying.  No, that fancy had nothing to do with mom’s anger.  It was all my own.   

Today, I release the anger to go back and live with last year’s storm.  And for this new storm, I choose to remember mom’s life, and the way she absolutely loved to look out her window on falling snow.  And so, in honor of her, I stop and look.  And it’s beautiful.  Then I stop and listen.  And it sounds like hundreds of little bugs are crashing into my windshield.