Category: Special Events

Admittedly, I had low expectations when my sister and I planned to take an overnight trip to visit the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, NC. The biggest attraction for me was to simply get out of town for a spell. Although I’d made hotel reservations, I had no idea how well I’d done until we got there. Even the rainy weather couldn’t spoil this trip.

My sister and I hadn’t coordinated who was bringing what for this trip. Everything just so happened to work out. I’d bought two types of alcohol and she’d bought some delicious pastries. Both hit the spot by the time we’d checked into the hotel after 8 PM.

The next morning, I lifted the shades only to discover that the NASCAR Hall of Fame was just across the street. When I’d booked the room, the hotel confirmed my reservation, but warned me that, for some reason, GPS and other such apps, erroneously showed the location of the hotel. In order to get to the correct location, the hotel suggested that we use the parking garage address instead. Now I understood what that meant.

As much fun as we had in our room, breakfast was another joy. I know it sounds as if we don’t get out much, but I’m glad we could appreciate the small things in life. We hit the self-serve breakfast right on time since there was no line. She made a fresh waffle and I constructed a breakfast biscuit with premade ingredients.

Once we stored our things in the car, we crossed the street and walked the long block to the entrance. The rain wasn’t too bad, but I get annoyed by raindrops on my glasses, hence the umbrella. We stowed our jackets and umbrellas when we checked in.

Part of the check-in process was activating our card, which allowed us to use the interactive screens. In addition to that, we took our picture and had the option of putting our names, two favorite drivers, and a favorite NASCAR car on the jumbotron. As for my favorite drivers, I chose the race car driver one of my mother’s bosses jokingly called Mom since she liked to drive fast. My other favorite driver, Bubba Wallace, the first Black NASCAR driver since 1971 when Wendell Scott drove in NASCAR’s top entry.

I’m sure my sister just chose two names that she’d heard of.

Just before we took a trip down the Glory Road, we heard an announcement that the 12-minute NASCAR documentary was about to start.

I probably learned the most I was going to learn during that 12-minute film because my mind was preoccupied by one fact.

NASCAR grew out of bootlegging.

It all made sense. NASCAR wasn’t just about driving really fast, making left turns and walking away from some of the fieriest car crashes.

Bootleggers had two options: deliver the goods and make money or get caught and go to jail.

Hence, bootleg drivers developed spectacular driving skills to evade the police.

What amazes me is that for all the high-techness involved with the cars, the track, and then the sheer driving skills, the pioneers did it all by instinct, bravado and luck.

This first time I’d heard of Bubba Wallace wasn’t due to his first win, but rather the suspicion of racism at NASCAR, which turned out, after investigation, to be an inadvertent incident.

Yet, unfortunately, you never know when some incident isn’t merely paranoia/hypersensitivity without an investigation. Many times, a Black person doesn’t have the resources for such.

Most of these drivers I’d never heard of.

Still, I appreciated the focus, effort and determination to win.

Now, is it just me or are there far more speedways than one can shake a stick at?

For some reason, any time there was a speedway track sample, I had to rub it.

Now, that wasn’t for good luck, but to get a literal feel for what drivers had to work with when the rubber met the road.

In addition to the texture, the degree to which the track is elevated, known as “banking,” also affects how fast the drivers fly around the oval.

A phenomenon I was able to experience at one point on the Glory Road at 34 degrees.

My sister didn’t even bother to experience banking although she could have tried an alternative banking experience.

Now, this was the only car that knew about when I saw it.

Here’s to Mom’s driving spirit animal.

At this point, I wasn’t sure that my sister noticed the difference among Dale Earnhardt Sr, Jr and Dale Jarret.

We took a break from walking around to appreciate the Glory Road panorama.

Anyone who thought that only women enjoyed putting a ring on it, stands corrected.

Ditto for gold.

Of course, they blinged out the helmets.

I never thought about how they gassed up the cars.

What a coincidence, the only Black POTUS was the only US president pictured in the Hall of Fame.

Continuing a theme…

Of course, I had to get picture of the only woman in the Hall of Honor.

By the time we got to this part of the museum, my sister started to get restless.

So, even though I found the interactive displays interesting, especially the one that showed the innovations that helped the cars cut through the air and use it to their advantage, she was ready to try the simulation.

In our excitement, we stood in the simulation line first before being sent to the qualifying simulation.

Unlike the REAL qualifiers, no one fails this simulation. The entire endeavor was merely a sneaky pants way to teach everyone how to use the technology. Two things I knew: I wouldn’t use both feet to work the gas and break petals and I wasn’t going to shift gears.

My sister did better than I did. Apparently, crashing and burning on the track did not penalize a driver.

I, on the other hand, drove like I was driving Miss Daisy.

Nonetheless, we re-entered the simulation line. By far the most fun interactive in the entire place.

Actually, some visitors may argue that the interactive where you change tires as fast as possible was the most fun, but we steered clear of that manual labor disguised as fun. We heard the drills going off and on, competing to see who could change tires the fastest, the whole time we were in line for the driving simulator.

I’m not sure if this car was sponsored by Cheddar’s the restaurant nor am I too invested to find out. That car was already taken by the time we registered.

Since each car accommodated two drivers, I chose to be on the lefthand side.

Although a divider split the car in half, I could still hear my sister on the other side, complaining about how the compartment was too small and low.

A glitch caused the screens to go black, giving us an opportunity to take a selfie with our car.

During the simulation, I still didn’t shift gears, but I threw caution to the wind and used both feet to work the gas and brake pedals. I crashed and burned a few times, but at least I beat my sister. As she put it, we placed in the top 10. How optimistic, considering there were 14 drivers.

I must admit, after the simulation, I was just about ready to leave. That’s part of the reason I wanted to save it for last.

Yet, there was one more bright spot on the fourth floor.

I’d never seen a moonshine set up before.

All I knew was that my bootlegging relatives used lots of sugar and that moonshine was best served in eggnog.

It was only a matter of time that the entrepreneurial spirit motivated someone to monetize the skills of former bootleg drivers.

Now the dude photobombing my picture claimed that he thought I was one of the statues. Can’t see how that was possible, given that my backside isn’t gray.

After that, I was REALLY ready to go.

My sister bought some things in the gift shop. All I wanted were the two pictures that I’d prepaid for as part of our tickets.

Then we walked around a little, taking a fruit break at Whole Foods before walking around some more. We basically wanted to spend enough time until the restaurant opened at 4 PM.

I’d heard stories about Brazilian steakhouses, especially how they’d continue to bring meat to the table as long as your card showed green. I thought that I’d flipped my card to red in time enough not to feel stuffed. I was wrong, but not regretful. We enjoyed every delicious bite, along with my sister’s friend who’d joined us. We took dessert to go.

Last year in mid-April, Dad fell, resulting in a fractured hip. In his 80s, Dad’s life-altering accident meant that going places had been very challenging. Even within his own house.

Bought in 1979, my parents’ house has three sets of stairs. Upon entering the front door, one can go down three stairs to the den or up four stairs to the kitchen/living room/dining room area. Once on the second floor, one can go up the longest flight of stairs to the bedrooms and bathrooms.

Over the past several months, Dad practiced walking with assistance, but always relied on the chairlifts for two out of three of the stairs. The stairs leading down into the den remained off limits. Until the evening of the Super Bowl.

A week prior to the event, Mom had finally won the hard-fought battle of in-home caregiver assistance seven days a week for six hours a day and at least one day with twelve hours for her respite.

Given that extra pair of hands, my sister and I wanted to bring Dad all the way downstairs to join us, watching the Super Bowl. At least so he could see the first two quarters, some commercials and the much-anticipated Usher halftime show.

Not that Dad cared one iota about any of it. Of course, Dad used to enjoy watching sporting events on TV all of the time, but the portable TV that he watches in his bedroom, which is brought down to the living room where his recliner is, isn’t connected to cable. He watches the free programing available through Firestick.

Most evenings, Dad starts his protest for someone to take him upstairs so he can go to bed an hour or two after dinner. Mom counters that he cannot go to until around 7:30 PM. Otherwise, Dad will wake her up before sunrise, wanting something or other.

One of the miracles of the Super Bowl, from the start until the end of the halftime show, was that it held Dad’s attention. He didn’t doze off, protest to go to bed nor ask for anything. Once the halftime show was over, we had no problems transporting him up the short flight of stairs to the first chairlift, the second chairlift and to his bedroom.

The entire evening wore Dad out, but in a wonderful way. There aren’t too many TV events that would hold his attention nor be worth the effort.

Now with the warming weather and the new preowned wheelchair van, Dad will be venturing out more often. At least we now know that part of his adventure will include the den.

I’ve taken many stretching and yoga classes before, but never with goats. I would have taken this 90-minute stretch class even without the goats, but they were definitely the stars of the event.

This was the first time in their monthlong lives that they had been inside a building. Initially, their hooves couldn’t find purchase on the smooth floor, but goats are natural climbers and adapt to any terrain. Once they figured out how to walk, their first destination was checking out the cubbies. Didn’t even matter that it was a deadend. Couldn’t blame them though. How often do humans dwell in deadend situations as if we’re doing something?

But we didn’t allow the four stars of the event to hang out in the cubbies. Their human hadn’t bothered to name them since she’d plan to give them away in the near future. In the meantime, we just referred to them by their diaper colors: Black, Purple, Red and Orange. So, I posed with Purple while Red photobombed.

I’d asked many questions the week prior to this event such as how many baby goats would be present, how much they weighed and their size. I just knew that they’d jump on everyone and everything. However, they were remarkably shy around us, but very curious about nibbling on the curtains, the artificial flowers and other decorations.

At one point, their human put them on our backs while we were in child’s pose. They skedaddled almost too soon before a picture could be taken.

Next up: the babies needed their bottles. I fed Black, the only male goat. He took that bottle so aggressively. The last time I’d fed a goat, I was a kid myself at a petting zoo. As Mom stepped backwards, trying to capture a good composition, she thought she’d stepped on someone’s foot. When she turned around to apologize, she saw that she’d stepped on a goat’s hoof while it was nibbling on the hem of her shirt.

Then, I passed Black to my friend, so she could feed him. After a while, she passed him off to another woman to feed him. That’s when all hell broke loose. His diaper had loosened, releasing dry fecal pellets all over her mat. My friend and I had dodged that bullet.

Yet, Black kept getting out of his diaper. Just like a rebellious guy.

Speaking of a rebellion, for seemingly no rhyme or reason, one kid would bleat and get the others going. The stretch instructor did her best to talk around their noise, but we were half-distracted anyway by their antics.

After being fed one bottle each, the kids were ready for a nap…standing up. Three of them congregated around the mirror while the fourth curled up near the corner. Whatever was in that milk, I need to drink some of that to help me sleep some nights.

As advertised, the interactions with the goats left me much happier than when I’d arrived.

Once again, I convinced my sister to attend a cultural event with me. This was produced by the same two Black women who’d brought that fabulous Juneteenth extravaganza to life a few months ago.

From the description, the event sounded similar to a poetry slam, but set to trap music. Unlike a slam competition, poets weren’t given a time limit, a factor I missed. The total points awarded that night ranged from the mid 70s to over 100. I had no idea what a perfect score would have been nor how many judges were present.

General seating consisted of a row of four seats on either side of the aisle, so my sister and I took up half of a row. Two other Black women, who had each come to the event by themselves, joined us near the start of the program. By the end of the night, one couldn’t tell that we hadn’t all planned to meet one another there.

One of the best aspects of the event was the audience participation. We were vocally supportive for the brave poets. Three out of eight poets flamed out, forgetting their words and needing either to restart a few times or outright read the words from their phone.

Between the contestants’ performance was special guest poets. The audience reacted more raucously to them. Not only were they seasoned performers, but they took their craft to surprising levels that either shocked the hell of us or made us laugh out loud. My favorite line of the night occurred when one of the featured poets stated that his bed was made out of “I wish a nigga wood (would).”

The evening’s theme was “Toxic AF,” so every poem involved relationships that took the poet to hell and back. Most ended their performance with them vanquishing their ex toxic partner.

By the end of the evening, I was happy that none of my relationships had taken me to such depths of anguish. That’s the silver lining to being so focused on myself and my own goals.

Proving once again that I can have a meaningful celebration even if it’s midweek and for a day, I started off my birthday with a light breakfast at home, followed by a mango smoothie at one of the coolest coffee shops in town. As a matter of fact, one of my prolific poetry-writing friends had sent me two of his latest self-published books of poetry for my birthday. Since he freely passes out these gifts of poetry, I knew he’d love to have them regifted in a space that he’d feel at home with his writing buddies if he were here instead of in Austin.

Places such as this coffee shop, together with its take a book/leave a book area are numerous in Austin, but scarce around here. I tried to find such a place when I initially moved here, but had to ask for a recommendation when I kept striking out at several different places.

Most of the selection looked like “airport books,” but then I saw two copies of the same Holy Bible. Not sure if people had lost their religion, but I placed the two good books together and inserted my friend’s poetry books in between. Hopefully, future readers will be interested in some good words along with their religion.

Speaking of religion, I found a jewel of a book among all the “airport” books about a Pakistani young woman who was attacked by religious fanatics. I’d placed this book on my ever-growing booklist when it first came out. As I sipped my smoothie and started to read, I suddenly stopped. I saved reading it for when I returned home. I was excited to read it aloud to my father, who was currently confined to bed. (Turns out, he wasn’t interested in the story after four times of me reading some chapters to him.)

Next up, shopping. Normally, I only buy gas, groceries and occasionally food when I go out to eat. However I made a birthday shopping list of things that needed replacing, starting with sports bras. I exercise at least five days a week, so I usually wear a sports bra versus a regular one. The most challenging thing about the whole experience was trying to take a selfie that included both my tiara and the bra. I know, first world problems!

Across the parking lot, I shopped at a shoe store, not knowing whether I could actually get a stylish flat shoe. In the past, all the comfortable shoes were either sneakers or outright ugly. Once again, I found a jewel.

I felt like a sucker to marketing when I looked over from the checkout line, and spotted a bunch of anklet socks. Truth of the matter is that I needed to replace the socks that I used for dance class. At least I wasn’t just buying frivolous stuff because I needed them to support a fun way of exercising.

Now that I’d bought my new shoes, I got my nails done. Of course, my freshly painted blueberry toes couldn’t be seen while wearing my new shoes, but that wasn’t the point. I knew from the onset that I would intertwine pampering with shopping.

I ended part one of my birthday celebration at a sushi restaurant that I’d never visited before. The spicy edamame was inspired, which I coupled with my favorite sushi combo of avocado and unagi with the newest palate pleaser: a crunchy crab mixture. Along with miso soup and jasmine tea, lunch was divine.

Part two of my birthday celebration unfolded hours later. When I’d seen that the local regional theatre had an opening night social gathering, complete with champagne and snacks, I immediately bought two tickets.

The bartender complimented my tiara. When I told her that I was celebrating my birthday, she offered me a full cup of champagne, which I graciously accepted. Fortunately, the bubbles didn’t get on my nerves and it was tasty. Everything absolutely worked out for the preshow event, especially since the finger food spread coupled well with champagne.

My sister was a good sport, accompanying me to the event because she usually uses the weekday evenings to catch up on her sleep. At least the show, which I’d never heard of was very entertaining. Apparently, it was a Broadway or off Broadway show…not a fact that I cared about because the champagne pre-event was the draw for me with the show being a cherry on the top.

Earlier in the day, I received a BD gift from a friend. The boxes were just as beautiful as the jewelry itself. I struggled with bracelet clasp so much that I wore it for the rest of the day, so I was lucky that it matched my colorful dress. I’ll wear the earrings for another occasion.

As much as love to make my own greeting cards, I appreciated the cards I received from my family…and not just for the gift of money contained in them! The cards reflected everyone’s personality from the religious inspired message of my parents’ card…

…to the humorous message of one of my sister’s cards…

…to sentimental and stylish card from my other sister. As a matter of fact, when I saw this last card, I knew that I’d pluck those flowers off the card to be reused on another card that I decorate for someone else.

My sister and her family came for the weekend to celebrate both Mom’s and my birthday. Since Dad was confined to bed, we ordered takeout, popped a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider for the teetotalers and a bottle of spicy red, essentially for my niece, one of my sisters, a sip for one nephew and me.

My sister and her children took shifts with Mom, so Dad had company while he ate. That was our compromise in lieu of us going to a restaurant and having someone sit with him. We’re hoping that next year this time, that Dad will be able to at least join us at the table either at home or at a restaurant.

Dad shattered his hip a few days after his 85th birthday in April and he returned a few days before Mom’s 83rd and my 53rd birthday in September. The time in between birthdays had been a long road to recovery.

My childhood bedroom had been converted into Dad’s convalescence room, complete with a hospital bed and all the accessories needed to take care of him. I never realized how warm that room was when I was a child. At least Dad doesn’t have to worry about freezing.

As much as Dad had wanted to come home, the ideal homecoming would have been Dad walking through the front door. The silver lining is Dad has to use his own strength to get in and out of bed instead of relying on professionals to maneuver him.

As Mom and I soon discovered, there are at least two wrong ways to put compression socks on a person: her way and mine. Mom’s way was to put them on as if they were a regular socks, then fight with pulling up those tight bastards every centimeter at a time. My way was gathering the full length of the sock until only the toe part was loose and putting it on like it was pantyhose. My way started off better since I could secure most of the foot before I ran into the same challenge Mom did.

After that initial experience, I looked up videos and discovered the best way to accomplish the task was inserting one’s arm through the sock, placing a thumb in the heel and the four fingers in the toe area like working a sock puppet. Next, I clasped thumb and fingers together and with the other hand, pull back the sock, turning it inside out up to the foot area. Then, I remove my hand, being mindful of keeping the heel part of the sock facing down. After placing Dad’s toes into toe area of the sock, I then pulled the sock up to cover the remaining of his foot, making sure to place his heel into the heel area. Afterwards, it’s just a matter of working the sock up his leg while smoothing out any wrinkles. Far easier in the matter of a minute or so without breaking into a sweat.

Another bonus is that Dad exercises his voice, which has become much softer over the years. Now that he’s confined to that room, whether he’s in the bed or in his wheelchair, he has to speak louder to be heard. Complicating communication is Mom’s partial hearing loss in one ear. So, if she’s in her bathroom while listening to the radio or downstairs in the kitchen with the TV on, Dad has to yell loud enough for her to hear him. Half the time, if I’m not in my own room working, I usually run up three sets of stairs to see what he wants.

I knew that he’d quickly tire of being in the room by himself. That’s why I went out and bought him a small flatscreen TV and attached a firestick to it. It’s the type of entertainment that he was used to in rehab. Yet, Dad had grown accustomed to having Mom camped out in his rehab room. A luxury that isn’t going to be duplicated here at home for the same long ours as he was used to.

First of all, someone dropped the ball about having caregivers. Mom had started that process with the VA back in July. However, when Dad returned home, the caregivers weren’t in place. She’s had to be the sole caregiver attending to the vast majority of his needs for the first two weeks.

Secondly, Mom’s only two years younger than Dad. Although she’s doing well to get around as much as she does, including driving and doing all the activities of daily living for herself. Yet, she cannot keep going at this pace.

Lastly, my other sister who lives in town and I both have full time jobs. We can help a little here and there, but nothing as much as help as Dad doing things for himself. I’m not sure how much of his regression has to do with his emotions or actual physical strength. Either way, I try to be as positive as possible whenever he makes an effort.

In the meantime, I’ve introduced a new hobby for Dad and me. I picked up a book to read to Dad. I’m not sure how much he’s following along since he usually falls asleep, but at least it’s quality time while we have the time.

As a family, we’d kicked the housing can down the road until we’d just about reached the end. We’d been blessed with general good health until the complications of age and reduced mobility brought us to research and strategize alternative housing.

My parents bought their current house in 1979 when they were still physically vibrant, going up and down three flights of stairs was absolutely no issue. Until this past April, both parents had slowed their gait, but were still able to amble around the house.

When Dad entered rehab after partial hip surgery, many questions arose, regarding which facility he’d enter after leaving rehab since his insurance only covers 100 days. He’s not yet ambulatory, and needs another affordable high-quality place that offers physical therapy.

Coupled with that concern, were questions about where one of my nephews, who has Asperger’s, will live. Throughout his 32-year life, he’s only ever lived with my parents or with his mother, but never on his own. The major hurdle is that he doesn’t know how to live independently and may very well need to live in a supported group home for the rest of his life.

As an only child, his peers are coworkers and 3 out-of-state first cousins who he’s not close to. Part of that emotional distance has to do with having Asperger’s, but in general, my nephew has never received on-going services outside of an academic setting to practice being sociable.

Recently, I surveyed him about his independent-living skills. For such things like shaving or doing laundry, he stated that he knew how to do them, but my sister filled in the details behind those answers. He’s only ever shaved himself once and goes to the barber every couple of weeks for the rest. As far as laundry is concerned, he washes clothes every few days, but the loads are very small since he’s still not clear on what constitutes a proper load of laundry.

Fortunately, my other sister has been studying real estate. As I’ve researched resources for adults with autism, one of the first things that I confirmed was that the current group homes had no vacancies. As a former public school teacher, I already knew that there was always more need than resources.

That dismal conclusion had a positive spin in the autism literature when it stated that families of people with autism often find creative solutions to form supported group homes.

I shared that suggestion with my real estate sister. We had an energizing conversation. She’d studied about government funding for such a place. She brainstormed about checking out hotel properties and talking to one of our first cousins who’d worked in a similar setting.

When I informed my nephew that his aunt and her family would be his future landlords, I saw the flicker of excitement in his eyes. He’d finally be able to take this milestone step of more independent living with support.

Speaking of support, Mom chose to pay the expense for Dad to remain at rehab a month longer. By that time, hopefully a chair lift will be installed, so Dad can go from their bedroom on the top floor to the kitchen/dining room/living room area, located on the second floor. Also, she’s researching attendant options since Dad will still need assistance with some daily living activities.

In the meantime, the rest of us, my sisters and Mom, continue to hold down the fort as we search for more support while arranging suitable accommodations for Dad and my nephew.