16 Ghana Trip: Five Angels Defeated My Demons

With my flight cancelled, I devised a new plan: pick up my luggage and rent a car. I went to baggage claim. I avoided a long, seemingly unmoving line. Instead, I asked an employee who stood off from a distance. She told me that no luggage, even for a cancelled flight, would be on the baggage claim conveyor belt. It would go to its destination on the next available flight. Had I not had travel brain, I would’ve figured that part out without having to ask.

I declined a courtesy hotel voucher for earliest flight on TUESDAY.

Since there was no car rental place at the airport, I hopped on first shuttle. I had no idea if any cars were available. I’d already told sister that there was no need for my nephew to pick me up if he wasn’t going to drive me to NC.

The first rental place had no available cars. I fast-walked across the full length of the parking lot around 10 PM by myself on the outer perimeter of a high fence to a second place only to be told that they would not rent me a car if I didn’t bring it back to their location when I was done.

All day long, I had been annoyed at myself because I had worn my neck fan. In the dead of night with all that power-walking, I enjoyed the cool breeze from the fan.

I was in such a mood, I would’ve whupped any ass who wrongly crossed my path if they’d mistakenly thought that a lone woman walking at night was helpless.

Instead, I received a team of angels.

The first was in the form of a soldier who had been scheduled on the same flight to RDU as me. My plan at the second rental place was to pay another person renting a car for a ride to RDU. The soldier stepped forward, stating that he was in the same situation.

Instead of getting a lift, we both fast-walked to a third car rental, which was a good clip away, just like the distance of the second place from the first. That place had the longest line of them all. Plus, without a reservation, there was a slim chance of availability.

Reluctantly, I called my sister again. Time had ticked past midnight, yet she picked up the phone. My pitch: have her son pick me up from the airport, I’d drop him back home, then borrow his car. They had a few cars at home and could be without one until the weekend when they attended her in-law’s family reunion.

My nephew was dead asleep. Instead, two more angels joined my cause: my sister and her husband. They drove separate cars to the airport, so I didn’t have to drive anyone back to their house. Meanwhile, the soldier and I took a shuttle back. On the way to the airport, I asked him for his driver’s license. He readily gave me both his license and military ID. I took a picture and texted it to my sisters and mother.

He was 22, and gave off good vibes, but I believed in both trusting and verifying.

He had flown to DC to rendezvous with his girlfriend and her family for the weekend. He also had not taken advantage of the Tuesday rebooking with hotel and meal vouchers since he had to attend an Army-sponsored class at 7:30 AM on Monday.

He could hardly believe the solution I’d pitched to my sister.

Once my sister and her husband arrived with their son’s car, two bottles of water and a rather large snack bag, the soldier shook his head in disbelief at his good fortune that we’d met.

My family took off in their car as we’d left in my nephew’s car. The soldier noticed that the remote key indicator light was on. He called my sister because I was still on the longest hold for the airline since I’d chosen not to stand in that nonmoving, long-ass line at the airport.

Fortunately my family wasn’t too far away. They pulled over on a highway shoulder and I parked behind them. My brother-in-law gave us a key and they took off.

Again, the soldier noticed that the indicator hadn’t turned off with the presence of the key. I’d been too distracted on the phone since an airline agent had FINALLY picked up. I’d not left the roadside shoulder since I was arranging the delivery of my luggage to the house or to the nearest airport.

The soldier inspected the key and discovered it was the wrong make. My brother-in-law had given us the spare key for the car he and my sister were driving. So, I still had to go to their house. His key to the car that we’d borrowed had fallen out of his pocket. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the opportunity to use their bathroom. The soldier received another bottle of water.

FINALLY on our way, we made brief stop at a fast food drive-thru for coffee. I wasn’t a coffee drinker, but on rare occasions, when I needed to stay awake, I’d use it for the drug it was.

To simplify things, we both ordered two iced coffees with a french vanilla shot. Just like the beginning of my Ghanaian journey, service wasn’t fast and had us questioning if anyone was working. I did myself a favor by ordering a small.

In retrospect, I should’ve done myself an additional favor of ordering plain black coffee. No prediabetic, such as myself, needed a high dose of sugar, which made me incredibly sleepy. I hadn’t originally wanted him to drive, but we would’ve lost time if he had to wait for me to nap.

After a power nap, I needed to use the bathroom and the car needed gas. The soldier exited for a gas station in a podunk town. Although the station was closed, we still gassed up.

In that eerily quiet atmosphere, we kept warning each other not to speak into existence the horror movie ambiance of the gas station. We skedaddled after filling up.

He drove to a nearby truck stop, bustling with activity. I was so focused on getting to the bathroom, I didn’t notice the strong marijuana smell the soldier had detected.

I felt refreshed enough to drive. Not only were we both careful drivers, but we believed in going at least five mph above speed limit to keep up with the the flow of traffic. I was determined that he would make it to class on time.

After dropping him off at long-term parking, I got a large water and canned coffee with 12g of sugar. That was the lowest sugar content out of all the canned coffees. I paced myself, sipping a little every five to ten minutes.

I cruise controlled while singing along with the radio. Two things my 16-year-old car didn’t have.

The good things about not having my suitcase were not unpacking and starting a big laundry job. Of course, I still had plenty of things to do as the day unfolded after arriving home at 6:38 AM.

The airline luggage delivery links didn’t work. Then, I had to do some extra bullshit to get a refund for the last leg of the flight. Once I actually spoke to a live person, I fumed that they weren’t going to deliver my suitcase to my house for free. I had to pay $75 COD.

I knew there was no way I’d return to Raleigh for my suitcase. Plus, I had to work the next day. I didn’t feel like hitting the road after work. I counted out the $75 in cash, cursing the whole time.

At that point, my other angelic sister stepped up. She stated that she’d pick up my suitcase, then reached over, took $20 and told me to save the rest of my money.

More than fair. She’d been visiting with a friend in Raleigh on Sunday while waiting to pick me up at the airport. I’d texted her every two hours or so when my last flight kept getting delayed. She was still on that glorious summer vacation that was so long, most teachers forgot what they dreaded about being in the classroom.

On Tuesday morning, while I zombied my way through work, my sister traveled to Raleigh, went to the baggage claim area with a vague description, including the pale yellow cloth that was tied around each handle, and found my suitcase.

Not only did she text me a picture, so I could make a positive ID, but she also posed with the fifth angel: the airline worker who had patiently sorted through some additional bureaucratic gymnastics to locate my luggage.

Note to self: next time I fly anywhere, take a picture of the luggage in addition to tying cloth around the handles. Also, keep praying because God will send angels.

2025 Family Reunion: Quilting Narratives

For our 84th consecutive Strange Family Reunion, we had some brand-new activities along with improvements on classic activities, making this year’s gathering fresh for everyone.

One of our continuing traditions was the flag display. The Ghanaian flag represented part of the story of where our family DNA came from. As a matter of fact, that was one of the reasons nine of us visited Ghana for two weeks.

In recent years, we have incorporated a reunion theme.

This year’s reunion theme was the 70s and Soul Train.

On Friday, along with our usual fish fry, one of my cousins had invited her line-dancing group to perform. Her purpose was twofold: entertainment and education. She shared that her line-dancing class was a wonderful way to stay in shape and socialize. Another dancer was a member of the medical field and told us some facts about the link between exercise and good health.

One of the needles we thread at our reunions is hosting a variety of activities for different age groups, especially for younger relatives and the young at heart. There was a field day (balloon toss, basketball, volleyball, cornhole, dodgeball) for the kids on Saturday morning while I interviewed 21 Jesse Strange descendants for my podcast, Strange Family Folklore.

Additionally, another cousin, an accomplished quilter whose works have been a part of several exhibitions, arranged a one-day popup exhibition.

Her quilts depict African American subject matter along with more personalized family quilts. Below are two examples where her siblings and their children decorated a square to represent themselves.

Even the fabric that served as the base for the quilting squares, reminds the African diaspora of our roots.

My cousin provided the family an opportunity to create our own representative squares, which will eventually be made into a quilt. My square depicts my childhood nickname, “Tweety Bird,” and my dreads.

Another continuing tradition was the hayride, which occurred multiple times on Friday and Saturday. This year’s route had been expanded to include the Strange cemetery.

I had not visited since that rainy day when we buried my Uncle Floyd in 2023. (Please click on individual pictures to see the full view, then click on the browser back arrow to return to blog view.)

For the first time ever, the Strange family reunion rented a nearby venue to host our Saturday evening catered dinner and entertainment. The organizers encouraged everyone to dress up as their favorite decade.

Never one to pass up on a chance to dress in costume, all I needed to complete my look was a larger-than-life Afro wig. I already owned the bellydancing pants and top. Majority of my relatives who’d known me all their lives, didn’t recognize me initially.

On Sunday, our very own ordained members of the cloth presided over church under the Strange shelter.

For me, the most intriguing thing my cousin said during her sermon was: “There’s no piece of dirt that is any better than another piece of dirt. We’ve all come from the dirt and to the dirt we will return.”

That resonated with me. The only thing that has ever stopped me from achieving something was the lack of time devoted to the endeavor. Not the lack of money or talent.

The real challenge: how will we spend our limited time from dirt creation to dirt reunification? If that seems too big a question, then scale it back to this: what can be done between now and the next family reunion? Stay tuned.

Fourth of July Thrifting

My goal-oriented brain nearly caused me to miss visiting a friend who I hadn’t seen in 20 years. We’d worked at different schools in Monterrey, Mexico. Although we now lived less than two hours away, finding a day we both had free was a challenge.

At that time, the countdown to vacationing in Ghana loomed. I dedicated every free moment to packing, shopping for things to pack, and setting aside many hours to rush through editing a podcast project before my big trip.

I paused most of that craziness to visit her on the Fourth of July, which landed on a Friday; so, I had the day off. I reasoned, where my friend lived, also had stores.

I incorporated my search for second-hand pants with visiting her. Fortunately, she was game. She even elevated the pursuit by calling it “thrifting.”

However, first on the itinerary was lunch. She recommended an Indian restaurant where she’d never had the buffet. By the time we left the restaurant, I was ready to walk off all that delicious food.

We ended up visiting four places in search of pants that fit, resulted in no camel toe, and had no fake pockets nor fake drawstrings. A much harder pursuit than I originally thought.

I even found a fanny pack that met most of my criteria: black, no designer’s name on it, and big enough to accommodate my bigger, better new cellphone. Still not leather, but for an inexpensive fanny pack, I was very happy with the find.

In the end, I was only one pair of secondhand pants shy of my original goal. Close enough. Once in Ghana, I could get pants made. Or, even better, not care about how many times I wore a certain pair of pants because I would be on vacation.

Either way, as my visit came to a close, my friend stated that thrifting was a good way to spend the day together after lunch, but before all the Fourth of July madness had begun in earnest. She extended an invitation to a barbecue she and her partner were attending later that evening, but I declined.

Since I hadn’t planned on spending the night, better to leave before sundown. I needed energy to juggle other creative projects once home. When it comes to projects, my logic is similar to that old Lays potato chip slogan: bet I can’t do just one.

Many times, I focus so much on my own pursuit of happiness, I don’t often plan to loop other people in. I’m happy that the stars aligned, along with our schedules, and we could catch up with one another. That was far better than any go-through-the motions celebration.

Needed: Women Biomedical Device Inventors

Once again, I subjected my body to a painful examination all in the name of observing proper healthcare in the form of a gynecological exam. Although the appointment takes less time than the other painful exam, the mammogram, I experience far more pain intensity with a PAP smear.

Not only am I in a more vulnerable position, with my ass hanging off the edge of the table, feet in stirrups and, usually completely naked except the two-piece examination attire, consisting of a stiff paper towel vest that opens in the front and a large rectangle paper towel that drapes over the top of my pelvic region.

Normally, patients have to remove all clothing. I rebelled this time, wearing my polar bear knee-high socks that my sister had gifted me from her Alaskan cruise vacation.

Even with the smallest plastic speculum with lots of lube, the pain from those extended hard plastic duck lips was only marginally lowered. At the height of piercing pain, I was told to relax so she could open the speculum. I was beside myself. After all that fucking pain, that damn thing wasn’t even open yet?

I warned her that I needed to curse in order to get through it. The last time I’d had the procedure, I wasn’t in menopause; so, this time around, even with the extra lube, the procedure was worse than I remembered.

She brightly informed me that she could see my cervix.

“Is it giving you the finger?”

“No, but it doesn’t want to look me in the eye,” she responded without hesitation. Apparently, my uterus was slightly tilted to the side.

A few deep breaths and a lot of cursing later, the exam was over. As I dressed, I ruminated, once again, why no woman engineer had designed something better.

At this point, I’m convinced that only the lack of priority has prevented the invention of something less painful to perform a PAP smear. I have neither the money nor the engineering background, but I’m not going to wait until I obtain either to educate myself on the feasibility of developing something better.

Hell, I don’t even care if someone steals the idea as long as in five years, I can have a far less painful PAP. Why five years? Well, I’m happy to report that as miserable of a time that last appointment was, the results were normal. I now have five years to come up with something better.

In order to fast track the implementation of new gynecological tools, I need the advocacy of powerful politicians and influential people like AOC, Oprah and Michelle Obama. After all, they’re women too and subject themselves to that painful procedure as well.

Proving once again that the universe conspires with me, a mere three days later, I attended the 84th Strange Family Reunion where one of my cousins informed me that her daughter was studying biomedical engineering. I immediately shared my vision with my cousin about what I needed to happen.

The only difference, unlike most people with an idea, I’m not satisfied with demanding my younger cousin to do something that I want to see in the world. I’ll help her achieve that. Two of us researching and funding the idea is better than one.

Even Tastier

The first time I attended a pole-dancing competition, I was brand new to the sport. I couldn’t analyze many of the moves, but the most impressive thing I witnessed was different body types poling very well. Up until that point, I had lied to myself about losing around 20 pounds in order to do certain pole tricks. Afterwards, I realized that I only needed consistent practice, not drastic weight loss.

The same friend who’d driven me there the first time, drove again. We missed the 10 AM performance of another student from our studio, but we eventually saw our former teacher much later in the evening.

We located three other teachers from our studio, sitting in the third row. One of them informed us that the event was running an hour and a half late. Judges had difficulty submitting their evaluations electronically. The time in between performances lagged by several minutes. At one point, when only about five minutes had passed between competitors, we cheered.

Although this event occurred on the second official day of summer, that was the beginning of the heatwave. The facility jacked up the AC. Granted, competitors needed the cool temperature so the poles wouldn’t become slimy even after volunteers had cleaned them in between performances. Of course, I forgot to bring a sweater or wrap.

We dashed out to eat. Shivering had worked up an appetite. I practically inhaled my coconut lamb curry with buttered naan and mango lassi. The warm (both physical and figurative) ambiance made the food even tastier.

Once we returned to the pole competition, a woman who had a red toy car fit for a toddler on stage, was in the middle of her performance. Not only was her performance infused with humor, pole tricks and storytelling, but we later learned that the 62-year-old had practiced her routine for a year. She was elated that her four-minute routine had not left her out of breath. She definitely deserved that first place award.

The next performer was a much younger man of color. Earlier, when we were checking in to get our wristband, I’d complimented his fabulous Afro. He performed a sensuous routine to a slow 70s song. Although he’d strutted on stage in a black, flowing, feather-trimmed robe, once he threw that to the ground, his pole attire was the stuff of male dancer fantasies.

We left after our former pole teacher performed, vowing to make our attendance to the yearly competition an annual celebration. Also, I have taken away different inspirations each time I’ve attended.

Don’t Eat the Dead Man

My sister gifted me some crabs that her next door neighbor had prepared. The thought of them sounded delicious, but as soon as I opened the container, I was apprehensive.

Although I knew they were dead, I braced myself as if they would move. Even after I warmed one of them up, along with some hush puppies, I cautiously removed the crab from the air fryer as if the added heat may have reanimated it.

Why did Mom have to join me at the kitchen table? After all, she and Dad had already eaten over an hour earlier. She took one look at my bowl and began pestering me.

“Don’t eat the dead man. You’re not going to eat the dead man, are you? You’re going to take the dead man out, right?”

Clearly, the whole point of her conversation was to see how many different sentences she could make using the phrase “dead man.”

In the meantime, I nibbled away at the skinny legs, which had next to no meat, but served to delay the inevitable. Finally, I started in on the body. As soon as I removed the majority of the shell, the whole thing was as appetizing as a dissection. Nothing looked edible.

I asked Mom which part was the dead man. For all her nagging, she had no idea, which confirmed my earlier suspicion. She advised me to ask my sister, who conveniently walked in the front door at that moment.

Once my sister told me to only eat the white meat, where the legs had been attached, I finally came to my senses and recognized the familiar-looking crab meat. Although it was well-seasoned, the usual dining pleasure was barely there.

Next time, I’ll stick to big crab legs, crab meat that has already been incorporated into a dish and lobster tail. Amen.

Father’s Day Axe Throwing

My sister and her family participated in an axe throwing event a few months after I’d done it for the first time. Apparently, my nephew was the guy to beat.

As soon as my sister announced that they were coming down to celebrate Father’s Day with our 87-year-old father, I immediately said that I wanted to take my nephew axe throwing on Saturday before our late lunch, which my octogenarian parents refer to as “dinner.”

My niece invited herself along, at which point, I extended the invitation to my other sister.

Originally, my sister agreed to drive us there and watch. Thankfully, she changed her mind because she was definitely my comic relief. For one attempt, she threw the axe so hard to make it “stick,” but caused a very loud noise as wooden shards rained down along with the axe. Then, she sheepishly looked around to confirm how loud it was.

I thought I’d have better technique that time around. I only remembered the basics with very little muscle memory. Whereas everyone else tried throwing with one hand, I knew from my previous visit that that wasn’t a good strategy for me.

Since we were the first ones there, arriving a few minutes after the place had opened, I felt no reluctance at shouting “dammit” after my axe hit the board then dropped. When our 30 minutes were nearly up, a father and young daughter arrived. Didn’t stop my cursing since I figured he’d brought his child to such a questionable place for kids in the first place. The child didn’t hear much of my cursing since they entered the rage room to beat an old water heater along with some other items.

When I’d come by myself the first time, I didn’t bother keeping score, so playing an actual game added another layer to the experience. For both games, we placed the same: my nephew in first place, me second, my niece third and my sister defended her position in fourth place.

Since my first throw for the second game had stuck on the board, but way above any part of the target, I called it a “fancy zero,” which my nephew recorded as “F 0.”

Regardless of the results, we all had a good time during our short visit. Next, we picked up my other nephew and arrived at the seafood restaurant before anyone else to get the long table set up.

Although we’d gathered around to celebrate Father’s Day, the special guest was the newest edition to the extended family. She’d never met us before and was in no mood for a crowd of smiling strangers.

Regardless, we all enjoyed celebrating at a delicious seafood restaurant where none of us had ever visited before.

On Sunday, I woke up in such a wonderful mood. We’d dined together as a large family before and the experience hadn’t put me in a good mood the following morning. Must have been the axe throwing. Some other friends credit the sport to relieving stress, which I’ve not felt during the activity, but this time around, I definitely felt the after effects.

The key to maximizing the joy of axe throwing is going with family and friends.

Mom’s Great Grand Kittens

Two years ago, a feral cat birthed a litter of kittens under the tarp that covered our hibachi grill. In that litter were a white cat and a black cat who may be the parents of the latest patio brood.

We did not tag nor DNA-test the felines, but they definitely roamed around with their offspring as if showing off their babies to Mom.

My childhood pet was a dog. No one in my family had been a cat person. As an adult, I developed an allergic reaction to cats. Yet, we delight in seeing them.

The former science teacher in me wonders what other critters their presence keeps away. Although raccoons tend to be larger and more aggressive, these feral cats have the agility advantage and perhaps the numbers as adults. I’d love to think that our patio cats are keep predators away.

We don’t feed the cats nor do they knock over the trash bin for food. Whatever they do for sustenance, we don’t contribute to, but they lodge on the patio furniture and under Dad’s wheelchair accessible van.

Now that there are no children to enjoy the big backyard, I’m happy that some harmless lifeform makes good use of it.

Socks Bonus

In the nick of time, my bonus socks from work arrived on a Saturday morning. Their arrival had taken so long that when I’d asked for an update during a past meeting, one supervisor said that she’d heard that that email, asking for our sock size, was a hoax.

Seeing is believing. I packed my socks into my already bloated backpack for the beach.

My sister picked me up later that day. Even later than planned, thanks to my nephew. Once we rolled up to the condo entrance, the attendant told us, with a big smile on his face, that our reservation had been cancelled. He then informed us we’d stay in the rental mansion across the way. All we had to do was pay the rental fees.

I corrected him. If we stayed there, the fees would be on him.

We unloaded our things into the condo where my nephew immediately reported to his usual spot on the sofa as if it were his job.

My sister noticed that the floors had been redone, along with some furniture upgrades. We’d been vacationing at that condo for decades. For me, it had lost its shine, but that was more due to not doing anything more than eating seafood, hot tubbing, then walking on the beach in the morning.

I did the exact thing this go around as well. I’d come off a very taxing work week where four days had felt like six. Plus, I’d worked my last day with my former team and come Monday, would start a brand-new position. An overnight beach trip in between the transition brought relaxing closure.

Either the sound of birds or the sunlight peeking around the curtains woke me up on Sunday morning. I’d effortlessly slept in. Even though I’d forgotten my night guard, my jaw didn’t hurt in the morning.

As a matter of fact, I’d slept so well, I thought that tingling nerve pain in my low back, which hovered around my right hip, had been remedied with a better mattress.

Nope. I hadn’t been walking fast enough around the condo to trigger that tingling sensation. I’d skipped my morning stretches: knees into chest while lying in bed, forward bend while standing beside the bed, squatting, followed by shifting from one side to another while squatting on one leg with the opposite leg stretched out to the side.

When we reached the pier, I stretched out my back. For once, I requested that we walk slower, which was usually my sister’s request of me.

Although my nephew stayed a week at the condo, my sister and I returned home the next day. She had to finish out the school year by working on Monday and Tuesday. I, of course, worked the entire week.

On our way back home, we stopped by Bucc-ee’s. The last time I visited was my first time. The rain had pelted down so hard, I credit the weather for thinning the crowd.

This time, the weather was perfect, the crowd unreal. As soon as we walked in, I made a beeline to the bathroom. Thanks to my sister, she brought my attention to the line for the women’s bathroom, which I was about to bypass.

The line moved quickly. Women employees directed women visitors to bathroom stalls that wrapped around the perimeter of the large room as soon as they became available. Despite the efficiency of the fast-moving women’s bathroom line, men leisurely strolled in and out of their bathroom. Even men who escorted their sons walked in and out with ease.

Our second “line” was a tightly-packed crowd gathered around the large warming bin where brisket sandwiches should have been. We’d already foraged the sweets we wanted as we made our way to the sandwich line: beaver nuggets, peanut butter and caramel popcorn, and a pecan praline.

We eased our way into the waiting crowd and befriended two women, who confirmed that the mob had gathered around for a brisket sandwich. My sister told one of the women, who was closest to the empty bin, that once the next batch of brisket sandwiches were loaded, she should pass back four of them, one by one. That strategy worked and we bounced to our third and final line to pay.

Although we paid separately, I followed my sister to the next available cashier. I took pictures while he rang her up. Despite his masked face, the mirth in his eyes shone through as he rang me up.

“How did you enjoy your visit?”

“Are you serious?”

My sister and I maneuvered out of the establishment as deftly as we’d circulated around it while shopping. Other stupefied shoppers had stopped and stood, blocking our direct path to escape, ahem, exit. Scanning the crowded chaos, the other shoppers were either looking for separated loved ones or attempting to visually locate something they wanted to purchase.

Once outside, I breathed easier. Although I don’t suffer from claustrophobia nor panic attacks, I was hangry, but happy to be out of the crowd.

We devoured our sandwiches in the car, followed by the sweets. The brisket sandwich seemed a little thrown together, but still tasty. Next time, I’ll stick to the chopped barbecue. I’m almost convinced that one has to be in Texas to enjoy good brisket.

Regardless, I flowed into my new position as relaxed as one could be when, typical Monday, platforms glitched and directives were scarce. I loved it.

Mid-Week Art Night

I convinced my sister to go to an artists’ night with me. From the time we entered, she was the star of the show.

Last year, she was ordained as a deacon. Born with a generous spirit, my sister usually attracts people. Before she’d warmed the throne, another woman gravitated toward her. As many things as my sister’s involved in, I thought she knew her.

Turned out, the woman was one of a handful of artists who’d set up a table for the evening. We came upon her table as we circulated around the small space that was efficiently packed with different artists.

My sister bought from two artists and networked with the others, especially the guy who had had several strokes, along with his wife. That married couple created a rehab box of tools for stroke survivors. My sister took his contact information to connect him to someone else in her growing network.

Although I was only there to check out the weekly event and possibly buy a leather fanny pack, I loved the shrug. One of my nieces had taken up knitting during COVID, a hobby that she’s continued. I’ve seen her blankets, sweaters and scarves. A shrug might be an exciting new knitting avenue for her.

Without my sister there, I would have left the event in under 15 minutes. Not only did she take the time to browse, purchase and network, but she helped me not focus on the very loud music that would have pushed me out the door even sooner.

Years from now, when I finish my illustrated book, that cozy creative venue is a place where I’d like to read and hawk my latest book. I hope they don’t go out of business or civilization doesn’t collapse prior to that.