You are using an insecure version of your web browser. Please update your browser!
Using an outdated browser makes your computer unsafe. For a safer, faster, more enjoyable user experience, please update your browser today or try a newer browser.
It’s older than I am. We were both brought back from Okinawa, Japan the second time my family was stationed there with the Air Force.
When my sister took the rainproof cover off the hibachi, a slew of cockroaches scattered. The last time the grill had been used was during the Fourth of July celebration, so the cockroaches had holed up during the rains between then and Labor Day weekend. Had I never been a Peace Corps Volunteer, those roaches may have turned me off from eating anything grilled on this hibachi. Yet I know better. First of all, the heat alone would kill anything that may be harmful. Moreover, we always clean the grill.
My sister assumed the grillmaster position.
About two years ago, she took over grillmaster duties from our father, who turned 84 this past April. Mom and Dad had a system: she seasoned the meat and he’d grill it. Now, Mom and my sister both season the meat and my sister grills it. I love how the grillmaster prepared for the occasion with her sun hat, a fly swatter, all the grilling implements and her smart phone. My contribution to the production was cleaning off the patio table and chairs before I dashed off to dance class.
The fruits of our collective labor.
Although the grillmaster had cooked ribs, chicken and steak, we saved the steaks for Sunday. Nonetheless, I was perfectly happy with my dinner. The only spoilers were the flies. I didn’t remember flies being such a nuisance when I was a child, eating outside on the patio. We ate dessert inside.
Before the next time I clean off the patio furniture, I’m going to research how to remedy the flies. I’m especially interested in rigging up a clear plastic ziplock bag half full of water and a few pennies. Allegedly that thwarts flies. I’d like to test that hypothesis. I just have to figure out how to rig it up. And find some pennies. Who still deals with cash, much less coins?
was falling backwards and trusting that the hammock would catch me. Obviously, I have more faith in the hammock than I have that people would catch me during a so-called trust fall. Once, I overcame that apprehension, I had to build up my tolerance for being suspended by what felt like a thick rope cutting through my torso.
The poses were beautiful.
Yet, they were also exhausting. At least gravity helped to exit the poses. I wasn’t the least bit concerned with looking sexy. The instructor reminded us several times that the first class was the worst. That alone made me want to try it again.
The next class I want to try out is a hoop class in order to experience the difference. No matter which class I take at this studio, they never fail to be good work outs. I feel myself becoming stronger since there’s no way to cheat one’s way through any of the movements.
As a matter of fact, the biggest challenge to taking this class, along with some others, is my full time work schedule. I’m keeping my options open with my current job while working my writing side hustle. I’d love to either reduce my hours so I’m only working 4 days a week or pick up a lucrative writing gig.
Since relocating, I’ve been recreating my life. Not exactly the way it was in Austin since I was priced out of that city, but in a way that I can still enjoy being alive.
I hadn’t counted on not finding something as seemingly basic as a book exchange. One of those take a book/leave a book set ups found in some Mom and Pop coffee shops. I asked my sister to help me with that task on a laid-back Sunday when we both had time to kill.
The first place she took me to was so out of the way, out in yonder, I was impressed she knew about it. Nonetheless, their book exchange kiosk was no longer there. Then we paid a visit to an actual coffee shop that hosted open mics upstairs. We struck out there too.
As a matter of fact, the upstairs was so small, I’ll have to see it in action to believe that an actual open mic can exist there. I wonder whether there’s additional seating, or if people are cool with sitting on the floor, or if it’s so poorly attended that it’s left just the way it is.
My temporary solution to my book exchange dilemma is to ride around with that book in my car just in case I stumble upon a place where I can leave it.
I remember years ago being amazed that Build a Bear replaced the only bookstore in the oldest mall in town. Little did I know that was the canary in the coal mine.
One of my friends reminded me that the only reason such things like thriving open mics and book exchanges exist in Austin is that someone had started them. To which I said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I don’t want to be the organizer, just a participant.”
Not sure how realistic that is, given the transitory nature of this town. I see myself as transitory as well, but I’d have to find more lucrative work in order to move.
A few days before I journeyed back to NC, I dreamed my father and I were at a crowded mall. We’d planned to eat at one of the restaurants. I told him to have a seat in one of the open areas of the mall while I sped walked to the restaurant to put my name in for a reservation.
When I reached the host’s station, I asked for a table for two. The host looked on his seating chart and told me number 933 would be the next available table. I thanked him and sped walked back to where Dad sat, so we could leisurely walk back to the restaurant.
When I awoke, I realized how weird the host telling me the table number was. That doesn’t happen in real life. Nonetheless, I shared 933 with Dad because he loves playing the pick three.
I looked up the significance of 933. Apparently, that number was sent to me by my guardian angels. They wanted me to know that they were watching over me. So I would be successful and safe during my impending multi-state drive from TX to NC.
Not only were the angels working to fulfill my wishes, but 933 also symbolizes personal and spiritual growth as well as self-realization.
This relocation has allowed me to boost the reinvention of myself. I’m always searching for self-improvement, but a change of scenery always helps to get out of a routine if only to develop a new one.
Even with my current job, once I logged back on after a 2-week vacation, I was in training with a new team because I’d accepted a new position.
Outside of work, I’ve been taking dance classes of a genre I’d never tried before. Plus, I’ve been collaborating on a project with another writer and my cousin. I’m hoping that something will come of that creative endeavor, allowing me to stop being an employee and allowing me to return to the freelancing world.
In many ways, I returned home just in time. My parents had recently recovered from COVID. I’d hit a pandemic-induced stagnation. I’d been priced out of Austin. I hadn’t seen any of my immediate family in two and a half years. I’d saved up enough vacation time to take two weeks off for the relocation.
Even so, there’s a major difference between visiting and relocating. Not only did I have to reclaim space within my parents’ house, I had to integrate myself into everyone’s lives.
Part of reintegration involved family dinners.
First, there was Sunday dinner after church.
Although I’m as secular as they come while still believing in God, I attended church with my family. For me, it’s more of a cultural practice than a religious one. Besides, it’s an act of optimism to believe that we’re on a positive path and there’s a point to existing.
For our first Sunday dinner, my sister chose Longhorn Steakhouse in honor of my return from Texas. Mom spoke up first to order fried pickles. When the server told Mom that that appetizer wasn’t on the menu, Mom insisted that she’d looked up the menu on her phone while we waited. The server was so sweet. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to keep correcting you, but we’ve never had fired pickles on the menu.”
Of course, we had the biggest laugh at Mom’s expense, which set an entertaining tone for the rest of the meal. Even my nephew, who notoriously orders a burger if that option is on the menu, entertained us. When he ordered a pork chop, I complimented him for branching out. Then, I thought about it. There was no way he’d try something new. I asked him if he’d seen the burger option. He hadn’t. Compliment rescinded.
The following Friday, my other sister and her family and a few of her in-laws, came into town and met us at a restaurant to celebrate my parents’ 61st Anniversary.
What a blessing!
I marvel at how long my parents have been married to each other. I chalk it up to the fact that they work together as a team and know how to support one another. As a result of their union and support, I have a home to come home to. My sisters and I have a solid foundation from which to grow and continue.
I researched dance classes after relocating to a new state. I’d been rehearsing with an African dance troupe for several months. I wanted to continue dancing even if I had to pay for classes rather than be a part of a performance group.
Just as I’d feared, not only were there no African dance classes, the vast majority of the offered dance classes were geared toward children and young adults. The first and perhaps only adult dance classes I found were pole fitness classes. I didn’t bother researching ballroom classes since COVID’s made a comeback. Now Monkeypox is making a run.
I’d always heard that pole dancing was good for both strength and flexibility. I started out with a style of dance class that could be best described as “backup dancer moves,” followed by level one pole dancing lessons. Next week, I’ll check out both “chair dancing” and “beginning aerial hammock.” The class names alone make me happy that I’ve found this studio.
I’m just fortunate I have something to get me out of the house that’s a form of exercise because my parents’ house is full of good, healthy food along with damn-near addicting unhealthy snacks. I’m eating too much of both for my full-time desk job. Even though I have a standing desk, it’s not a treadmill desk. That’ll be next.
Obviously, when I say “cashless,” it’s not like in my younger days, which was synonymous with “broke.” Now that I’m middle aged, I’m paycheck-to-paycheck broke, but that’s still not what I mean by “cashless.”
In this day and age, I no longer touch cash. I thought we were all on the same page about this. Apparently, my former existence prior to relocation was perfectly aligned for being cashless.
I paid Mom $30, using one of the digital platforms. You would’ve thought I’d just performed an exorcism. Once I set up the account for her, I sent her more money via the same digital platform a few days later. Mom repeated what her inner tech-phobic demon commanded, “Don’t send me money with that app! I want you to put cash in my hand.” Her demon also advised, “You should send it to yourself, then give me the cash.”
Mom has always been a logical person, but fear made her tell me to send my own money to myself and then give her the cash. As if there’s some magical app that would put cash in my hand if I sent it digitally to myself.
Of course it’s a generational thing. Nearly every job Mom had, she reported in person, except the time she was a babysitter. Even then, she interfaced with people. I, on the other hand, now work from home, interacting virtually with clients and coworkers.
Unlike Mom, I’ve not received a cut check on a regular basis in decades. There’s the occasional odd job where I may get a check, but it’s usually direct deposited.
On the other hand, Mom wanted to watch one of our relative’s funeral that was streaming on Facebook. Mom had heard that there was a way to see what she was streaming on her tablet, on the TV. As soon as I showed her how to cast from her iPad to the TV, Mom started dancing in her seat. “I’m going to be so good, I’m not going to know how to act!” Definitely no demons there.
Years ago, Mom’s demons would scream, “Don’t send me no text.” Now, she navigates through her smart phone like a pro, including sending the occasional text message.
Mom’s rarely an early adopter when it comes to technology, but she’s definitely on board with either internal motivation or familiarity–even if it takes her a decade or longer to become familiar.
Leading up to this glorious day, I’d been furiously packing up to donate, ship or load my things into my fuel-efficient car to relocate back home to NC. With average Austin rents rising 40% and average one-bedroom apartment rents increasing 108% from one year to the next, my migration was inevitable.
Initially, I thought I would “good job” my way out of Texas. Somewhere, somehow, I’d land a more interesting job, making at least twice as much money and move closer to my parents, who I hadn’t seen since December 2019. Instead, I relocated with my present work-from-home job. As a matter of fact, I’d worked for over a year and had never taken a vacation…only a few hours to a few days here and there. I’d accrued over three weeks of PTO, but I knew better than to take more than two.
I rolled out of Austin in good time to meet one final friend for brunch.
I didn’t realize this place was famous.
I’d asked for a restaurant recommendation close to the highway. I got more than I bargained for. I was surprised that there was a 45-minute wait for a table. Nearly everyone I spoke with was from out of town. I felt like the only one who hadn’t seen this place on some TV show.
My friend and I discussed our respective life choices, given both circumstances beyond our control and the limitations of our respective skill sets. No matter what, seems like success is always short-lived or just out of our grasp. All those heavy topics about human drama over a two-egg benedict for me while my friend ate his non-dairy and other dietary restrictive meal.
The whole day, no matter whether I was parked at a restaurant or at a gas station, especially when I’d dashed into the bathroom, I worried about the security of the stuff in car.
Except for when I checked into a hotel for the night. As I drove up to my usual hotel chain of choice, I somehow convinced myself that the general reputation of the hotel chain would be maintained in Jackson, MS. This particular location was near a construction site, had no cameras on the building that overlooked the parking lot except for a camera on the entranceway.
What I should have done was drove to another location, after all it was a national hotel chain, but I convinced myself that security, who would come around 11 PM would suffice. Besides, I parked on the side where there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic, close to the entrance.
A bit past midnight, I received a phone call.
My worst nightmare had come true.
The police officer on security detail escorted me to my car, telling me essentially that no one saw anything until after the fact; so this must have happened before he came on duty at 11 PM. They had to run my tags to find out who the car’s owner was. Apparently, some good Samaritan reported the burglary to the front desk, who called the police. The responding officer left their contact card, which provided the local police number and a case number.
I immediately saw that two out of three of my work-related computer boxes had been stolen. Days later, when I unpacked the remaining things in my car, I realized that more of my personal things had been stolen.
I went to bed for a few minutes, returning to my car to retrieve the remaining computer box. On my way back into the hotel, I asked the cop how long he’d be on duty: 6 AM…the same time breakfast would begin. That was the start of a plan.
I called my car insurance to see how fast I could get the window repaired. Although the cop had used one of my blankets to block the busted out window, I needed more of an appearance of a secured car. Plus, I didn’t want to cause my parents undue stress when I rolled up to their house. Of course, nothing could be done at that time of night.
I barely slept, which meant I was on time for breakfast. While I ate, I reasoned that I’d be better off as a moving target rather than sitting around the hotel, waiting for 8 AM EST when the car insurance main office would be open.
Even though the rear passenger window was busted, I still kept up with the flow of traffic. I pulled into a gas station an hour later to call my car insurance company again. I wanted them to locate a place to fix my window in Meridian, MS, which was where I was heading. Yet, thanks to timezones, none of those shops were open. No problem! I drove for another hour before stopping at another gas station to call my car insurance.
This time, I connected to one of the best customer service agents ever. Plus, I was an hour longer into my travels and knew that the next biggest city was Atlanta, GA. I’d never driven this route before and since I was using Waze, I hadn’t bothered plotting a travel course on my own. This customer service agent worked diligently for over 30 minutes to find someone to fix my window later that day.
I met the angel mechanic in Atlanta.
Just to prove how ultimately cool this guy was, he asked where my final destination was, then suggested a closer place where he’d meet me, saving me 30 minutes of driving out of my way. He was eating lunch with his daughter when I rolled up in the parking lot. He remedied the broken window in less than half an hour, including vacuuming the broken glass that he could see among my things.
Plus, I supported a small Black-owned business.
Once I hit the road again, not only was my window fixed, but thanks to staying in contact with my supervisor, the replacement equipment was in the works.
As I drove along the series of highways, the trip became a metaphor for moving on. The burglary became a metaphor ofor the negative things that happen in life that force me to change. Instead of checking into another hotel for the night, I drank coffee with a shot Baileys and drove into the night to my parents’ house.
I threw on a cute dress, put my hair up and switched purses to look more presentable than my usual work-from-home attire to attend an out of town event at a house museum in San Antonio with one of my cousins and a friend. We’d underestimated the traffic and arrived much later than we’d anticipated. Somehow, we didn’t miss too much of the documentary about the Ethiopian civil war.
Afterwards, we did the touristy thing and went to the Riverwalk for dinner. As hungry as I was, I tasted the fast food quality of my entree, accompanied by the watered down cocktail. Apparently, we were lucky to get that on a Thursday evening since the restaurant closed at 9 PM.
I chalk that up to the pandemic where everything seems in short supply, especially staff to keep places open.
I finally turned the corner in this picture.
When I looked at these pictures my friend had taken, I was surprised at the older woman in the cute dress and with stylish purse. I knew this day would come, but I didn’t figure it would happen on an occasion where I felt particularly attractive. I walked off the feeling and thought, “Well good for me!” I’m glad that I can feel vivacious even if I don’t look like it. (Notable exception: check out the definition of that arm casually draped on fencing. Daily planks, anyone?)
Check out the comfortable footwear.
I was told in my early 30s that I had the sensibilities of a woman in her mid 40s. I took it as a compliment. I’d kicked the come-fuck-me pumps to the curb when I joined Peace Corps. I didn’t even pack a pair of heels for that 2 1/2 year experience. I let go of many materialistic hangups while volunteering in Tanzania. So easy not to believe the hype of consumerism and fashion during that time.
Even now, among my immediate family, I have the fewest clothes, shoes and psychological attachments to material things. That’s served both me and my bank account well. The only thing I wish I’d done differently with my money was invested it better. It’s one thing to pay off one’s credit card at the end of the month and have a 401k (or some retirement equivalent), but it’s quite another to chase after economic investments that generate income whether I’m chasing after it or not.
For this Fourth of July celebration, I made three new friends…a couple and their dog. Our mutual friend had extended the invitation because the couple were relocating to NC at the beginning of August. Since I’m from NC, I gave them the inside scoop even though it had been decades since I lived in the Tar Heel state.
As fate would have it, I arrived before my other friends had, despite the fact that I’d left home later than I’d intended. Nonetheless, I whipped out a bottle of pre-made watermelon/cucumber margarita and became instant friends. Once the drinks were poured, one of the party hosts escorted me to the fabulous backyard.
I made a beeline to the hibachi grill.
I told them that my family has had a hibachi grill since before I was born and that they still use it. I texted one of my sisters a picture of their hibachi grill and asked if she could text a picture of our family grill. I was not prepared for what I saw.
Battle-worn, our family hibachi has given a lifetime of delicious barbecue.
A year or two older than me, our hibachi showed its age far worse than me. For some reason, all those cracks reminded me of how my body was riddled with injuries and inflammation. My sister told me that our parents will replace that grill with one of the newer models.
Can’t overstate how refreshing this pool was.
We experienced typical triple-digit heat, which made the coolness of the pool that much more inviting. What amazed me was that our hosts were so good at drinking while lounging in the pool, they spilt nary a drop of their microbrew in the pool.
They were so enthusiastic about their microbrew that I had a taste. All I can say is that if Pale Ale actually tasted that delicious mass-produced, then I would be a beer drinker. I told them that they’d have to share some bottles with my parents when they visited, in exchange for Mom’s tomato-based home-brew recipe.
I know I shouldn’t volunteer her services, but by the time the visit takes place, perhaps she’ll have consulted other family members about the recipe. I’m not actually sure if she’s ever made it herself. The last time I tasted it, I was around eight years old. I’d be interested in persevering that and our moonshine recipe as well.
