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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.
In less than 24 hours after watching the movie, “The Secret Society of Magical Negroes,” I experienced my very own magical negro moment.
The premise of the movie is that the most dangerous animal on the planet (at least for Black people) is a white person who is made uncomfortable/fearful by the mere presence a Black person; so, magical negroes manipulate the situation to put white people at ease for the safety of Black people.
I had to see this movie. How often have Black people done things, such as code-switch, for example, so as not to alarm white friends, coworkers, or just white people whose line of vision we’ve entered?
I regularly attend a Sunday morning hot yoga class. Not only is the room temperature fabulous, but when you open the door, which remains closed to preserve the heat and humidity, the subdued lights, incense and music invites you into another world for the next 60 minutes.
My favorite spot in the room is anywhere along the front row. This particular morning, I was the first yoga student to set up her mat left of center, followed by another Black woman, who I befriended in a previous class. She set up to the left of me, presumably at the end of the front row.
Minutes later, a white-appearing woman squeezed her mat into a tiny space to the left of the other Black woman. I couldn’t believe anyone would want to corner themselves between the wall, where the portable humidifier was, and that close to another yogi.
I made eye contact with the white-appearing woman while patting the empty space to my right. “Hey, you could set up here and have more space.”
Before the white-appearing woman had any think-time, the other Black woman sprung up, gathered her things and set herself up in the space to my right.
Simultaneously, the white-appearing woman admonished herself out loud. “Oh, why didn’t I see that space? I could have set my mat there.”
If given a few seconds to think, I believe the white-appearing woman would have moved. Instead, the other Black woman beat her to it.
Yes, I was disappointed at how quickly the other Black was to accommodate the white-appearing woman. Or perhaps she thought she was accommodating me. The point is that the white-appearing woman was the last to join the front row and didn’t need to crowd into that space nor was she dangerously upset. More of a “how silly of me” reaction.
As politely as I could, I expressed my surprise that she had wanted to be so close to the humidifier. I’m not sure that I heard the white-appearing woman correctly, but I thought I heard her say that she was from the desert and was used to humidity.
Extending some grace to my own hearing as I did to her vision, I figured that the background music caused me to mishear what she’d said.
Nonetheless, the incident didn’t prevent me from having a good yoga practice. I still cannot help but to hope that that white-appearing woman will be more mindful and vigilant when she enters the yoga room.
As far as not being a magical negro, I know firsthand how challenging it is to turn off or slow down a survival instinct.
As usual, I get exhausted by all the political back and forth months prior to an actual presidential election. Not enough to skip voting, mind you.
But one political argument this Leap Year election cycle motivated me to take a deep dive. Namely, is Biden too old to be president?
My gut instinct told me “no.” Since the start of the United States of America on July 4th, 1776, my country has NEVER had any problems with older white men leading the country. Especially given the fact that only one POTUS hasn’t been white and none have ever identified as female. The rest of the answer lie in comparing how old each POTUS was at the start of his presidency and the average life expectancy at the time.
Granted, statistics isn’t my favorite mathematical branch, I’d hoped that someone else had crunched the numbers. There was one article that compared the president’s age to former presidents and their contemporaries, but I wanted to see the numbers for myself.
I had no idea the challenge I’d set up for myself. Listing all the presidents in chronological order, along with how old they were when they started their presidency were the easy parts. Finding consistent data about the average life expectancy during the start year of each presidency was far more work, considering that I limited my search to internet sites.
After all, I wouldn’t invest too much time in research, which, in the end, left my data table with 17 gaps under the “Average Life Expectancy” column. Even the numbers that appear under that column weren’t the ideal “apples to apples” comparison, but strongly reflected the historical bias of the United States.
For example, prior to Emancipation, enslaved people were only considered three-fifths of a person and they certainly weren’t counted in the average life expectancy data that I saw, given how vastly different the average enslaved person lived compared to the average white person.
Nonetheless there were differences within the data for whites. Some data only showed white men. Others brokedown data among white men and women at various ages during that year. Other data showed the average life expectancy averaged among a number of years.
Even with the gaps and variety of methods to calculate the average, clear patterns emerged. First of all, people are living longer for a variety of reasons: advances in modern medicine, better personal hygiene, clean drinking water. Ironically, one of the medical innovations was the discovery and use of vaccines. Given the current anti-vaccine movement, which may have contributed to life expectancy lowering during the COVID pandemic, vaccines helped increase life expectancy over the last few centuries.
When George Washington became the first POTUS, he may have seemed quite old at the time since he was 57 and the estimated average life expectancy was 34.5 years. In 2021, when Biden became the 46th POTUS at age 78, he was only a few years older than estimated average of 76.1 years.
Looking at the table at the end of this blog post, one can see that 17 presidents in a row, from Harding to Trump, were actually younger than the average life expectancy. Then, a global pandemic hit and the average life expectancy in the US actually declined, so when Biden became the oldest president (a designation that Trump once held when he was elected), he did so with a lower average life expectancy than his predecessor.
One of the Republican election talking points that was driven home by Nikki Haley (besides “keep my daughter’s name out of your voice”) was that the United States needed a younger generation of leaders. I thought this was a brilliant because, on the surface, she was criticizing Biden, but she was also taking a jab at Trump who was only a few years younger, but still the same generation as Biden. Haley even turned up the “generational change” rhetoric once she was the sole Republican challenger.
That was about the time when I’d had enough. Would I like to see a younger generation of politicians in office? Yes. Does the United States have a problem voting for old white men?ABSOLUTELY NOT. And it never has. See for yourself in the table below.
You’re invited to do whatever deep-dive research until your heart’s content or until November 2024, whichever comes first.
PRESIDENT NAME & PRESIDENCY START YEAR
AVE LIFE EXPECTANCY
AGE
SOURCE
George Washington 1789
34.5
57
1
John Adams 1797
61
Thomas Jefferson 1801
57
James Madison 1809
57
James Monroe 1817
58
John Quincy Adams 1825
57
Andrew Jackson 1829
61
Martin Van Buren 1837
54
William Henry Harrison 1841
68
John Tyler 1841
51
James K. Polk 1845
49
Zachary Taylor 1849
64
Millard Fillmore 1850
38.3
50
1
Franklin Pierce 1853
48
James Buchanan 1857
65
Abraham Lincoln 1861
52
Andrew Johnson 1865
35.1
56
2
Ulysses S. Grant 1869
46
Rutherford B. Hayes 1877
54
James A. Garfield 1881
41.74
49
1
Chester A. Arthur 1881
41.74
51
1
Grover Cleveland 1885
41.15
47
2
Benjamin Harrison 1889
55
Grover Cleveland 1893
44.09
55
1
William McKinley 1897
44.09
54
1
Theodore Roosevelt 1901
48.23
42
1
William Howard Taft 1909
50.23
55
1
Woodrow Wilson 1913
50.3
56
3
Warren G. Harding 1921
56.85
55
1
Calvin Coolidge 1923
57.85
51
1
Herbert Hoover 1929
59.12
54
1
Franklin D. Roosevelt 1933
60.6
51
1
Harry S. Truman 1945
64.4
60
1
Dwight D. Eisenhower 1953
66
62
4
John F. Kennedy 1961
67.1
43
4
Lyndon B. Johnson 1963
66.6
55
4
Richard Nixon 1969
66.9
56
4
Gerald Ford 1974
68.3
61
4
Jimmy Carter 1977
69.4
52
4
Ronald Reagan 1981
70.4
69
4
George H. W. Bush 1989
71.5
64
4
Bill Clinton 1993
72
46
4
George W. Bush 2001
73.8
54
4
Barack Obama 2009
78.5
47
5
Donald Trump 2017
78.6
70
6
Joe Biden 2021
76.1
78
7
US Presidents Age at Inauguration vs. Average Life Expectancy in US
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.
