Category: Holidays

Proving once again that you’re never too old to do something new, my parents, the “octogenarian teenagers,” attended their first Juneteenth celebration. Added bonus: none of us had ever visited the park where the event took place.

The event didn’t start until 1. Since Dad’s caregiver was due to arrive at our house around 5, we visited during the hottest part of the day. Not ideal, but at least we found a shady spot. Unfortunately, we couldn’t set up near the stage to see the performances, but we still heard everything.

As I walked around the vendors to get a cold drink, someone gifted my parents “church” fans. I made a second trip around the food vendors for one of Mom’s favorite edible treat: a hot dog. I compromised and got all of us sausage dogs. As a surprise, I also bought an order of fried pickles.

A few days later, I attended another Juneteenth related event with my sister. I thought I was going to hear about The Underground Railroad along with a long table full of visual aids, but the “talk” turned out to be part storytelling, acting/singing and audience participation.

The storyteller herself had long ago recruited her husband to participate, but my sister was the first audience member of the evening who was voluntold to help with a presentation. Her job was to hold a basket of sunflowers, which have large brown “eyes” in the center, symbolizing “lots of people were watching;” therefore, it wasn’t safe for enslaved people to sneak on a ship.

This ploy was used a few times as a signal by abolishionists. The abolishionist stood selling flowers. As long as they stood in a particular spot, the enslaved people knew that it wasn’t safe. As soon as the coast was clear, then they could advance.

When I was voluntold, I joined two other people. We sang the first verse of “Ring Around the Rosies.” Apparently, singing about the plague wouldn’t have been too unusual back in the day. However, when the storyteller told us to sing the second verse, all of us volunteers looked at one another. A common reaction.

So, the storyteller and her husband sang the second verse: The cows are in the meadow, eating buttercups. Thunder, lightning, we all stand up!

If enslaved people heard the second verse of this children’s song, they knew it wasn’t safe. The cows symbolized the slave patrol and the buttercups symbolized the enslaved. “Stand up” meant for them to go away.

While I volunteered, I noticed my 5th grade teacher in the audience. As soon as the event was over, I made a beeline to her. Of all the people from my past, I never thought I’d run into a former teacher. She’d had a prolific career of inspiring young minds; so, I reminded her of some of the things that happened in my class to distinguish it from all the other classes.

My fondest memory: one of my classmates wrote a poem, where she described every classmate in a couplet. “‘Dag-nab-it’ is Teresa’s favorite word of three; that’s what makes her so funny.” Yes, I have never forgotten my couplet. My 5th grade teacher STILL has a copy of that poem.

My most infamous memory: For Inventor’s Day, I removed the hard paper roll from the center of a wire coat hanger, bent the two sides into a rough V shape. Using my “invention,” I tapped different objects and stated that based on how much that object caused my invention to vibrate, one could identify what the object was made of. Of course, I named my invention “The Vibrator.” How my teacher had kept a straight face, I can only guess. Even when I reminded her of my invention that evening, she stated how precocious I was, inventing a device that people who have a significant visual impairment currently use to guide them when they walk. Sure, let’s go with that conclusion.

History is full of brave people who fought against injustice, especially when dealing with crimes against humanity. Benjamin Lundy, a Quaker abolishionist, established several anti-slavery papers.

The Underground Railroad was a network of people, consisting of whites, free Blacks and the enslaved. Some of the intel about where ships were sailing and when was communicated by Black Jacks, African seamen who performed various duties.

Another symbolic flower used for coded communication was the Blackeyed Susan. Since they have a smaller eye than sunflowers, Blackeyed Susans conveyed that fewer slave patrollers were in the area.

For comparison, check out the bigger eyes on these sunflowers:

In addition to songs and flowers, children’s rhymes also communicated hidden messages. The various things that Old Mother Hubbard found in her cupboard meant something to those who deciphered the message.

As if I needed yet another reason to buck the fashion industry:

This was perhaps my favorite part of the entire presentation–teaching enslaved children how to spell, using a narrative/song. Since teaching enslaved people literacy skills was illegal, it had to be done in secret. Children gathered in slave quarters to learn a skill such as sewing, but when no patrolling eyes were around, a qualified adult passed out small slates along with an edible substance that they wrote with. If someone outside the quarters spotted danger approaching, they’d make a verbal signal, so the children could secret their slates and swallow their edible writing “implement.”

For our demonstration, we were given small slates and a piece of chalk. The storyteller started by saying how we started walking on a trip. She drew a line, which we copied on our slates. Then, she drew a circle, telling us about how we ate a hoecake, but the hoecake had a tail on it. After we ate, we crossed a river, so we drew some waves on top of the initial line that we’d drawn. Once on the other side, we saw a snake, which we drew. Then, we saw a horse, “I” then saw a smaller horse. Caught a fish with a hook. Saw a church with a cross. Ate another hoecake. Finally, saw another small horse. The name of the city that we’d spell would be our destination.

The storyteller told us that quilt patterns conveyed messages and enslaved people read the patterns even if they couldn’t read words. When I conducted an online search to find out what specific patterns meant, I wasn’t surprised to see that there was a strong pushback that suggested that quilt coding was a myth. The crux of the pushback rested on the disbelief of the enslaved learning those codes, who to trust and other dots that weren’t cleanly connected.

Continuing my materialess gifting for special occasions, I convinced one of my sisters to go in with me to celebrate Mother’s Day with Mom on a Saturday. We sprang for tickets at our local regional theatre to see a live performance of “Sister Act.”

My sister took the celebration to the next level: she bought all three of us the same off-white, flowing shirt. More like a dress since I don’t normally wear shirts that long. Both Mom and my sister teased me about not having to wear tight clothes all the time, which I don’t. Tight clothes are ill-fitting. All my clothes fit me, but since I work from home, then work out at the gym or dance studio, I wear leggings, a sports bra and a shirt that’s workout appropriate. So, it was with ironic flair that Mom, who is a recovering shopoholic, bought me yet another pair of leggings that looked like jeans.

We attended the matinee showing, so we’d enjoy the theatre and early dinner. Of course, Dad protested being left at home, but we gently reminded him that he has to regain his walking ability to go more places. That mobility challenge is exacerbated by early onset dementia.

Since we’d left home promptly at noon in order to drop off donations, we swung by a restaurant to check out the menu and make reservation, which turned out to be a moot point. Little did we realize that that restaurant bites off more than it can chew on the weekends. After waiting 30 minutes, a woman who was leaving finally gave us a heads up by telling us that the kitchen was running hours behind.

Fortunately, we had a Plan B. When I’d made reservations for 5 PM at the first restaurant and received a text message that our table was ready while we were still sitting in the lobby prior to the play, my spidey senses told me that the first restaurant would screw us.

I put a pin in that forebrooding during the musical. After all, the show entertained distracted me from having any dinner plan worries and best of all, Mom really enjoyed the play. I’m not sure whether or not Mom had ever seen the movie version.

Had I been more mindful of the fact that Mother’s Day weekend coincided with prom season and graduations, I would have definitely made reservations. Yet, my sister and I had spoken with both the owner and general manager of our Plan B restaurant a few weeks ago when we’d first visited. The general manager remembered us. The patio table we’d sat at just to wait for our number to be called, instead became our table.

One of the hosts brought us small plates and utensils while telling us the name of our server; however, when a server didn’t greet us within ten minutes, my sister took it upon herself to go to the host’s station to ask. En route, she crossed paths with our fabulous server who’d help make our previous visit so wonderful. At that point, we would have appreciated any server. As Mom put it, “I’m ready to a ‘pussum.”

As soon as our favorite server greeted us, my “hangriness” plummeted. From there, the last 90 minutes of waiting to be fed evaporated as our server brought out the garlic knots, followed by our brussel sprout appetizers, wine (except for Mom), then our entrees. We were so hungry, we even ordered dessert. Of course we all took half our entrees home.

Thanks to being on the patio, we watched the fancy vehicles, both very old and very new, parade by along with pedestrians and a reoccurring horse drawn carriage. One proud college graduate, whose family had rented out the event space next door, gifted chunks of her cake. By the time we got our actual dessert from the restaurant, we’d already shared a piece of graduation cake. They were both a delicious way to end the evening.

The morning of Mother’s Day, I attended my usual hot yoga class. Afterwards, I leisurely sipped a mimosa. Despite not ever birthing or adopting anyone, I have tough-mothered math/science students in the past and I help Mom with Dad’s caregiving.

In case the napkin wisdom isn’t legible in the previous picture:

My parents had attended one church; my sister and nephew another. I arrived in the parking lot a few minutes after both of them. As my sister wheeled Dad into the restaurant, Mom changed out of her heels. I approached her, wishing her a happy Mother’s Day and handed her the card that I’d decorated.

The family had met at a restaurant that we’d all agreed upon. Although it didn’t serve alcohol (actually, I’d front loaded the alcohol), it was a relatively quiet place, given the holiday weekend. No screaming/running kids, no hustle-bustle, no long lines, no sticky floors.

We had a pleasant, second Mother’s Day dinner. Once Dad finished with his meal, he did his usual post-dinner hobby of clearing the table space immediately around him. I boxed up his leftovers. Figuring that he needed something to do since he was so fidgety, I slid his to-go box and a pen toward him so he can write his name on it.

I could tell before Dad finished writing that he had jokes. I wrote my addition in capital letters above Dad’s word. Mom, like the Virgo she is, was more practical. Thus, a happy ending to another celebratory weekend.

I cannot remember what I did last Easter. Probably attended church, followed by dinner somewhere, but this Easter will be the memorable one. While I attended my Sunday morning hot yoga class, the rest of the family went to church services, including Dad.

Nearly a year ago, Dad had fallen, breaking his left hip. In the time that followed, he spent a few weeks in the hospital, over 100 days in rehab and the rest of the time back home. Not only has Dad’s life transformed, but all of ours as well.

The house underwent renovations and Mom purchased a preowned wheelchair-accessible van. All in an effort to transport Dad within the house and to other places around our community.

Dad has always been ready to go. Ever since his hip surgery, Dad was ready to return home. In rehab, on nearly a daily basis, Dad talked about going home. Now that he’s been home for seven months, he’s more determined than ever to go somewhere. Anywhere.

So, this past Easter when he returned to church, followed by eating at a restaurant, that was a big outing for him. Even then, he was ready to go back out again later that day to shop for an electric recliner that would lift him to standing and lower him into a fully horizontal position, so he can nap while watching TV in the living room. Otherwise, Dad would clamor to be taken upstairs for his nap, which apparently is his favorite thing to do.

As Dad slowly approaches his ninth decade, we all want him to have the best quality of life possible even though it’s far more challenging given his mobility issues and early onset dementia. Hopefully, this past Easter was the resurrection of Dad’s active participation in social events.

I used to advise people to hug a Black person as part of their MLK Day celebration. I’d even ask people who weren’t Black if they had hugged a Black person on this day, and then offer to give them a hug to help them celebrate. Honestly, that may have been the only thing they did or only time they ever celebrated, but it’s better than nothing.

My sister and I were looking for something to do since we both had the day off. Yet, nothing was happening in town. Even the out of town celebrations didn’t quite speak to us. And then it happened: Dad fell out of bed.

More accurately, Dad miscalculated and ended up on the floor. He had arranged the sparse furniture in his room to put himself into his wheelchair. His plan was to exit his bedroom and then place himself into the wheelchair lift to go downstairs.

I heard the thud from the den and raced up two flights of stairs to maneuver him back in bed.

I used to say that Dad has “early dementia,” but that’s a hazy explanation about how Dad thinks. Dad has lost his mental acuity, yet he still remembers who we are. More importantly, he remembers who he is. A tough Vietnam Vet chestnut who’d attempt to rig up an escape route out of his hospital bed just to go downstairs.

Mom said that he’d forgotten that he couldn’t walk. I disagree. I believe that Dad, like most people, can achieve some incredible things when he puts his mind to it. Most days, he has no motivation to exercise even though that would help with maintaining and improving his leg strength, especially when he wants to take himself downstairs without our assistance.

While Mom hopes/wishes/prays for Dad to walk again, I’d had enough. I researched senior living facilities to accommodate Dad. Not just for his sake, but for Mom’s as well. My motivation is to place Dad in a facility before Mom can no longer be independent.

As Dad’s primary caregiver, Mom’s mental and physical health have been compromised from trying too hard to maneuver him, assisting with most daily activities and then restbroken when he calls for her in the middle of the night.

The plan came together. I arranged tours of three local facilities, which all offered memory care, the highest level of assisted living without being a skilled facility. I think. It’s all still very new to me.

Whereas some people perform community service on MLK Day, the service I performed was for my parents. My sister stayed with Dad while I helped Mom navigate to the facilities and take notes during the tours.

As it turned out, the facility that we both liked the best was the furthest away. All three seemed close in price range even though they differed in the level of quality from resort to asylum.

Even before we toured the facilities, Mom found the idea of filling out financial aid paperwork, which detailed their assets to be abhorrent. At least she learned that Dad would probably not qualify for additional VA benefits since he’s 100% disabled.

To say that she clutches the purse strings tightly is an understatement. Yet, she has to make the decision to place Dad in the best place she can afford before her own health deteriorates further. At the same time, Mom continues to hope/wish/pray for Dad’s mobility to dramatically improve.

All I can do is assist her with doing research and keep my sisters informed about what’s going on. We seem to be on the same page, but Mom cannot be rushed. Mom believes that she’s going to “sleep on it.”

Until Dad breaks her sleep in the middle of the night.

Later during the evening on MLK day, I attended a dance class. I offered to give a hug to anyone who hadn’t hugged a Black person. They all rushed in for a group hug.

I’d made the best use of a 10-day vacation, which ended on New Year’s day. Although I’d slept in every day, I was creatively productive, which was the best gift/celebration I could ever ask for.

Mom & Me in Our Xmas Sweaters

While sporting my new Christmas sweater, I made some recipes that I’d been wanting to try out for months, but hadn’t taken the time to make.

First up was making “bacon” out of coconut flakes. I flavored it with liquid smoke, paprika and some other things that I cannot remember, then baked it in the oven for a few minutes. It was one of those tastes that you’d expect you’re not going to like, but it never quite reached the “dissatisfaction” point. Doesn’t mean that it was very tasty either. Yet, for days, I sprinkled some on my pasta and eggs in the morning for breakfast.

I quartered Brussel sprouts, coated them with coconut oil, seasoned them and baked them in the oven. While the sprouts baked, I made a cheese sauce. The part that apparently only I liked about this dish was that I’d boiled the fettuccine only to al dente. When my sister tried my pasta, she told me that the pasta wasn’t cooked all the way. I told her that it was the texture that Italians ate their pasta. She glared at me, saying, “We ain’t Italian.” Mom didn’t bother trying it, which means I had most of my delicious pasta for myself.

Brussel Sprout Fett w Coconut “Bacon” Flakes

The next morning, I tried my hand at baking bagels in the air fryer. Not that I’m a big bagel fan, but more out of curiosity of making bagels with Greek yogurt. Now, this was a recipe that I’d try again. I underestimated how much the dough would fluff up, making those tiny holes that I’d pierced in the middle were useless. Had there remained a hole throughout the baking process, then the bagels may have been cooked all the way through due to the increased surface area. The easy fix was to slice them in half and microwave for a few seconds. Still delicious.

PreCooked Greek Yogurt Bagels

On New Year’s Day, I wanted to start the year off right by dressing up. To honor the leap year, I put on my colorful socks that have wings at the top. Any excuse to dress up, really. The picture has too much going on in the background to clearly see the wings–or the chopping knife! I’ll just try to maintain the fun energy in this picture throughout the year.

Leaping into New Year