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.
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.
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.
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.
For a second time in a row, I attended the only local film festival in town. Unlike last year, there wasn’t another cool event competing during the same weekend; so I was better able to immerse myself into the world of independent film and the creatives who dedicated themselves into the art of filmmaking.
The opening-night featured film was a Luther Vandross documentary. Among my many talents, singing isn’t one of them. I danced in my seat and sang to my heart’s content along with other audience members who knew the words. As amazingly talented Luther was, known for his romantic songs, he died never knowing the love of an intimate partner because he didn’t want the added stigma of being gay. He already battled with being dark-skinned and fluctuating weight. Besides, he felt that coming out would have shamed his mother.
After the movie, many of us strolled down the block to the festival reception. Although I’d come alone, I joined a table of two women, mainly because of the Black woman with the African headwrap who exuded a lot of energy. Turned out that she wasn’t some out-of-town filmmaker, but a fellow yogi who used to attend my Tuesday evening hot yoga class.
I told her that I didn’t recognize her because normally, I didn’t have my glasses on in class. Yet, we swapped stories in a way that we never had in class. I got her contact information once she stated that one of her businesses was buying properties to rent out for high-end Air BnBs. I shared that information with my sister who’d also started buying and fixing up properties.
Soon afterwards, an actor from Durham joined us. In real life, he taught martial arts, but had acted in a horror film that made it in the festival. I told him that was the one genre I no longer watched, but wished him well. If he was half as energetic in that film as he was at the reception, the the film should be quite entertaining despite its genre.
The next morning, my usual plan to sleep in was thwarted because I also wanted to do a few loads of laundry before spending nearly the entire day downtown at the festival. I even bought a “dinner with a director” ticket for $20, figuring that that would be the most inexpensive meal and entertainment during the dinner block.
After all, the whole point for the weekend was to watch independent films and network. Although I didn’t emphasize networking too much, nothing will happen if I’m not in the space to actively do so. What I loved about the dinner was that, like everyone else in this industry, he had to get creative about funding and reached out to a pro athlete. Talk about connections.
Last year, I didn’t watch any films at the Capitol, which I thought was a theatre. I stood corrected. Although the space itself has gone through many different iterations, it was now a school and the screenings took place in an art classroom. I enjoyed both documentary films that I watched in that space, but those folding chairs were something to be desired.
The first documentary film I watched at the Capitol was about a revolutionary professor at my alma mater, Carolina, and playwright who wrote realistically about life in the South for Blacks, which was why he had a challenging time getting them produced in the South. Southern whites hardly ever want to see the ugly side of the so-called genteel South. The playwright himself grew up with Blacks, which was why he could write about their humanity.
The second documentary I saw at the Capitol, played in the last block as an alternative to the horror short films. I thought more people would watch a documentary about several Black women who choose to breastfeed, birthing coaches and doulas, but there were only four of us in the audience. Overall, I liked the documentary even though it seemed a little long. Could have been the time of day or the uncomfortableness of the the chair.
I sacrificed my usual Sunday morning hot yoga class to enjoy the last day of the festival, which kicked off with a members barbecue and awards ceremony. Since it was included in the price of my VIP pass, I knew I’d attend in order to get the rest of my money’s worth.
As I stood in the food line, I scanned the room. Almost made me feel like the new girl at school, looking for a table to join and eat lunch. Turned out, one of the filmmakers at the table I finally sat at welcomed me to the “cool kids table.” That analogy hadn’t been lost on her either.
At that table sat filmmakers who represented four different films. I’d already spoken to two of them previously and had seen all but one of their films. That was part of the magic of such a festival. One of the filmmakers was a professor and had done an animated film.
I whipped out my phone and started jotting down information about which animation program that she’d used. Much to my delight, I learned that I could import digital illustrations from the drawing program that I’d been using for the last four years. Another filmmaker beside me was taking notes from my notes.
In that brief conversation, I’d already thought of a short script that I’d written years ago and could polish up, illustrate and voice. As usual, wearing all the hats myself. It’s not that I’m such a control freak, wanting everything myself. I just feel that I’d have to pay other people to take the project as seriously as I do and in the end, would have to do all the things myself anyway.
I’m going to use the wish to start animating to keep the fires burning on finishing two other projects that I need to complete prior to starting anything else: my aunt’s surprised birthday video and finally finish typing up all my journals.
The former would’ve already been completed had I never started studying for my pharmacy tech license, but the nerd in me absolutely love studying, especially since the company is paying for it and in the long run will put more money in my pocket.
Plus, I don’t want to do a slapdash job of editing the video; so, I’ve taken my time getting everything together. The video want be anything fancy, but at the same time, I want it to be a documentation of the event and an entertaining showcase of embedded pictures.
After the barbecue awards ceremony, I returned to my car to read email on my phone until the first block began in less than an hour.
On Sunday, all the juried award-winning films were shown. I’d seen two out of the three feature films, but none of the short film award winners. They showed two of the featured films back to back, the second one I’d seen before about the first environmental movement that dealt with the inherent racism of burying contaminated wastes in a predominantly Black area. Two of the people who were in the documentary had answered questions about their experience and the making of the film.
As much as I’d enjoyed that documentary, I chose to eat lunch next door at one of my favorite Italian restaurants. I’d eaten there several times before and knew what I wanted. When the server responded to my order, “This will be easy,” I had no idea that she’d bring my drink, drop off my food and disappear until about 20 minutes after I’d finished my meal. I wasn’t in the mood to aggressively flag down another server for a to-go box, but since I’d begun watching a video, I sat there silently fuming.
My server finally returned to drop off the bill. I’m usually a straight up 20% tipper plus I round up to the nearest dollar. I don’t believe in stiffing anyone, so she got around 10%. I honestly believe that servers should be paid a living wage and tips should be eliminated, but for poor service like that, she may not last too long.
I returned to my car to continue watching the video of a property tour that my sister and her family had made of a house that they are renovating to rent. When I finished, I returned to the theatre and caught the last 20 minutes or so of the documentary before the block of award-winning short films played.
Among those films, one was an animation. Those filmmakers managed to tell a touching and compelling story without any dialogue. I’ll have dialogue for mine, but they had a whole team of people working together for their film. As much as I’d love to have that for my animation, I’ll see what I can do with the resources I have.
I was blessed with another year around the sun. Similar to my other birthday celebrations, I planned what to buy for myself and how to spend time with others.
I actually got started last month when I discovered that I’d left one of my bathing suits at the gym and the other one was so worn that the elastic had gummied. So, I bought myself two other two-piece swimsuits as replacements since that was on my list of birthday gifts to myself. Just in time to kick off my 54th birthday celebration.
As par for the course, I took a day off. Not THE actual birthday, which landed on a Saturday, but still, I had to reward myself with a day off from work, which started off by sleeping in for about 30 minutes longer.
After breakfast, I attended a water aerobics class. I let the instructor know that I was kicking off my birthday celebration a day early. At the beginning of class, she led everyone singing “Happy Birthday” to me.
After class, I went grocery shopping. Then, I went REAL shopping. As a matter of fact, I’d cashed in 2500 recognition points from work, which translated into a $25 gift card at the Apple store. A drop in the bucket, considering that I ended up buying an iPad, case, and pencil, which all added up very fast even with trading in my old iPad.
The closest Apple store to me was a 90-minute drive. That alone was reason enough for a PTO day, but my birthday day off doesn’t require me to leave the house, much less the city.
I had a choice of several tempting restaurants at that mall. Instead, I ordered online for a local, family-owned Mexican restaurant, which I’d timed perfectly for a pick up when I arrived in town, on the way home. Topped off with my own homemade coconut margarita, that was a perfect topper to the day and the best part, the sun had not yet set.
On the morning of my actual birthday, again I slept in. Since Saturdays are my normal cleaning days, I continued that domestic ritual.
For two Saturdays a month, I meet virtually to discuss race-based articles. During the last meeting, I told them that for the next event, I’d wear a tiara to celebrate my birthday and invited all of them to join me. Two other women wore tiaras and two other women wore fascinators. So, even though the conversation was heavy, I’m grateful that some chose to share in my joy.
The joy continued when the family met at a family-owned seafood restaurant. We’d never eaten there before, but months ago, I’d ordered takeout, which was yummy. The dine-in experience was even better. Not only did we start off with cocktails, but all the food was delicious. First time that I had to wear a plastic bib with plastic gloves. My nephew dug right in with his eating attire. I was apprehensive about it, saying that I’d eat the bulk of my food at home as leftovers. My sister, on the other hand, didn’t give a shit, didn’t wear any of it and still managed not to get food all over herself.
Later that evening, I had the pleasure of going to a musical with both of my sisters. Originally, my out-of-town sister was supposed to head back home after lunch, but a change of circumstances meant that she and her family were staying in town for a few days longer. So, my nephew agreed to allow her to go in his place. That was truly a birthday miracle. Besides, had he gone, his mother would have had to wake him up. In a way, I’m envious at how easily he can fall asleep even with a lot of sound and commotion going on.
On Sunday, we all met at a Mexican seafood restaurant. They served up margaritas in one size: punchbowl. My spicy mango margarita came with a tanjin straw, which I nibbled on for a sweet and tangy appetizer. One of my sisters talked so much crap about the spicy candy until I let her taste it for herself, then she admitted that it was actually good.
We’d never eaten there before, but it was an instant hit. My niece, who’s a vegan, researched the restaurant and came up with a winner. I can tell my family’s come a long way since fish came out with the head on it and no one freaked out about it.
Another delicious thing: my sister and her husband have been pescaterians for several years. Throughout the meal, they were praising the yellow rice that most of us received as a side dish. As I packed up my leftovers in a to-go box, I tasted a forkful of my rice without the salmon and detected the secret ingredient of why the rice was so yummy. Chicken broth. Lord knows how I enjoy flavoring my vegetable dishes with animal product!
Although Mom’s birthday is three days after mine, this year was the first time I’d taken a PTO day for her birthday as well. Since Mom’s dad’s primary caregiver, one of the best gifts to give her is time away from him. So, I took her to breakfast while a caregiver was with Dad. Yet again, to a restaurant we’ve never eaten at before.
I’d researched breakfast places and was amazed that I’d never noticed it before in one of the newest shopping areas. Mom and I hit the restaurant at the best time, missing the breakfast rush. As a matter of fact, the place was so empty, I spied my favorite hot sauce.
Mom had been so preoccupied by the birthday wishes on her phone, that she reacted as if the hot sauce had magically appeared. So, she sent me to fetch her an inferior hot sauce, but it was her birthday outing.
Although Mom could have ordered a number of breakfast tacos, she only ordered one. Then, throughout breakfast, she said, “You sure won’t get filled up at this place.”
Ms. Smoothies-for-Breakfast was now worried about being full for her morning meal? I think not. Even though she enjoyed her lone taco, she had to find something wrong with the place.
Since I’d taken the whole day off, Mom got another respite day and went to get a mani-pedi. She was beaming with the relaxation of her gift of time for herself. And just like that, another new tradition I’m going to observe for Mom’s birthday!
For months, my sister took deacon classes on Saturdays. She read more for that class than I’d seen her do in years.
Finally, the moment arrived for the ordination ceremony. I’d never been to this church before, but I spent more time than I’d expected to spend.
Mom rushed us out of the house 90 minutes prior to the start of the event since she had no idea how long transporting Dad to and from the wheelchair accessible van would take. He’d recently received his wheelchair “cadillac” and none of us had mastered maneuvering it.
The only upside to arriving at the venue far too early was we had a premium choice of handicap parking and once inside the church, we had convenient seats in the back to park Dad.
I’d grown restless prior to the start of the event, which started out with some brief words once the choir sat.
Then the would-be ministers and deacon candidates entered.
Once the candidates sat, the choir sang a moving selection.
Afterwards, I thought the ceremony would begin. Yet, what I thought of as the “ceremony” did not include an actual SERMON by a guest pastor, who was introduced after his wife had an opportunity to say a few words.
Admittedly, I tuned out during the sermon as I usually do in a regular church service. The only part I remember him saying was, “At every level, there’s a new devil.” I don’t think that comes from scripture, but I know from personal experience the truth behind those words.
After the sermon, the presiding minister asked all the candidates to stand together to pray for them. Then, he asked my sister to stand since she was the lone deacon candidate. She confirmed that she was ready to take on her duties. Despite the simple exchange, Dad had wanted to hear her say more.
Once all the candidates were asked to sit in front of the congregation, Mom took that as an opportune time for us to exit. As I attempted to take a final picture of the ordained group, Dad assumed that I wanted his picture as well since he’s never met a camera he didn’t like.
When I asked my sister what she was going to do now that she was an ordained deacon, she flashed her gap-toothed smile and said, “Raise hell.”
My ever-youthful aunt turns 70 at the end of July, which was why her surprise birthday party took place at the beginning of July. She thought she was going to a fundraiser. Instead, we raised the roof.
The evening’s lineup was deceptively simple, but like all surprises, involved months of planning and stress from keeping the details away from the notoriously nosey birthday girl, especially when she’d called up random people to guilt trip them about not making any plans for her upcoming milestone birthday.
Since the theme was “Mardi Gras,” the party planner encouraged us to wear purple and masks. My sister and I thought, “No problem!”
She’d just go to the local party store, pick up some masks and that’d be the end of it.
Not so.
The party store was closed due to an older woman driving her car through it. So, our plan B was to make our own masks. Here’s mine:
At least the place setting wasn’t hideous.
Unlike Mom’s side of the family, Dad’s side of the family hardly ever hosts a reunion. We normally get together only for funerals, weddings and birthdays. I only know my first cousins’ children because they resemble them. I managed to catch a few names in passing.
Although my aunt was initially ticked that no one had spilled the beans, she rallied to the cause. Not only did she warm up the dance floor, but kept it hot the whole time with whatever combination of partygoers who happened to join her.
Before retirement, my aunt was a top-of-the-line cake decorator. Her former coworkers/supervisees baked her a superrich yellow birthday cake.
During one of the most sentimental moments of the evening, my cousin told his mother how much she meant to him, his wife and children.
At least he’s known for being a talkative person.
Unlike my aunt’s husband. His tribute to her was not only the most I’d ever heard him speak in one setting, but it nearly brought many of us to tears.
After all was said, danced, and eaten, the group picture-taking began.
Here’s the male cousins’ pose.
Followed by the female cousins’ pose.
More female cousins joined the group and for some reason, my nephew as well.
The last time this side of the family got together was for Dad’s 86th birthday, but we didn’t dare surprise him.
My sister and her husband, had spent a few hours at the beach prior to going to the hotel to get cleaned up to attend the party AFTER the surprise.
For our 83rd reunion, the Strange family incorporated Juneteenth, AKA “Emancipation Day,” decor and history as part of our agenda. Conveniently enough, our reunion fell on the weekend following the United States’ newest federal holiday.
Our reunion spanned Friday through Sunday, starting with Fish Fry Friday. For most of us, it was the first time we’d seen one another since last year.
No matter how much catching up we did, the food, as usual, was the star of the show. This year, Mom led the food line.
While members of the 80s (year-old) Club went through the buffet, I raced around to take pictures of the latecomers and family members patiently waiting their turn at the buffet.
Finally, all the generations ate together. Very delicious food, thanks to the dedicated kitchen staff. In the past, Strange family reunions were a hodgepodge of potluck style covered dishes. There were multiples of the same dish, like five different potato salads.
For many years now, I’ve evolved into a very fast eater, which served me well in this instance. I used more manners than usual since I was in the public of extended family and family friends. Yet, I sped around the shelter to capture as much of the moment as possible.
My sister, who’s a member of both the Strange Family Historical Society and the Strange Marketing team, never missed an opportunity to advertise our family history book and both family calendars–all chock full of information.
A few months prior to last Christmas, I bought an outdated digital camera. Partially because it was inexpensive, but also because there were so many gadgets that came along with the camera, which were all conveniently stored in a cute little backpack.
Originally, I’d bought it to record the Christmas show that I’d written and produced for my family. Yet, for every special occasion, I’ve taken the camera out of its cute backpack and learned how to use a new feature. This time around, I took far more pictures, using the portrait mode.
For several past reunions, members have taken a hayride around some of the Strange property, but I’d never rode. I was determined to go on the practice run on Friday.
I hopped off that practice hayride and continued my quest to capture portraits. At some point, I’ll learn the other settings besides portrait and video, especially to adjust for the amount of background light. But kudos to the patience of my extended family. Added bonus, I managed to jump into a few pictures myself.
For the first time in our family reunion history, we had a s’mores and movie night. Some little ones mistook the inflatable screen as a bouncy house. Originally, we wanted to stream “Miss Juneteenth,” but that location still had unreliable connectivity. Instead, we played a DVD of a movie that was a few years old.
On Saturday morning, the Strange Family shelter transformed from a fish fry venue to a festive Juneteenth celebration.
In addition to the Juneteenth theme, all family members were invited to participate in a pop-up museum, honoring the twelve first freeborn generation of my great grandfather, Jesse Strange.
During the most sweltering part of the day, we gathered under the shelter again for our main reunion program, which consisted of the event call to order, introduction of the emcee, reading of the scripture, prayer, followed by the blessing of the food.
For the second year in a row, vegan family members had their own buffet. For the most part, the rest of us omnivores respectfully stayed away, except I demanded a dollop of Mom’s potato salad. That woman has a superpower when comes to making vegan food taste like the omnivore’s delight.
After eating, we had the lighting of the candle in remembrance of those who had transcended. Then, we listened to some family history that genealogy had uncovered.
My contribution to the program was a Juneteenth powerpoint. Once again, technology nearly stopped the showing of the presentation. Yet, with the help of three cousins and trial and error, we made it work.
Prior to showing the video, my sister and I played the “Miss Mary Mack” hand jive, which most people had heard of, but then I surprised everyone by telling them that its origin was Emancipation. I then explained the symbolism throughout the song that supports the claim.
One of our reunion traditions is recognizing graduates from high school and college along with a monetary gift.
One cousin dreamed that the family should have a flag. So, the Strange Family Association sponsored a flag design contest. To enter the contest, one had to be a dues-paying member, include the 12 colors that represented each branch of the first freeborn generation along with their names, and the SFA logo. Only members who were current with their dues could vote for design one through eight. I was lucky number seven.
The Strange Family Historical Society set up a table to sell our family book and calendars as well as update family member contact information.
Meanwhile some of the younger generations played in the kiddie pool, the playground, volleyball court and basketball court.
For Saturday’s hayride, I recorded the conversation with the oldest living member while another cousin led the group on a short hike to the spring.
Finally, at the very end of the event, they announced the results of the flag design contest. Let’s just say that my design may eventually become a Tshirt.
After sweating throughout the day, I posed with my sisters. Of course, one of our cousins had to jump into the scene.
On Sunday, another cousin gave a sermon under the shelter.
Sunday dinner consisted of leftovers from the past two days along with cold cuts and goodbyes.
In typical Virgo mode, I researched proper adult entertainment club etiquette. The most amusing comments/advice were convincing men that a dancer’s attention was on getting paid, not finding a man. On the other hand, all I wanted to know was a ballpark figure for the least amount of cash I needed on hand. I settled on 40 in $1s, which I raced to the bank after work to obtain. I even bought an inexpensive black fanny pack, expressly to keep all my singles separate from everything else.
Although I no longer pine for vacations as I did when I was a classroom teacher, making an overnight girls’ trip made me giddy. I hadn’t initially realized that this event took place over Memorial Day weekend. The built-in extra day to my weekend was just a cherry on top.
As my friend drove us nearly three hours to the hotel, we discussed dinner plans. She didn’t care for sushi and I didn’t want any national chain restaurants. During that discussion, we passed by a restaurant that reminded me of another dining prohibition: no restaurants with “family” in its name.
Once at the hotel, I showered and changed into an overdressed outfit. Why not? I’d been extra about everything else, concerning this trip.
Besides, we had time to kill since our friend would perform around 11 PM. Plans came together on our way for a pre-dinner drink when we unexpectedly rendezvoused in the hotel bar with our friend.
This was one of the reasons we’d wanted to stay at the same hotel as her. We firmed up plans. She said she’d leave our names at the door, saving us $25 apiece.
I relaxed my rule about going to a national chain since we were merely getting drinks. After all, who can resist a spicy margarita? Turns out, the drink wasn’t nearly spicy enough. Instead of the bartender informing our server that the spicy, sweet and sour mix had run out, they just made the margarita by sprinkling the spice mix into the drink. My friend was NOT fooled.
We finished our drinks, then had dinner at an unofficial family restaurant. That Indian/Nepali restaurant didn’t have “family” as part of its name, but the presence of families whose ethnic background could have been Indian or Nepali was a good sign.
We returned to the hotel to stow our leftovers and freshen up. Although we didn’t want to be too early for the event, we still managed to beat our friend there. Yet, it’s never a dull moment when alcohol and men are in abundance.
As we sat outside the venue, we witnessed a guy who was about to enter the club give the bouncer, a younger man with a larger-than-life, unruly, curly afro, some advice. “If you want other dudes to respect you, cut your hair or cornrow it.”
Upon hearing that, a woman, who spoke like a manager, berated the customer for his advice. The guy explained to her that his advice wasn’t unsolicited, but rather a continuation of a previous conversation where the bouncer had asked him about how to garner more respect.
As I listened to the conversation while pretending to look at things on my phone, I marveled at, no matter the job setting, younger employees need guidance from older employees about how to be professional. AND how out-of-touch management will catch a whiff of something and blow it all out of proportion.
Once our friend showed up, along with her assisting friend, we entered the venue. Our friend and her assistant reported to the dressing room while we approached the cashier. I proudly announced that we were guests of the featured dancer and gave our names.
I’m always in a good mood to be on such a list and wriggled my hips while slowly twirling when the security guy checked me with a metal detector. Still being extra, why stop then?
I didn’t enter like a deer in the headlights, but I gave off newbie vibes. Definitely “not from around here” energy. Even the guy at a nearby table, who only told me that he was from New York, but didn’t tell me his name (and granted, I didn’t ask), knew we were out-of-towners. At one point, our server asked if we were from California. I just smiled, thinking that even she was attempting to flatter us out of our money.
At the top of every hour, “Are You Ready for This” by Jock Jams played, signaling the show special. All the dancers formed a line to parade across the stage in a single file with a shot in their hand while the recording advertised the show special of a private dance and shot for $40.
For the first show special, one dancer approached our table. Perhaps word circulated among the dancers that we weren’t interested and no one else besides our server ever approached our table throughout the night.
By contrast, “New York” paid for innumerable (because I stopped keeping a mental count) lapdances. Initially, I minded my own business, giving “New York” and other lapdance customers privacy, but then, I thought, “What the hell, we’re all still in public.” I reasoned that I was helping them get their money’s worth by watching.
Perhaps my curiosity invited “New York” to ask where we were from and then to ridiculously ask if my friend and I were sisters. Certainly not in the genetic sense, although we shared common interests: former teachers, ethnic food, live cultural events and pole dancing class.
As a matter of fact, all of us who eventually sat at the table were all part of my chair dancing class, including the chair dance instructor, who arrived nearly two hours after we had.
Speaking of that instructor, she was absolutely hilarious as she squirmed while watching some of the pole dancers. I witnessed her inner turmoil as some dancers performed on the pole with flexed feet, knowing that she wanted to scream, “Point your fucking toes!”
Despite Hollywood depictions, the most popular dancers for whom men made it rain money, weren’t the skinny minis, but the voluptuous, had “meat on their bones” women.
Close to midnight, our friend graced the stage in a tricked out Mandalorian costume. She’d persuaded our chair instructor to don a Grogu costume, which I didn’t get a shot of because the DJ had announced late that we were permitted to take pictures.
Once she performed a choreography, she gradually removed the costume and continued performing pole, floor and chair choreography as her assistant discreetly gathered the discarded costuming and props from the stage.
I’ve done some bold things in my life, but couldn’t muster the courage to approach the stage and make it rain money. Neither could my friend. Our solution: shove our money to our chair instructor once she returned to the table.
Since our instructor had tended bar at a similar club, she knew the most practical thing to do was slide the money on the side of the stage so the performer could see it, but not provide an obstacle/hazard on the performance space. I’m sure in the history of club dancing, someone must have slipped on money before.
Besides, as other dancers twerked doggie style for tips and men rained money on their backs, the whole action seemed like a proxy for ejaculation.
I thought that the shoulder stand in the chair would have been the most impressive move my friend executed (since I’d been practicing that move for a month in chair dance class). I was mistaken. She whipped off her top and did a move I didn’t even know women could do.
Call me sexist, but had only seen men make their pecs bounce. Now, imagine a pair of attractively enhanced breasts bouncing up and down not due to “shaking her money makers,” but rather under sheer muscle control. That was the most mind-blowing thing. (Yes, I tried it once I got home. No, I STILL haven’t mastered the way of the Jedi or Mandalorian to make my breasts jump, but long term goals help motivate one out of bed in the mornings.)
Her second performance occurred nearly an hour later. Her assistant spread a tarp on the stage and laid four lit candles in the foreground. Again, she performed a choreography, this time in a flowy costume, complete with fans. Once she’d stripped down to a thong, she blew out a candle and poured the hot wax onto herself. I winced each time she did that, but the move was a clever ruse since men could imagine that was ejaculate. The stage rained money each time she did it.
The Virgo in me appreciated how the tarp made wax/costume/ props/money clean up very efficient.
We returned to the hotel after 3 AM. My friend set her alarm for 10:30 AM. I’d be up once the sun peeked through the curtains.
In the morning, we researched a family-owned breakfast place that was less than five minutes away. As we waited in a short line to be sat, I smiled at the in-house promotion of a dental clinic. In a certain light, one would think that the food was so bad that you needed a trip to the dentist rather than a family member advertising for a relative.
Although I normally have scrambled eggs Monday through Friday, I couldn’t completely escape them, but I tried my best when I ordered the Hobo Breakfast.
Yet, the best breakfast topper was finding a $20 when we were standing in line to pay for our meal. I did the civil thing and asked nearby people if they’d dropped it. Everyone, including the cashier, denied dropping the bill; so, I happily put it in my purse guilt free.
As if spending time with friends out of town and eating at good local restaurants weren’t good enough, when I returned home, I still had another day off. One thing experience has taught me is the importance of having a full day to recover from vacation fun. (And we never once turned on the hotel TV!)
