Category: Special Events

Back to Bragg

Just like that…Bragg is back. But not the old Bragg. The new Bragg. Reminds me of when Coca-Cola changed its formula. But Coke fans liked the old taste better; so, they had to re-introduce the old formula, replacing the “new” formula, but, chronologically speaking, the newest, even though it was the oldest formula, ie, “classic.”

If that seemed convoluted, then I’ve done my job as a writer. After all, this is what politics has become in the States. From one administration to the next, the tearing down or reversing of the previous administration’s doings. In the end, one has to wonder what does it matter.

In the beginning, Ft. Bragg, the largest, fiercest Army base in the U.S., dare I say “the world,” had been officially named after a confederate, slave-owning general. Then, for a hot second, it became Ft. Liberty, naming the base after one of United States’ so-called values.

Now, renamed “Ft. Bragg,” after a soldier who earned medals, actually fighting for freedom, not slavery, which may, down the road, be just the compromise our country deserves. Other bases can follow suit. Just find someone with the same surname who fought/served for the U.S. and rededicate the military base for them instead.

Somehow, I don’t think the trend will catch on. At this point, I’m not even sure if our legacy of democracy will continue. Much less, naming ceremonies.

Nonetheless, many who proudly trained at Ft. Bragg were very happy to have the name restored since it’s a famous military base.

Years ago, I sat in a local movie theatre, watching a new action-movie release with that up-and-coming action star, Bruce Willis, in “Die Hard.” At one point in the movie, Willis’ character famously said that they’d need half of Ft. Bragg. The theatre erupted in cheers. It wasn’t merely the GIs doing all the cheering. Proud to get a shout out in the latest hit movie.

Hopefully, this settles everything. Every time there’s a name change, millions of dollars is spent for the change over of signage alone. The U.S. will need that money in the long run to pay for all the damages D.O.G.E. has wrongfully inflicted upon the American people.

Make-Up Snow Days: Adult Version

Attending exercise classes after work powers me through the work week. Usually a yoga/stretch or a dance class. I distinguish days of the week by the class I’m taking after work.

So, when the second Southern snow storm blew through and caused me to miss two days’ worth of classes, I scheduled those two classes the following week. Otherwise, I’d lose money for those prepaid classes.

Fortunately, I already had Monday off since I had a doctor’s appointment. I booked two classes that evening.

I thought by not working my desk job that day, I’d perform better in those classes. Turned out, I’m STILL middle-aged. Whether I work my day job or not, taking two classes in a row wears out my bad knee and ankle, which happen to be on the same leg, but I’ve not yet reached the point where I will declare the entire appendage “bad.”

Nothing makes me feel my age like aches and pains. I even had the bonus temporary symptom of my left foot turning inward, a severe-looking pigeon toe, all on its own. I attribute that to nerve strain which, in the past, has always resolved itself over time.

At least I didn’t lose any money. The bottom line is the bottom line. I squeeze every penny until Lincoln screams for emancipation.

I’ll need all the pennies I can save now that the Orange Menace has imposed tariffs on Canada, Mexico and China.

The Vodka Trick Failed

For the second time this winter, we got a dusting of snow, mixed with a lot of ice. Just enough weather-related mayhem to shut down the place where I exercise. I was so over it, I didn’t even bother to take pictures of the snow this time around, but I liked the look of Mom’s frozen *rubber snake in the breezeway.

[*Side bar: Birds used to love flying through the breezeway and shitting. So, Mom put a rubber snake on either pillar to ward them off. Believe it or not, that has been enough to keep the birds away.]

I’d planned to stay home on Wednesday. I wore a comfy pair of winter pajamas the entire day, only changing out of them once I took a shower after logging out of work.

Since I fully expected to go to dance class the next day, I spent part of my hourlong lunch break scraping off my car. Definitely a much better task to do while the sun shined.

To help the process along, I poured the rest of a nearly empty bottle of cheap vodka onto the driver’s side of the windshield. I’d used that trick before while living in Austin since alcohol melts ice.

I should have scraped that vodka-drenched ice immediately. Instead, I let it set and scraped the other windows. That was enough time for the ice to melt, then refreeze more compacted.

Although I considered that experience a “failure,” nothing is truly a failure if a lesson is learned. What I’d proven to myself is that it’s better to scrape as I pour or else the ice will compact upon refreezing.

Also, whenever I want to get rid of alcohol that I don’t plan to drink or cook with, then I’ll just wait for the next ice storm and defrost my windshield.

Exhilarating Galentine’s

Finally discovered a wonderful way to celebrate Valentine’s/Galentine’s Day. The best part, I convinced two friends to join me.

Actually, didn’t take much convincing on my part. They seemed ready to cross “indoor skydiving” off their bucket list. Just needed someone, such as myself, to make the arrangements.

We were lucky in two ways that I made reservations a few weeks in advance.

First of all, an employee warned me that participants in an upcoming national indoor skydiving competition would start filling all the slots during a “hell week,” which was around the Saturday we wanted to fly. So, I made reservations early and we had the time slot to ourselves.

Secondly, since we arrived earlier than our 2:30 flight time, we watched one of the competitive teams practice. Although watching was free, I considered that entertainment an added value.

Both of my friends had irrational fears of what could happen, which were somewhat quelled when they saw an eight-year-old girl flying and having a ball.

I shared with them that the first time I skydove, I thought that there would be no net and that a wind turbine with blades rotated below the chamber. Talk about someone who’s watched too many movies.

Like my previous experience, we were taken to a classroom, where among other things, our guide explained the hand signals.

One of my friends became very familiar with the “calm down” hand signal, which looks like the surfer’s “hang tight” hand gesture. During her first flight, she kept flutter kicking her legs as if swimming while flying. By her second flight, she was markedly calmer.

My other friend, who I wasn’t sure would make it, since her busy schedule takes her out of town frequently, caught on the fastest with controlling what her body was doing within the chamber.

My friends made me go first since I was the so-called expert, having flown once before. I was the only one who barrel rolled against the wall. For my first flight, I wound up upside down. For the second flight, I did a half twist against the wall. Although I wasn’t supposed to do any of that, those were the most fun moments of both flights.

Then, came the moment I’d waited for on the third flight. Going all the way to the top. That alone was why I’d wanted to go indoor skydiving again after two and a half years. Unlike the thrill ride of an amusement park drop, floating to the top and back down again didn’t make my stomach flutter. Yet, I still felt exhilarated as joy rides are wont to do.

After all was said and done, one friend joked about returning to do it again the next day and the other wanted to jump out of an actual plane. This would be an expensive form of entertainment to do on a regular basis. As far as jumping out of a perfectly functioning airplane, not for all the money in the world.

Super Bowl Tax Filing Deadline

Decades ago, I started filing my taxes on Super Bowl Sunday. Even though all the tax forms for various employment were in by January 31st, I usually needed a few weeks to wrap my head around hunkering down to file.

In the morning, or after some morning exercise class, I’d sit with a glass of wine and paper copies of all the tax things with the goal of finishing in time for kickoff. Not because of the game itself, but to have a firm deadline.

This year, with the ease of filing electronically, I finished in less than a hour the day before the Super Bowl. The only thing that gave me a moment of pause during the process was whether Elon and Big Balls would see my filing. Even though a judge had temporarily blocked their access to the sensitive information in the US Treasury Department, who can really tell what this presidential shadow government is going to get away with in the end.

Par for the course, the Super Bowl was a boring, one-sided blow out. The commercials were marginally more entertaining, but the halftime show was spectacular. And polarizing.

If all you wanted to do was sing along with music, then this wasn’t the halftime show for you. However, if you were curious of why the NFL choose a Pultizer-prize winning hip-hop artist to perform, then you were captivated.

The opening drone shot of the game-controller markings on the performance space, clued the viewer that another game besides football was about to be played. The metaphor extended from Kendrick Lamar’s personal life to life in the States, or even bigger, the game of life itself.

Zoom in to Samuel L. Jackson introducing himself as “Uncle Sam,” complete with the iconic, patriotic red, white and blue attire. Throughout the musical performance and sleek choreography, which morphed into different, stylishly on-beat, visual configurations, Jackson maintained the narrative thread, reminiscent of an older West African archetype, a griot.

Griots, traditional West African travelling poets/musicians, tell historical stories. Like everything transported from the motherland into a foreign land, the role evolved to fit within the confines of 13-minute halftime show. Nonetheless, its inclusion served as a reminder that our history didn’t begin with slavery. Our ancestors had traditions, culture and all the accoutrements of a civilized society very different from their African American diaspora.

Jackson played counterpoint to Lamar, cautioning the younger Black man to “play the game” conservatively by unfolding a story that aligned with the dominate narrative. Lamar did his own thing, which set up, what my English teachers called a “foil.” Mom calls it “being contrary.”

Whatever it’s called, Jackson’s character contrasted with Lamar’s character, highlighting the positions of two political views: the conservative and the revolutionary. In case anyone missed that point, Lamar even announced that the revolution would be televised.

For many, the pinnacle of the show was when Lamar performed his most controversial song in which he accused another rapper of being both a colonizer and a pedophile. As if that wasn’t controversial enough, there’s an ongoing legal battle over that song.

Another battle continued after the halftime show. The angriest people who “didn’t get it” felt entitled to do so. None of that “getting comfortable in their discomfort” or looking up any lyrics they couldn’t hear/understand. They wanted to sing along with songs they already knew, not learn something new.

During a time when DEI initiatives are ending at the federal level and pressured to end in business settings, the entire show was performed by people of color. That, in and of itself, was not the problem.

In the not-so-distant past, minstrel shows had white actors in black face, depicting racial stereotypes, which white audiences found amusing. Actual Black faces confidently playing the game by their own rules with their own jokes was another thing entirely.

However, not everyone was alienated by that. After 50 years of hip-hop, many of us grew up on the genre. Skin tone alone no longer predicts whether a person enjoys hip-hop among the younger generations.

Therein lies the real battle between those who want to return to some alleged idyllic time in the past and those who weren’t alive back then. No one in the history of the world has ever managed to unring the bell of change. As tightly as some cling to the past, the present slips from their fingers.

In the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, whenever anyone would ask who I was rooting for or who I predicted would win, my answer was the same: Kendrick Lamar. I was right.

Survival Skills 101: Axe Throwing

I’d been looking forward to this event for weeks. So, when the Meetup host cancelled the event the day before, I didn’t miss a beat. I called the venue. Turns out, I didn’t need a reservation and the price was the same, regardless of whether I was part of a group or solo.

I showed up at the same time I was planning to meet the group. The GM had just opened the place and I was the only one there, which suited me just fine.

After welcoming me and showing me the Rage Room, full of broken things, he asked me to scan a QR code and fill out the waiver. After selling me a Gatorade (he said the “flavors” were “red, orange and blue”), he then escorted me to the A section.

Although he stated that I could throw with one or two hands, I found both hands to be the most comfortable while taking a step with my non dominant foot. I could have also stood behind the red line and thrown an axe without walking into it, a type of granny shot. That felt unnatural.

After a few misses, he coached me to throw a bit harder and the very next throw landed on the target.

For some odd reason, he asked me if I wanted to keep track of my points. I laughed and told him no. Some people compete against themselves for the highest score. Perhaps one day, that’ll be a goal of mine if I take to the game.

I threw at the other target whenever the main one I was using became littered with fallen axes.

Despite becoming more comfortable with the throwing motion, including the grip, I was inconsistent. I could land three axes in a row and bounce the next four. One axe would land close to the bullseye, then nowhere near the painted target.

One thing I knew for sure, I wasn’t leaving until I’d hit the bullseye. Or until he tapped me on the shoulder, telling me that my time was up. I never quite figured out how to aim, but I felt when the axe flew out of my hands incorrectly.

I surprised myself when the axe finally landed on the bullseye. I rang the bell near my lane, strutted to the check-in counter/bar and told him I was done. He told me that I had 13 minutes remaining. Again, I laughed, telling him that I had gotten my money’s worth.

Before I left, I took a picture of the GM’s jeep and my car. Only one of them looked like it was meant to be in the parking lot of such an establishment.

Here’s a clip of the GM coaching me how to throw an axe:

2025 MLK DAY: Embracing Joy

For the past few decades, I’d signed off on every email with “Cheers.” This year, I set the intention for the year. Embrace Joy.

There are those who believe that EVERYTHING that happens in one’s life is a choice. That position is as unrealistic as NOTHING is a choice. Between being omnipotent and a perpetual victim, I have made “embrace joy” my motto/affirmation/mediation/fight chant, which I also use as a closing line in all my correspondence. Not just to remind myself, but also to make a gentle suggestion to the recipient.

With the “embrace joy” mindset, I participated in a virtual orientation the day before MLK’s observed birthday for an upcoming two-week trip to Ghana in July. About a third of the travel group will be extended family members.

On the MLK holiday, I started off with waffles and bacon for Dad and me, our special holiday breakfast. Then, since I had the day off, I studied my Pharmacy Tech coursework, which I’d begun mid-September last year and am projected to complete mid-March of this year. Next, I ran a few errands, including getting two passport photos for the Ghana trip.

Looking at February, I will cross another bucket-list item off: axe throwing. Two weeks later, I’ll revisit another activity that I enjoyed for the first time three years ago: indoor skydiving. This time around, I’ll soar to the highest heights instead of just six feet above ground.

As the year unfolds, I will continue doing those things that bring me joy. Especially since I think the peaceful transfer of power has been a concession to the most evil-minded oligarchs who have ruled the States during my lifetime. Time will tell how much is paranoia and how much is foreshadowing.

Nonetheless, if there is a positive pathway through the chaos, which may set barriers in the way for those in my demographic, I will be among those who dare to believe and act that I still have viable choices to make.

Contrasting chaotic choices, the president pardoned all of the insurrectionists, among many other ominous executive orders, bringing us further into the land of Gotham.

“Hot” Yoga in the Dark

For two hours, the electrical grid malfunctioned in the county. Just in time to attend my Sunday morning hot yoga class. Before leaving for class, I asked my father’s caregiver to help me carry our generator out of the garage.

Even though Dad had a fully charged portable oxygen machine, I erred on the side of caution. I didn’t want the caregiver to leave before getting the generator, knowing that my 84-year-old mother couldn’t help me move it. Of course, my sister could have helped later on.

As a matter of fact, my sister was the only one who knew how to work the damn thing. I’d meant to learn how to operate it sooner, but similar to the situation where you’re not motivated to fix the leaky roof when the sun’s shining, I’d forgotten all about doing so until then.

I called my sister and had the caregiver leave her phone number on voicemail. I also texted my sister since I knew she was at Bible study and would attend church immediately following. I figured that in between, she’d explain to the caregiver about how to work the generator.

Then, I gathered my things and drove to yoga. Normally, that’s an uneventful straight shot down the street from my neighborhood. Without electricity, even for the traffic lights, that short trip was scary.

At the most dangerous intersection, a woman in the left turn lane eased her humongous SUV into the intersection. I gambled that no one on that fine Sunday morning felt fatalistic. The cross traffic respected our presence. She completed her left turn as I continued straight.

Once I safely arrived at the studio, the instructors all proudly announced that classes would continue. They assured us that since the previous class was hot, our class would at least be warm.

Given the power of cell phones, they all had flashlights and our yoga instructor still connected her phone to the portable speaker. The harsh glare of the emergency light made visibility possible and we still had a strong, crowded practice of motivated yogis.

On the drive back home, there were still no police directing traffic at the busiest intersection, but as soon as I’d safely transversed, I became far more hopeful since the next traffic light worked. As I neared home, I couldn’t tell whether the lights had returned in my neighborhood until I arrived home. I’d purposely left the breezeway light on. It was off.

Dejected, I checked in with Dad and the caregiver before attempting to take a phone-lit shower. When the caregiver informed me that my sister had not called her to explain how to work the generator, I silently fumed.

I took a deep breath, trying not to allow the good vibes from yoga dissipate so soon. My mind mulled over how my sister didn’t apply any of her Christian-ness and “charity begins at home” to the emergency situation at home.

Although Dad’s portable oxygen machine had enough juice until she’d arrived, what if the caregiver had needed to move him from upstairs? The chair lift would have needed the generator to work.

The electricity returned as I calmed myself down. Since no emergency arose during the outage, I knew there was no reason to address why she hadn’t contacted the caregiver. She would have just brushed it off, causing me to get angry all over again.

One of the best things about being an older adult with a temper is that I both accept my limitations and minimize interactions that would flare my temper. Also, I accept that my sister wouldn’t have reconsidered her actions based on hypothetical harm that Dad may have suffered.

After all the internal drama, I watched several videos to learn how to work that antiquated generator. Mindfulness is not merely being meditative in a yoga class. It is also being aware that when the electricity is on, that’s the perfect time to learn a new lifesaving skill.

2024 Election Prep

Months ago, a friend had recommended a tequila brand to me. I figured the impending presidential race, along with all the other elections that were advertised ad nauseum on many different outlets, warranted trying that suggestion. I told people whether it was for celebration or consolation, I’d have it on the ready.

I bought a bottle on Saturday and when the newest episode of SNL came on, I loved the surprise guest.

I went to bed around my usual bedtime, around midnight on election night. I slept fitfully and finally surrendered to the idea of getting up as the sun peeked through my curtains.

My usual morning routine is to turn on my phone and start playing the latest audiobook as I get ready. I only varied that ritual by first looking up the election results.

Despite the momentum with joy, positivity and an eye to the future of one presidential campaign, the vast majority of my fellow Americans voted for the other candidate. Regardless of all the so-call political talk that will merely add to global warming, I believe the conclusion that Van Jones stated before election day: “He gets to be lawless and she has to be flawless.”

One of my consolations was that the self-described “Black Nazi” would not be the next governor of North Carolina. As a matter of fact, many of my liberal Democratic choices won their state elections. And still, when it came to the presidential election, most of my fellow North Carolinians went for the other candidate. Amazing how we could be so liberal when it came to the state politicians but not the national politician.

If the Democratic presidential election results had a theme song, Tye Tribbett’s “Only One Night Tho” would be the tune. On Thursday morning, I texted that song link to friends and family. In response, my family shared inspirational quotes, and my friends “loved” and “liked” the song and shared their positive messaging.

Keeping with positivity, I continued with my usual routine of going to work, studying for my pharmacy tech certification, exercising after work and as far as my tequila went, I sipped it over ice for the first time after swimming on Friday night.

I’d had my one night of bad sleep. I’ve already returned to pursuing happiness and success.

At Least I Bought Stamps

Early voting in NC occurred on the third Thursday prior to election day. I took that day off, just to show how serious I was. I’d planned to stop by the post office to pick up stamps and then park at the rec center, which was just next door, to vote.

As I pulled up into the nearly full post office parking lot, I mentally prepared myself to stand in a long line, followed by another long line in order to vote. When I entered the post office, I was pleasantly surprised to see only three other customers. Two were already being helped.

One of the postal workers, a Black woman, inadvertently gave me a clue as she complained to her coworker, another Black woman. She voiced her opinion that the police should enforce the parking rules and make early voters park somewhere else.

I just smiled inwardly. Now that I knew there was probably no parking at the rec center, I bought my stamps, put them in my car and walked over to the rec center, joining the long line that would eventually take me about three hours to transverse into a voting booth.

Initially, I was about to stroll past the tail end of the snaking line to enter the side door, where I had previously entered several times before in much smaller elections. Thankfully, I caught myself in time to not cause a scene.

Three hours took its toll on my back, but not my spirits, especially since I listened to the audiobook, Our Hidden Conversations by Michelle Norris, to keep me company. This powerful book about race, shared both the six-word sentences, sent either by postcard or electronically, and described different people’s view of race/racism, with many deep dives into the narratives behind the six-word statements.

That put me into a certain frame of mind as I noticed that most voters in line were people of color with white-appearing people being the minorities. Even the campaigners and poll workers were mostly POC.

Although I wasn’t as hypervigilant as I had been in 2020, with COVID adding to the intensity, I was still more aware of my surroundings than normal when out in public and felt comforted to see other POC exercising their civic duty.

Another reason I didn’t mind the long wait was because my ancestors and allies had endured far worse than standing in a peaceful, slow-moving line in order to vote and secure the rights of others to vote. I didn’t have to pay a poll tax, answer any impossible questions nor any other forms of intimidation.

I hate to even think like this, but I also didn’t have to worry about people purging my name since they couldn’t guess my ethnicity through reading my name.

Inevitably, my eyes landed on two young Black men way ahead of me with towering Afros. They’d given their hair an extra good picking to fluff it out to the limits of its full glory. One had an Afro puff ponytail, while the other had a larger-than-life Afro. The latter sported khakis with a tan suit coat. I presumed they were brothers. They could have been friends.

Nearly three hours later, they were at a voting kiosk, which was divided into four private compartments, catercorner to one another. Despite the additional privacy walls, their beautiful hair loomed over.

Once I entered the rec center lobby, I saw that a senior aerobic class had started at 11 AM. I was proud that they kept moving and was envious of their retirement. The way things sit right now, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to retire although I voted for the candidates who I believed would give me the best chance of living out my golden years in peace and safety.

After working my way to the table to verify myself and receive my ballot, a woman told me to take my time. I just smiled and nodded. I’d studied the candidates ahead of time, using my sample ballot. I zoomed through my selections, freeing up my booth for my fellow voter to occupy.

A huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Now, I trust there are enough motivated, like-minded citizens who will vote along similar lines. No matter what, we all have to endure the political ads.