We used to rib my mother about the ugly ol' picnic table on her screened porch in suburbia. She painted the jumble of boards more than 25 years ago with some leftover enamel she had tucked away in her utility closet. It was a form of mental cruelty to eat a meal on the monstrosity, an expanse of loud, icky green framing our food.
To my bemused annoyance, I inherited the splintered dilapidation awhile back and relocated it, reluctantly, to our yard at the edge of the forest.We've been meaning to sand the table and the benches, brushing them up and down with a fresh, neutral coat, but the years, they roll by.
Donna and I have recently admitted we've grown fond of the table in its outdoor setting and don't much fret about what an eyesore it might be. Seeing the table under the snow earlier this month made me think Mom would have relished the sight and the sweet irony of her little boy adapting to her way -- again.
The picnic ensemble has also been a big hit with the local wildlife. We've seen many species fly in or amble up to sniff its aura, and uncover the acorns and berries nearby.Mom was never able to visit our home in the woods, but her wood's home, and that's good.
I often imagine her sitting at the table, a comforting notion. There she is basking in our robust patch of nature, scolding the birds, bear, and Bambi to chew with their mouths closed.
