City Garden

The entire time I’ve been here in Oklahoma City, I haven’t ventured far from home too often but only because I’m hopeful that I will be returning later this month on a permanent basis. There is truly a lot to see here and I like to think I will have all the time in the world once July comes to a close.

Anyway, I often pass by this gated city park on my way down 36th Street to May Avenue. Even from the outside, one can see the meticulous landscaping and grounds work that is put into the place. This is Will Rogers Park, by the way, and it’s on the National Registry of Historic Places. There is a building for garden exhibitions, a single one used as a tennis training center, an outdoor playground, and even a community pool and splash park. But the signs that caught my attention a few weeks ago were those directing visitors to the arboretum and the rose garden. Last week, I finally decided to take a walk inside the gates.

Some of the places I saw in this park reminded me of a real-life version of Disney’s Alice in Wonderland, but only those parts of the film when Alice and her sister are supposed to be reading lessons under the shade of a tree. Instead of swans, though, there were geese and Dinah wasn’t there, either. However, I do recall Alice talking about how much she enjoyed books that were filled only with pictures.

 

 

New Tradition

A fun Fourth of July tradition may be in the works.

Last year, I spent the holiday with some family and friends at the Jacksonville Suns baseball game. After our home team’s one-run loss, we were treated to fireworks accompanied by Lee Greenwood’s song God Bless the USA, which always makes me cry.

This year, Elle and I were again at a baseball game, but this one was in Oklahoma City. Matt had scored some free tickets in club seating. The three of us cheered for an exceptionally loooong time (a nearly-5 hour long game, with an extra inning to boot) for our new home team, the Oklahoma City Redhawks. After our home team’s one-run WIN, we were treated to fireworks accompanied by some really cheesy 80s music montage about the greatness of America, followed by Lee Greenwood’s song God Bless the USA,which immediately made me cry. Because damn that song.

If I find myself at another minor league baseball game next year for the Fourth of July, I’ll be fully convinced that this tradition was meant to be.

*****

On the way home, which was around midnight because, well…longest game in HISTORY, I began craving something to eat but it had to include maple syrup. Matt offered to take me anywhere I wanted to go until Elle mentioned she was hungry, too. We decided on French toast – the homemade kind, not something from Denny’s or IHOP. So we headed straight home so I could whip up some French toast in the middle of the night.

EXCEPT…

The chocolate lab had managed to jump the kitchen counter while we were gone and snag the brown lunch sack that was full of garlic bulbs. It was all right there in front of us as we walked through the back door into the kitchen. No worries, though. The bag was intact and the bulbs had pretty much been left alone, but I noticed something else was missing, too.

The loaf of bread was no longer on the counter. Also, the hot dog buns were gone. Nobody got to eat any French toast that night. Hmmph!

(This is not something I want to continue as a Fourth of July tradition, by the way.)

these peaches dont come from a factory downtown

I went a little overboard in quantity the other day when I bought some peaches from the OSU-OKC Farmers Market. My shopping list included only three things: okra, tomatoes, and fruit. It didn’t matter what kind of fruit because I am not familiar with Oklahoma’s seasonal stuff yet, I just wanted something fresh and local.

The first vendor I saw when I walked into the pavilion was selling peaches and there was a line of people waiting to get their hands on some. That’s always a good sign. So I waited my turn, handed over my cash, and came home with a basketful of peaches.

Because of my deep loyalty to the South (some the first things I made when I got to Oklahoma were a gallon of sweet tea and a key lime pie), I publicly declared on Facebook that no other peach could possibly be better than a Georgia peach, although South Carolina peaches are pretty darn tasty, too. This didn’t necessarily cause an uproar but my husband called me out, and rightfully so.

You can’t judge our Oklahoma peaches until you’ve actually eaten one!”

I’ll admit it – I hadn’t even put a bite of an Oklahoma peach in my mouth yet before I’d downgraded it to some kind of substandard replacement for the real thing from Georgia.

And here is where I make my public apology, because these Oklahoma peaches are freakin’ delicious! I have eaten at least one each day since Sunday, mostly for breakfast but sometimes for dessert. Sadly, I don’t think they’re being eaten quickly enough because a few of them are becoming wrinkly and squishier than they should be, but I’m doing my best!

Some people might say, why don’t you can them? And I have two reasons for why I am saying no.

  1. I’m too lazy to learn and, quite frankly, I don’t want to.
  2. Why save for later what you can EAT RIGHT NOW!!!???

Surprisingly, I am not yet sick of eating peaches. I am, however, sick of this song playing over and over and over in my head, though. Does this little ditty pop into your head every time you hear the word peaches? Damn you, 1995.

Burgers and love truffles

Believe it or not, this is the first full weekend we have all spent in Oklahoma together. Nobody got on an airplane to fly to Jacksonville or packed suitcases to make the 20-hour trek out west. In fact, we never even left the city limits, except to have Matt give us a tour of some mansions in Nichols Hills.

I had coffee Saturday morning with a high school friend from Maryland and loaded up on fresh flowers, fruits, and veggies at the OSU-OKC Farmers Market that afternoon, all while Matt and Elle were watching The Avengers on the big screen.

Later, I simmered bratwurst in a pot full of beer and onions and soaked fresh okra in olive oil while Matt and Elle stuffed hamburger patties with mounds of feta cheese. The key lime pie from the night before had hardly been touched so we invited some friends over for a cookout and to share in the feast. They brought with them their cute little 4-year old son and a bottle of Cupcake brand Moscato (that stuff tastes like Sprite and comes in a really pretty bottle). Elle finally managed, with much gore and blood, to yank out a troublesome baby tooth during a break from playing Flapjacks and Sasquatches. Then little Daniel got a nosebleed. Typical family fun.

On Sunday, we searched Best Buy for some techno-contraption (that’s not my department) and picked up a bag of potting soil and a daylily (totally my department) from Home Depot. Then Matt took Elle and me to brunch at La Baguette, a French bistro that could manage to up their prices and still be reasonable. Delicious! There was a lot of maple syrup and southern-style gravy, crepes and croques and coffee. The little market in the front of the restaurant is filled with European-style pastas and fizzy drinks and love truffles. Norman love truffles? Ha! I’m a love truffle.

We spent the rest of the afternoon potting new flowers and lavender plants, clearing the debris of a dead tree, enjoying the sounds of two girls – one of which being Elle – playing soccer in the front yard (the neighbor has kids!), and closing out the day by eating leftover brats and burgers and watching Bob’s Burgers, our new favorite thing on television:

Coastal Oklahoma

Temperatures have been hovering in the triple digits all across Oklahoma this week. Yes, it is a different kind of heat from the humid, steamy boil of a Florida summer that I’m so used to, but this dry heat is sometimes unbearable even for me. Back home, this is the sort of weather that sends the kiddo and me to the beach to splash around in the salt water and get knocked over by waves. But as Dorothy said, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” (And this, folks, is a good thing because the Kansas town of Hill City topped off at 115 degrees this week.)

Elle and I were in need of an adventure outside the confines of any store on May Avenue, so I searched for directions to Arcadia Lake. A few months ago, I learned Arcadia Lake is the only lake in the OKC metro area that has a designated beach and I was really looking forward to the right time and opportunity to head out there.  With forecasts warning of possible record-breaking temperatures on Wednesday, the two of us packed our beach bags, suited up, and headed north to the city of Edmond.

There were no records broken that day, by the way. It only reached 101 degrees.

Before this day, I hadn’t been swimming in a lake in over two decades but I at least knew what to expect. Elle, on the other hand, is a born and bred Florida girl, raised near the ocean and taught to stay clear of lakes and their shores for fear of alligators and venomous water snakes. Even in the ocean, one must always be aware of her surroundings. It’s not uncommon to be bumped by a shark or suddenly enveloped by a floating armada of jellyfish.

It was quite understandable that Elle was a tad nervous about taking her first steps into the lake and she asked me to hold her hand.

I linked her fingers with mine but instead of calmly wading in, I convinced her to run down the beach with me and into the lake until we both collapsed into the water. We ended up playing in Arcadia Lake for over an hour. The water was cool and refreshing for a day that had gotten so hot, so early. Elle and I were reluctant to leave but even the lake temperature was becoming uncomfortably warm as the morning wore on. It was time to pack up and go home.

Homesickness has been a slight problem for me this week and knowing the ocean isn’t nearby to soothe my soul when I become overwhelmed, which is how I have been feeling quite often this entire week, has made me find other ways to comfort myself.

Arcadia Lake did a damn fine job of that.

The big easy part 2

Ever since I crossed over the Mississippi River for the first time in my adult life last year, I’ve been fascinated by it. Not necessarily by the river itself, just by being on the other side of it. So when we exited the Audubon Aquarium and decided to walk into the French Quarter for lunch, I insisted we walk by the river. I can’t help myself, but every time I look at this big body of water, I see Mark Twain and his old timey steamboat.

The river walk was not as crowded as I expected it to be. It was noon time and the weather was typical for a soupy, humid city like New Orleans. Luckily for me and my trigger-happy camera finger, there were more monuments than homeless people.

The end of our walk led us to a crossing of railroad tracks, at the moment an empty space and surprisingly peaceful and quiet. Another couple was speaking to a nearby musician who had propped himself up against a black stool with an open instrument case to collect tourists’ change. The moment I turned around to snap this photograph, the sounds of a jazz saxophone took over the entire tracks crossing yard. Finally, I could feel New Orleans!

We walked through the opening of a boundary wall and were immediately met by the overwhelming bustle of New Orleans’ French Quarter: the tourists, the horse carriages, the curbside trash bins, the hot, humid air being stifled by impassable buildings, and a sign propped on the sidewalk declaring the best po’ boys in town. Matt had heard incredible things about Johnny’s Po-Boys and it was becoming very crowded in the meantime. That’s always a good hint, so Matt took a place in line while Elle and I headed upstairs to an air-conditioned ice cream parlor to grab a table.

Lunch consisted of an alligator po’boy, a fried catfish po’boy, a hamburger for the kid,  too many French fries and not enough refreshing glasses of iced sweet tea. After a short walk back to the parking garage, we were on I-10, heading west to Oklahoma City.  We made it home by 1 o’clock in the morning, accompanied by the right amount of sunshine during the day and a sky full of stars when it finally fell dark, somewhere around Dallas.

My only regret:  I have yet to see the Arbuckle Mountains in South Central Oklahoma in daylight.  Time to go exploring in Oklahoma…

A Deluxe Apartment in the Sky

There hasn’t been a successful bird’s nest in this yard in years. In fact, we haven’t really seen many mating pairs of birds for quite some time. In years past, if we weren’t wrangling hungry rat snakes out of the hanging planters, then we were hosting a colony of stray but lovable cats on our back porch, all of whom were intent on killing all kinds of things. If a pair of birds was even willing to take a chance on our yard and consider it a decent place to have some babies, bad things happened. It was pretty awful dealing with the consequences.

Last week, a pair of bluebirds showed up (a male and a female) seemingly looking for a place to nest. They were hovering around the same area that once was occupied by birdhouses and had housed a few pairs before them, before the stray but lovable cats began bringing us gifts in the form of dead baby birds. Were these the same parents? Where had they been nesting all these years? And am I giving songbirds too much credit in thinking they might mate for life?

Regardless, a birdhouse has been erected, especially for them. And, obviously, because of all the hard work (three freakin’ hours, folks) we put into getting this thing in just the right spot, nobody has seen this pair of bluebirds since.

prime real estate

It is staked high enough off the ground so that any snakes would really have to work hard to get to it. It is also strategically placed far enough away from any tree branches and fence posts to dissuade the squirrels from jumping onto it and into it, eventually. And when the time comes for mama bird to toss the babies out on their keesters, they will land in my garden, which is fenced off and has been a fairly safe, pest-free place, so far. The birdhouse is clean, cozy, and located in a pretty quiet spot in the yard. Yet it’s still empty.

Did that just read like a MLS listing in a real estate guide?

aero·pho·bia

aerophobia (noun) \ˌer-ō-ˈfō-bē-ə\: a fear or strong dislike of flying

If you know me at all, then you know of my aversion to flying. Friends and family members have tried to reason with me by subjecting me to long, statistical, drawn out speeches about transportation safety and how I am more likely to be killed in a car accident than in a plane crash. But talk all you want because…LA LA LA LA LA LA MY BRAIN CANNOT HEAR YOU. Unless you and I are exceptionally close and I can hear in your voice why you should care, you should know that your sermon makes you sound pushy and condescending, like I should feel bad about my decision to not fly.

So, please…just stop.

Last night I had a conversation about this little quirk of mine and finally decided to speak up about how I feel like I am constantly defending myself. Aside from the fact that my fiancé, whom I love immensely, lives over a thousand miles away and would greatly benefit from me lugging my terrified ass onto an airplane, I can’t really think of how my phobia really affects anybody.

If anybody should be pissed about this irrationality of mine, it should be him. But I made it perfectly clear before our relationship even started that I. DO. NOT. FLY. Maybe this helps me to feel justified in allowing him to be the one who does all the traveling, but it’s something that was made known from Day One. In fact, he knew about this long before we even got together, maybe even going years and years back. And even HE is okay with this. That’s not to say I don’t feel guilty about it or that I don’t recognize how my phobia affects those closest to me, but really…why would anyone else feel they have a right to argue with me about it?

I love airplanes. I grew up on and around military bases and I currently live near Jacksonville International Airport, so the sound of a jet engine or a commercial plane flying overhead is one of the most comforting sounds to me. I have flown on airplanes numerous times before, but that was when I was younger and my parents booked family vacations and I had no choice but to travel by air. I have never liked to fly. Now I have a choice. I choose to not fly.

As a traveler who employs very limited modes of transportation, I really don’t feel like I’m missing out on the world. My earliest years were spent in Italy and taking trips to Germany and the former Yugoslavia. Luckily, I remember these moments. There is no strong desire pulling me back to visit any place abroad.

I think America is just as good a place as any to drive across, travel through, and wander aimlessly in search of history and a cultural connection. Why isn’t that enough? In what rule book does it say I must have a pining desire to stroll the romantic streets of Paris or to drink a pint of Guinness in an authentic Irish pub or visit the war-torn lands of my Polish ancestors, otherwise there is something terribly wrong with me?

And why does this mean so much to everyone who learns of my fear of flying?  It obviously matters more to them than it does to me, maybe because I have had my entire life to acknowledge and accept this.  And, for my entire adult life, I have had to defend myself against being treated as if this is a shortcoming, a flaw, or some kind a defect. It is what it is.

Cosmic Purples

It’s no secret how impatient I am about my garden. I am especially impatient, though, when it comes to my carrots. To be completely honest, those carrots are the whole reason I wanted to start a garden in the first place. Last fall, my father received a seed catalog in the mail one afternoon and I decided to thumb through it out of boredom. That was the first time I had ever heard of purple carrots.

Actually, it was more like OMG THERE’S SUCH A THING AS PURPLE CARROTS!!????!!!!!

Purple is my favorite color, in case you didn’t know. And I could have had my choice of any color in the rainbow, practically: Atomic Reds, White Satins, Amarillos (bright yellow), even Black carrots. Yep, black carrots. But I went with purple ones.

My Cosmic Purples are described as having orange or yellow flesh and “spicy and sweet-tasting roots”. Kind of makes me want to eat one right now.

They are almost ready. I have pulled a few out every week or so just check on progress (and, honestly, to just smile at the fact that I have purple carrots!) but they are still skinny and growing. Everything seems to be going the way it should be – even when I break into them to marvel at the orange insides. Immediately after I snap into one of those little carrots, it smells like a carrot and, for some reason, this always surprises me! Fresh, delicious, earthy…mmm, just a few more weeks!

The power of introverts

While walking the dachshund the other day, I was listening to a podcast from TEDTalks and I became quite emotional over the connection I felt to the speaker. Introverts have a unique bond with one another…and with the extroverts who are willing to take the time to understand us, work with us, and not judge us.

I am an introvert who has been called an extrovert more than once. I don’t necessarily find that to be incorrect or an insult. Quite frankly, I find that to be one of the most interesting compliments an introvert could ever be given because it means that we, the introverts, have been able to adapt to the extrovert’s world.

Listen to Susan Cain talk about our former agricultural society and then listen to how she connects the introverts of yesteryear to our modern day, one that is fueled by charisma and charm, sociabilty and gregariousness.  Our modern day is moved forward by a big business state of mind, one that encourages, no…more like pushes and forces upon us all, the group dynamic.  Notice that the introverts are more likely to be the ones left behind.

My early career in the hotel business groomed me, against everything I felt was comfortable and safe to me, to be personable and enthusiastic when dealing with strangers, friendly or otherwise. I became a salesperson, a haggler, a PR spokesperson, and, sometimes, a free therapist for hotel guests who found themselves alone, lonely, and far from home.  I learned how to be friendly and patient at my worst moments, how to see the good in people, and how to force myself to look like I really wanted to be there…in a group, at a social event, on a stage receiving an award and being applauded by strangers and coworkers. Where would I have rather been?  I would have rather been at home or upstairs in my hotel room, reading a book or watching some nerdy documentary on television.

This other piece about introverts from Susan Cain really hit home, too. It feels so good to know someone is on your side and willing to speak for you, even more so when they areone of your kind – a quiet person, a bookworm, a loner, a lover of solitude. There is nothing wrong with being an extrovert, although I do believe introverts are more often the ones who feel as though we must defend ourselves or work harder at being heard, trusted, or worthy of expectations. Susan Cain said it herself, in other words, of course, that some of us are perfectly capable of being ambiverts and that others live momentarily on the cusp of both at times, especially when life calls for it. Our tendencies steer us to be one way and, introvert or extrovert, we must adapt to the situations in which we find ourselves.  I like to think this concept of different-ness means we are all actually more alike than we may have recognized.