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In my haste to complete a mundane household chore, recycling an empty tissue box, I inadvertently read something that Dad had written on top of the box: falsify, 34, hush money, all counts, July 11, sentence, Trump.
My 86-year old father, who experiences the effects of early dementia and uses a wheelchair, took a few notes while listening to the news, which blared from the TV in the kitchen as he sat in the dining room.
Sixteen years ago, Dad’s only 70th birthday wish was to live long enough to see a Black President of the United States. Currently, Dad has lived to witness not only that, but also an infamous first in the history of the United States: a convicted felon POTUS. How far we’ve come.
The founding fathers, nor anyone else, could not have predicted that a former POTUS would be convicted of a felony, much less 34 felonies, and would still be the most popular candidate for a major political party.
I still think now, as I thought back in 2015, that most of his supporters project their desires onto Felony POTUS, regardless of whatever he actually says or does. I’ve always marveled at how he said illogical, contradictory things and his supporters didn’t care. They still don’t.
I’ve often heard that things get worse before they get better. Like my father, I hope I live long enough to witness the pendulum swing back the other way. I’d hate to see what comes next if desperate people destroy democracy. Nothing in the past, as far as “Western” civilizations are concerned, have been ideal.
I don’t suspect that the end of democracy would be to usher in a non Western, indigenous form of civilization although I suspect THAT would have society living more in line with nature. Best part: the billionaires could still jettison themselves into space.
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!)
The electricity cut off on a beautiful Friday about a half hour before lunch. When Mom left the house to run errands, she called, telling me that she’d just passed by three utility trucks. At that point, I knew the electricity wouldn’t return for a while.
I’d moved from my home office to a recliner in the den to work on a writing project during the power outage. Once I came to a stopping point, I visited one of my favorite sushi restaurants. Although I was dressed like someone who worked from home and would later work out, I entered like I owned the place.
I ordered one of the lunch specials along with unagi (eel) sashimi. Usually, I’m a very fast eater, not really tasting my food, no matter how delicious it is. I’m tempted to say that I developed this habit when I was a teacher, but I’ve long since exited the classroom. I tried to savor my food, but I probably finished faster than the average person. Afterall, I had a good follow up activity.
About five minutes away, my mani-pedi salon awaited. I’d planned to drop by on Sunday, but when the opportunity presented itself, I took advantage. Although I usually like a nail color that contrasts more with my skin tone, I was in the mood for sparkling gold. Realizing that not all that glitters is gold, I jokingly told the nail tech that I wanted the color to bring me good luck.
At lunch and the nail salon, I could have imbibed an adult beverage. Yet, I saved my drinking for the evening Sip N Stretch class. This was my second time attending the event, but unlike the first time, I’d polished my silver chalice to sip from.
A poet friend had gifted me that chalice years ago. Since then, it had accompanied me to dinner parties, my birthday celebrations and as a practical, fancy way to limit my wine consumption during the COVID shutdown.
I couldn’t have planned the day better. The cherry on top was a short visit from my sister and her family who live out of town. Even though I missed the family dinner since I already had plans, I spent as much time with them as our schedules allowed.
The amount of time, in most cases, is less important than the quality of time. This beautiful day confirmed that notion since I enjoyed nine wonderful hours that involved selfcare and spending time with family and friends.
I’d never heard of the acronym F.I.R.E. (Financially Independent, Retire Early) before, but I’d embraced the concept years ago. Perhaps “embraced” isn’t accurate. After all, I’ve not achieved financial independence yet.
As far as “early” is concerned, that’s a relative term. The current retirement age is 65 (or is it 67?). My mother could have retired at 55, which seems young now that I’m 53. Then again, 53 definitely feels like a “I’m-too-old-for-this-shit” age. If my circumstances changed overnight, affording me to retire, it would seem right on time rather than early.
Regardless, I have never needed any catchy acronym to fuel my desire to get off the paid-work gerbil wheel and focus on doing what makes life worth living, which gets me up in the morning or causes me to forget to eat or go to bed.
I try to be optimistic when I dream and plan for the future. Yet, things beyond my control, such as inflation anchor me to the world of the gainfully employed.
The next best strategy is guard my “free” time as much as possible for soul-enriching activities as exercising, illustrating, writing, reading, podcasting, and digital filmmaking. As I recently told Mom, “When I’m on my deathbed, I won’t regret not polishing the furniture more.”
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 get a monthly mani-pedi, usually on a Sunday. Not merely for aesthetics, but also for some pampering, which is never a waste of time nor money.
For the first time, at least at this salon, I asked for a glass of red wine. I saw the chill on the wine before she handed the long-stemmed glass to me. The wine was drinkable despite its temperature and perhaps what delighted me even more was how the chair’s cupholder was modified so that the bowl protruded above.
Additionally, I chose red polish with glitter for no particular special occasion other than still being alive and having some life in me. Those are perfectly legitimate reasons to sport party toes.
The following week, my sister and I went downtown to partake in the 4th Friday/Dogwood Festival/her birthday celebrations. With the mainstreet closed, pedestrians freely walked around. We entered a very crowded Italian restaurant.
We shared an appetizer, consisting of baked brussel sprouts with apricot and bacon, and two entrees, pepperoni stromboli and lobster ravioli. All that deliciousness filled us up, leaving half a stromboli to take home. With no room for dessert, we strolled along the main street, where we saw friends, belly dancers, lots of local vendors and spoken word poetry performances.
As the night chilled, we returned to the car. Although we’d kicked off my sister’s birthday, our downtown visit would have still been worth the effort.
The following day, we went out of town to eat at a Black-owned seafood restaurant. On a whim, my sister texted one of her friends from high school, who lived nearby. As fate would have it, this friend was born on the same day as my sister, just a year later.
We had perfect timing. My sister’s friend had returned from her birthday celebration about an hour earlier than when we dropped by for a visit. The last time I’d seen her, I’d hiked around the Grand Canyon. At that time she was unmarried and had no kids. On this visit, I met her husband, and one of her twins.
Some people waste a lot of time, waiting for a special occasion to do wonderful things. I’m glad I’ve long abandoned such an attitude. I look for all the reasons, big and small, to be happy to be alive.
One of the joys of my weekends is working on all my creative projects. Being mostly unscheduled is absolutely delicious, especially when time passes without me realizing it.
Before I hopped onto the creativity carousel on Saturday, I completed my morning chores, including going to CVS to pick up an OTC medication for Mom. This OTC Herculean journey usually requires visiting more than one location.
When I finally found it, there was only one box on the shelf. Since it was buy one, get the second half off, I went to the checkout counter to see if more was in stock. Instead, the guy gave me 25% off that one bottle on top of my employee discount, which miraculously brought the price down to what I’d paid for it before.
The sneaky pants thing was Mom was still a victim of shrinkflation since there were 20 fewer pills than in the previous bottle. So, that sweet discount just counteracted the reduction in supply.
Later that morning, for the first time ever, I used the record function on powerpoint. Although I could only trim the clip ends without making any advanced edits, I became acceptably good at recording the voiceover for most slides without even using the trim clip function. Added bonus: the slides automatically advanced after the voiceover finished.
Then, I took the deepest time plunge into the world of flag design. My mother’s side of the family, those of us who are the descendants of Grand Elder Jesse Strange, have been participating in a family reunion for 83 consecutive years. Currently, family members have agreed that we should honor this accomplishment with a flag. All flag designs must include the following: the Strange Family logo, the names of Jesse Strange’s 12 children and the 12 colors associated with those 12 branches of the Strange descendants.
Well, at least we don’t have to depict some type of “tree,” but still. Those three criteria seemed like two too many. Yet, as time passed, my mind churned with ideas until, after a week, when I finally created my flag, a beautiful, “clean” design unfolded.
The beauty of a flag is that many elements of symbolism come together. I’d struck upon a way to combine seemingly clashing/distracting colors and the potential wordiness of 12 full names and that SFA logo in an aesthetically pleasing manner. All flag submissions will be revealed during our 83rd Strange Family Reunion in June, so family members who have paid their dues can vote.
Sunday mornings, I type up part of one of several journals from nearly 30 years ago in an effort to digitalize them all, so I can stop lugging them around. Eventually, I’ll scan the pictures and marry them to the journal entries. I’ll keep the actual photo albums, but I still like the idea of scanning them to have digital versions.
However, this Sunday, I ran a little behind and left late for my mid-morning hot yoga class. As much as I enjoy practicing in the front row, I managed my expectations to be satisfied regardless of where in the room I’d practice. Much to my surprise, every traffic light turned green en route to the yoga studio. I even found a convenient parking space and had my choice of two front-row spots.
As I worked through the challenging yoga flow, the idea arrived that I should extend my feel-good weekend by getting a mani pedi before Sunday dinner, which my sister would prepare after she arrived from church.
As usual, I walked-in without an appointment, listened to an audio book, checked email and texted as I waited. For the first time ever, I asked for a glass of red wine while I sat in the vibrating massage chair, getting my pedicure.
I had rather low expectations of the wine quality and was not too impressed when it came to me chilled, but it was drinkable. I sent a picture of the long-stemmed wine glass to friends and family.
When one friend indicated that she was nursing a serious cold, I got the impetus to call her. I don’t remember the last time I actually talked to her, which meant that a call was long overdue. I usually sent the occasional text and rare email, but a call was a luxury I rarely afforded anyone except my sister who thinks of herself as my second mother. All I can say is that if laughter is the best medicine, then I helped heal her.
That magical weekend was how I envision retirement. Plenty of unscheduled time to juggle creative projects and check in with people who I care about. That weekend was a preview of things to come. Just have to get there.
Normally, I don’t drink before a workout, but the whole point of this Friday stretch class was to combine happy hour with fitness. I’d had a “detox/retox” experience before, but never simultaneously!
As what often happens in this town, either nothing special is going on, or EVERYTHING happens during the same weekend. So, I took a half day off, running errands after lunch, swimming and THEN attending this exercise class with alcohol.
While waiting in a slow-moving line, I picked up a local community paper and on the monthly calendar, saw the event:
As usual, I scouted out my spot in the room once I entered. I like being as close to the front as possible. Not just to hear and see what posture the instructor will lead us into next, but also, I’ve developed an aversion to other people’s feet in all my years of doing Bikram yoga.
Next, I perused the selection of wines, which ranged from moscato (yuck) to a more palatable cabernet sauvignon. Tweety and I weren’t having any of the sweet (neither red nor white) or whites, which only left cab.
I nursed that one drink throughout the entire class, which definitely put me in the “lightweight” category. Other women truly embraced the happy hour aspect of the evening. The alcohol didn’t loosen me up, but the mood of the class was comparatively rowdier than usual.
As a matter of fact, humans consuming alcohol made for a livelier class than the stretch class I’d attended with four baby goats. Those kids occasionally bleated throughout the class. On the other hand, with each new posture, a choir of participants were very verbal about their experience.
Especially a woman behind me. She was hilarious. I’m not sure that was merely the effect of alcohol. At one point, she requested that we do the plow position again because she wanted to hook one of her legs around a pole to assist her.
After class, I met my sister and a friend at a restaurant that we’d never tried before. That was another reason I hadn’t refilled my wine glass. I’d wanted to order the hot honey mango margarita, but the restaurant was out. Instead I got a coconut margarita, which wasn’t as good as the one I make at home, but did have the added deliciousness of toasted sliced almonds on top.
I happily used the two cocktail straws as chopsticks to eat the almonds. At the end of dinner, when the server was at the table to help us settle the bill, I misfired with the cocktail straws, causing one to flip up over my head, flinging drink and almonds. No one at the table even saw that. They were all looking at their devices. I couldn’t believe it as I asked them if I had anything in my hair.
As I turned to see if anyone in the booth behind us was reacting to a straw projectile, I spied the straw in the seat between my friend and me. I’d like to credit/dedicate the foolishness of that moment to the spirit of the stretch and sip.
For decades, Dad has celebrated his birthday for the ENTIRE month of April; so, of course he was onboard to have a big party this year.
One of my older sisters took care of all the planning for the Saturday early afternoon party and “voluntold” the rest of us what she expected us to do.
Officially, the only two things I was asked to do was make a powerpoint with pictures of Dad throughout his life and pay for half the cost of his birthday cake and cases of water.
Yet, I use any such event to practice my moviemaking skills and to use as blog fodder.
This time around, I recruited my nephew, who after dinner was served, in turn, recruited one of his older sisters, to be a cinematographer.
This worked out perfectly–at least as an improvement to me running around trying to do it all.
At the beginning of the event, I took a picture of everyone as they entered the venue with my iPhone, either before or after they signed in.
In the meantime, my nephew familiarized himself with my antiquated Canon digital camera kit I’d bought myself last Christmas due to its low cost since I wanted to practice with all its accessories.
Although the point of the evening was to celebrate Dad’s life, I wanted to document the event as much as possible.
How many more times will such events happen, especially with all of the elders who were present on that glorious day?
No one really wants to think about that, but it’s important to capture the spirit of the celebration as much as possible.
This birthday celebration was like a mini family reunion, with relatives from both Dad’s and Mom’s side of the family in attendance, along with newer “members” of the family such as Dad’s CNAs.
As a matter of fact, one of Dad’s former CNAs owned the venue and catered the event.
Moreover, my sister’s in-laws even attended after knowing my parents for decades.
What I wanted to capture, both visually and auditorily, were the individuals who attended and how they participated.
Even though everyone signed in, wished Dad well, ate and socialized, what does Dad have left of the event to add to his fading memories?
At least this way Dad can view pictures and videos.
My nephew captured B roll while my niece captured most of the speeches.
When the speeches first began, my niece initially took pictures.
Something told me that when my nephew handed off the camera, that he didn’t tell her to take video.
Although it was second nature for me to capture all the tributes to Dad via video, my spidey senses told me that my niece hadn’t thought of that.
I just chalk it up to another lesson learned.
With every passing event, I feel more prepared to document them.
Nonetheless, without any rehearsal, we managed to pull off a wonderful event.
In addition to discussing a plan of attack with my “camera crew,” we need to tighten up on sitting arrangements and having bottles of water already on the table.
Next time around, we need to be more mindful of our those who used mobility devices.
We even had to make accommodations for Dad to sit at his special table of honor once he arrived in his wheelchair.
Half of the seating were long wooden benches, which challenged the mostly senior crowd.
Although food and drinks were available in the other room, we could have easily set out the small bottles of water on the tables.
After guests stopped pouring in, I abandoned my post to get a cup of lemonade.
Almost on a fluke, I grabbed a few of the small bottles of water and divided half of its contents into two different water glasses.
Soon, I was the only server on duty, circulating around to fill water glasses, starting with our elders.
My sisters, who remained in the other room while all this was going on, still maintained that people could get their own drinks once they came to fix their plates.
What they failed to appreciate was that not everyone was going to fix their own plates and that, at the most, people only had two hands.
I’m not sure how many of these events are in my future, but one thing’s for damn sure, those bottles of water will already be delivered as people arrive.
As a matter of fact, water can be on the sign-in.
At one point, I showed the powerpoint slide show that I’d created.
I’d collected, scanned and arranged over 100 pictures of Dad along with several family members and friends.
I had taken pains to test everything out prior to the day of the event and even tested out the projector, displaying the images against the white curtain background.
Since I’d projected the images from the middle of the room, what I didn’t realize was that the closer the viewer was to the curtains, the more prominent the folds in the curtains interfered with seeing the image clearly.
Yet another lesson learned, but I got around that by texting nearly everyone who attended a copy of the slideshow.
Thank goodness we only had the venue for four hours.
Dad usually takes several naps during that amount of time, but he had so many people to talk to while eating and enjoying the speeches that he never once dozed off.
The following day, after Sunday dinner, Dad opening his gifts, which included lottery tickets.
Dad used to be a numbers and lottery enthusiast, but he hadn’t scratched any tickets since his accident last year.
A really popular gift was money inside of a birthday card. One person gifted Dad a $100 bill, which he promptly tucked into his Gait belt as if he was a dancer. Mom eventually convinced him to give it to her, so she could deposit it with the other birthday money.
As many beautiful cards as Dad received, I was rather surprised that no one had bought the same card as someone else.
Dad had difficulty opening his gifts since his left hand has lost dexterity, but we were so happy that he finally retrieved the two bundt cakes out of the gift box.
With assistance, Dad sported his Air Force Veteran cap and matching hoodie.
For his last gift, a customized pair of socks, I offered to wear them on his behalf. After all, Dad wears compression socks, which they weren’t and who is vain enough to want to wear socks with his own face plastered all over them?
I gave him the birthday card that I’d made for him along with his breakfast on his actual birthday that following Wednesday.
For your viewing pleasure, here’s Dad’s powerpoint tribute:
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.
