Eight Times Lucky

I mark every birthday as a celebration of being alive and having survived yet another year of embracing creativity and joy amidst all the chaos the world has to offer. Different cultures of people view the numbers seven and eight as lucky. The product of those two numbers rule my birthday this year.

Wonderful luck foreshadowed my 2026 birthday when I looked at the calendar and noticed that my born day landed on Labor Day this year. An automatic day off.

For years, one of my birthday gifts to myself has been a day off. So the quintessential Virgo in me loved not having to use any PTO this time around.

I’ve also co-opted Dad’s idea of celebrating a “birthday month.” Unlike Dad, I don’t actually label every fun thing I do in September as my birthday celebration, but I also don’t think everything needs to happen on the actual day. There’s wisdom in spreading out the celebration, especially across the weekend.

Back when I lived in Austin during pre-COVID, I’d send out a birthday itinerary to friends for every birthday that ended in a “0” or “5,” foolishly designating those years as being more significant than the others. But let’s face it, on some level, there’s a reason to celebrate all things good, no matter how small.

Case in point, this past Thursday, I found a quarter in the parking lot on my way to dance class. The joy with which I picked up that quarter, one would have thought that I’d found much more money. Yet, ever since the great state of NC had refunded me $1, I’ve been on a mission to find the equivalent of a dollar just going about life. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of how desperate the times are economically, but since I’ve been on this micro-quest, that quarter was the most I’d found in one score, which raised my total to 47 cents for the year. (To read about how I spent that refunded $1 from the great state of NC, please read Tip That Motherf*****!)

For the past year or so, I’ve mostly confined my alcohol consumption to just Saturday and Sunday. I made an exception this past Friday night. Since a little red wine helps with concentration, I used that logic as I took an open book yoga final exam.

On Saturday mornings, I do my laundry for the week and go grocery shopping. I did the same with the addition of selecting a free birthday cake from the grocery store that I frequent. It was just as moist and delicious as it looks.

Later on Saturday, I gifted myself a high-end nice mani-pedi, complete with a 20-minute foot massage. I topped it off with a sparkling blue color, which had my birthstone, sapphire, in its name. That color may become yet another birthday tradition.

On Sunday, after my usual 60-min hot yoga class, I enjoyed a 60-min full body massage. Once again, the Virgo in me absolutely loved that the receptionist honored an expired $20 off coupon in addition to the usual gift of a $15 enhancement.

When I returned home, Mom, my sister and a neighbor had maneuvered Dad into the house and were attempting to affix the bed rail to the side of his bed. I welcomed Dad back home after being hospitalized and in rehab for over two months.

By the time my actually birthday rolled around, I’d slept in, then made breakfast for Dad and me. When I served Dad breakfast, I said, “Happy Labor Day!”

Dad just smiled, probably happier because breakfast was served rather than the holiday. Then, I asked him, “Do you remember what happened on this day 56 years ago?”

His first guess was “Easter.” I reminded him that I’d just wished him a Happy Labor Day. Then he guessed that it was either his birthday or my birthday. I laughed, reminding him that he was long past age 56, but at least he got the correct answer in 1.5 answers.

After breakfast, my sister and I did a labor of love for Mom. She had a decorative, wooden accent piece that was awkward and time-consuming to clean. As a matter of fact, the best way to clean it would be to burn it. A one and done solution. However, the second best way to clean it, is to take it outside and apply a wooden cleaner to it with a paintbrush. I convinced Mom to wait for a sunny day, so we could clean it in the morning and it could thoroughly dry.

Another birthday tradition, which I think I started for my 40th birthday, was wearing a tiara. I thought I’d keep that costume accessory for the rest of my life, but after this birthday, it’s time to retire ol’ girl and get another for the upcoming birthday.

Back in August I’d cashed in $30 worth of reward points from work to buy a two-piece bathing suit and swim trunks. Not only is such attire good for swimming, but also pole dancing and yoga. So far, I’ve worn those trunks to both pole class and yoga, but not to swim in. Yet, I love the versatility in such clothing for all the physical activities that I enjoy doing.

I saved the two-piece black and gold swimwear for my actual birthday. And what better way to celebrate one’s birthday than with a pole dancing class? Granted, this was my usual Monday night class, but a lifelong dream of mine is to spend as much of my waking time doing what I enjoy. Mission accomplished.

The next day I received a gift of fresh spices and a pair of earrings from a friend. Mom surprised me by not immediately asking what I was going to cook with those spices. I sprinkled a little from each jar into Dad and my breakfast eggs.

Two days later, I took Mom out to breakfast at a family-owned restaurant where neither one of us had ever been to before. I informed everyone that we were celebrating Mom’s 86th birthday.

Normally, Mom drinks ginger tea along with a smoothie for breakfast. She joined me with a large cup of green tea. We both employed a different utensil to keep our tea bags from floating. Not that this was a scientific experiment, but my knife produced a better seeping result than Mom’s spoon.

Mom ordered a Western omelet with grits and a homemade biscuit on the side.

Since I normally make an omelet-styled eggs for Dad and me every morning, I ordered a sausage egg and cheese biscuit with a side of potato and parmesan casserole. That biscuit was so big that I had to hold it at an angle to bite it, completely missing the entire top biscuit half, which I eventually removed.

Eating an open-faced biscuit helped me save room for the small stack of birthday pancakes the the chef brought out to both Mom and me. He warned us to make a wish and blow out the candle quickly, so the heat of the pancakes won’t melt too much of the candle.

Afterwards, Mom took a picture with the chef, whose family owned the restaurant.

Mom fussed over how nobody had better mess with her biscuit that I wrote her name on the to-go box in big letters. Proving that one could take the girl out of Cascade, but not the Cascade out of the girl, no matter what age!

Two days later, fourteen of us got together to celebrate Mom’s, my nephew’s, my sister’s sister-in-law, and my birthday at a steakhouse. Although I had a wonderful time, complete with delicious food and entertaining conversation, the post meal activity made my day: axe throwing!

I counted on the fact that my nephew would join me to continue our birthday celebration at another location. My nephew was so much better than me, that his handicaps were trying trick shots and knife throwing.

We were surprised when the knife stuck at the hilt rather than the blade.

Next time around, the knife, stuck as we’d expected it to do.

Of course, I had a photo celebration of my first of two bullseyes.

All in all, I won one game out of three only because my nephew was trying out trick shots, kill shots (where one had to proclaim “killshot,” then hit one of the two blue dots on the board or make a zero if the implement hit anywhere else) and knife throws. What I learned during this experience was that my mind and arms only have three games in them.

After the last game, I reminded my nephew that he hadn’t tried the double-axe throw yet.

Until the next birthday celebration…

The Name Quest Continues

Starting a new project is always exciting even if the medium is the same. Unlike continuing a set mold, one can branch out and grow from past experiences.

Case in point, my third and newest podcast, “Discovering the ‘T,'” has motivated me to try new things with the very first episode. I wanted to add more texture to the audio by adding background music. I also wanted to see if the music would mask the abrupt edits. It didn’t, but I also didn’t re-edit the episode.

This is part of my “learn from errors instead of dwelling on them to attain perfection.” I like the addition of background music, but I have to continue using techniques, like crossfades, to reduce the popping/glitching sounds caused by editing.

Another new thing I’m doing with this new podcast is following a thread. One of my aunts intrigued me about the variation of how our surname is spelled. This has already produced one episode, which sent me researching through my parents’ file cabinet for clues/answers to more questions, especially my father’s birth certificate, where his father’s surname appears as “Roberson” and Dad’s first name is spelled “Karl.”

After that first episode dropped, one of my cousins texted me a picture of Dad when he was a junior in high school. Yet another spelling variation of his name appeared: Carl Robertson.

I then resumed my file cabinet search, mainly to pinpoint when my father switched from spelling his name “Carl Robertson” to “Karl Roberson.” The archaeological hunt through my parents’ lives via medical/home maintenance/insurance/military/funeral papers revealed how little I knew them as people.

Mom had done a fabulous job of squirreling away funeral programs, where one section gives a mini biography for the deceased. I took pictures along the way of all the interesting finds, not ever finding a copy of my parents’ marriage license.

I joked with Mom. “I think ya’ll have been lying to us for 65 years about being married.”

She assured me that she’d taken their marriage license with them back in 2019 when we vacationed on a family cruise. Plausible explanation since I hadn’t come across their recent passports either. Now, when I have another “researcher moment,” I’ll have to go through other drawers where Mom has squirreled away that information.

During this journey about both my aunt’s and father’s name variations, I uncovered not just a personal history of my relatives, but also the context of the times in which they lived.

For example, during the first episode, my aunt revealed that she was the last in our family to go to a one-room school. My father and all of his siblings were educated by dedicated teachers within a substandard system that deemed “separate but equal” was legal from 1896 until 1954, the year my youngest aunt was born.

That legal designation may have changed, but the attitude has persisted. Instead of the government separating citizens based on race, people segregated themselves. The proliferation of private religious schools provided the protective mask racial bigots with money sought to hide behind in order to separate their children from attending an integrated school.

When parents with the most resources withdrew their kids, public school was systematically left to languish with minimal funding. The one- or two-room school system may have ended, but not the disdain of educating Black students.

I marvel at how much people in my parents’ generation and earlier have achieved. That’s why it’s important to me to capture as much personal history from both sides of the family as possible. One thread at a time, weaving the fabric of our past together.

Technology Two-Step

Whenever I juggle creative projects, inevitably, tech issues arise. The more ambitious I am, the more challenges rush in even faster. Over the years, I’ve learned that unless I have a firm deadline, I will embrace new technology in the mornings and set it aside in the evenings, so as not to interfere with a good night’s sleep. Unless it’s an emergency, which is not a button I push too often.

Whether the challenge isn’t having enough laptop storage because of too many videos or I can no longer update my blog because my version of WordPress is “outdated.” Surprising since the platform regularly updates automatically.

I am a continuing education student of YouTube videos and AI-generated solutions. As a last resort, I reach out to “customer service.” Speaking to a live human is almost a thing of the past. Not only are companies downsizing to shrink their overhead, but they are attempting a technological ol’ Jedi trick: you can empower yourself 24/7 with all the answers at your fingertips.

Once I’ve already tried virtual solutions, I don’t want yet another disembodied entity. At that point, I want to be connected with a person, so we can brainstorm together versus typing out my experience with an interweb bot.

I have spent many frustrating hours, spread over a few days, looping around the “advice” AI gave me. Finally, the planets aligned correctly and the voodoo worked, where I established an account that allowed me access to several commonly used professional office platforms.

When I couldn’t access my blog, which I’d been faithfully posting once a week since January 2011, I tried all of the options I understood before calling BlueHost. Shout out to BlueHost for still having live customer service people!

That rockstar agent resolved the issue within five glorious minutes. I didn’t have to wait on hold for a long time to be connected with her either. Usually I skip the “quick survey at the end,” but I gave her all fives as fast as my opposable thumbs could, then continued with the rest of my life.

Until the next tech issue that’s just waiting in the wings to jump out at me like a B-movie horror villian.

Impromptu Historian

I started my first podcast in 2020, interviewing ten friends about their experience with CBD. Inspired by the conversation, I’d write a summary in the form of a poem. I called my inaugural podcast “CBD & Poetry.”

Although I only conducted ten interviews, the experience led me to launch a more meaningful podcast where I interviewed descendants of my maternal great grandfather, Jesse Strange. Unlike my first podcast, I didn’t plan to start “Strange Family Folklore.”

During my usual Saturday morning phone call with Mom, the conversation turned to family history. I felt energized by the information. Since I was driving at the time, I couldn’t jot down notes.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I could have recorded the call. Instead, once I got home, I had a Zoom call with Mom and I recorded our conversation.

Those were the humble days where I thought in order to do a podcast that I needed two pricey microphones for in-person interviews. While it’s always a good thing to capture the best quality sound, I’ve not allowed the lack of the best equipment stop me from getting things done. More often than not, I conduct interviews via Zoom or simply recording an in-person conversation with my phone.

Fast forward six years and 30-odd episodes later, I had another intriguing, brief conversation with one of my aunts on Dad’s side of the family.

Unlike Mom’s extended family who’ve had 85 consecutive reunions, Dad’s extended family have rarely united, which is unfortunate because we always have a good time when we get together. As a matter of fact, we had such a good time on the first evening during our most recent reunion that some random guy at the hotel joined in with my male cousins, drinking and playing chess.

On the second evening during our hotel-catered dinner, my cousin invited a spokesperson from each table to introduce ourselves and answer a question or two. Of course, my table elected me as spokesperson.

Not only did I answer two questions, but I requested that people write down as much of our family tree as they knew. I received four family trees, which came from two-thirds of the tables. Not a bad start.

I immediately noticed that my aunt had spelled her son’s surname as R-O-B-E-R-T-S-O-N instead of the way the rest of us spelled our surnames: R-O-B-E-R-S-O-N. When I questioned if she’d inadvertently misspelled his last name, my aunt smiled and said there was a long story involved.

I decided on the spot that her explanation of that surname variation would be the subject of my first episode for Dad’s side of the family. Didn’t take long for me to come up with the podcast name either: “Discovering the T.”

People commonly say, “spill the tea,” to mean telling the truth about something, which I’m going to task Dad’s side of the family to do. I’m already in post production for my first episode with my aunt. My fondest wish is that other family members who hear that episode will be motivated to reach out to be interviewed. It’s long overdue for this side of the family to start recording our history for preservation purposes.

Dad’s Rehab

When Dad first broke his hip in April 2023, I optimistically thought that with recovery time and therapy, he’d walk again. Fast forward three and a half years and he’s further from that goal than before.

A myriad of factors come into play: advanced age, PTSD, Agent Orange exposure, Alzheimer’s, chronic fatigue.

Each time Dad re-enters rehab, the experience zaps his energy, resetting the mobility goal even further back. On the other hand, Mom’s energy and quality of life improves when Dad is out of the house.

Although Mom is loathe to admit it, she’s much better rested with Dad out of the house. Unlike before, she no longer spends long hours with Dad when he’s in the hospital or in rehab. She’s learned to balance her day better, prioritizing rest.

The last time Dad was home, Mom had made an effort to take a daily nap, which I’d advised her to do years ago. Previously, she made excuses as to why she had to work herself like a machine and not include rest/naps as part of her to-do list.

Now, with Dad in rehab, she sleeps later and is in much better spirits. Contrast her sheer unhappiness when she confessed to one of my friends who’d arrived to pick me up to attend an event. Mom declared with despair in her eyes that she thought her life would be much different if she was blessed to live this long.

My parents’ relationship has been a romantic saga, spanning 65 years of marriage. Mom reminisces about when they bought our present house, how they were both healthy and able to walk the three flights of stairs that now challenges Mom and defeats Dad without the help of an electric chair and assistance from someone else.

Even with a mostly reliable caregiver service, Dad’s home care is an all-consuming activity where we have to coordinate schedules to make sure that someone’s home with him at all times even though he mostly sleeps throughout the day.

The hardest transition to witness is Dad’s vibrancy slipping away in stages. Rehab keeps him alive, but his quality and participation in life have dwindled. He no longer pines to return home nor cares whether the TV is on at rehab.

When we say “rest in peace,” we imagine some place where both body and mind are at rest, the atmosphere is calm, the temperature is comfortable and one is virtually out of touch with the worldly grind. That’s where Dad is now.

Although I remain upbeat when I visit Dad, in my heart, I feel that many in that facility are humanely waiting to die. Isn’t that a dream come true? To live a full life and in the end to go peacefully in one’s sleep. At the end of my visits with Dad, I make sure to kiss him on the forehead or cheek and tell him I love him, never knowing if it’ll be the last time.

Discovering the “T”

Whenever I use precious paid time off (PTO), I make the most out of the day, like a quintessential Virgo. Since I’d taken a Friday off to attend Dad’s family reunion, I’d scheduled to get my car inspected at 8:15 AM. Plenty of time for the mechanics to perform a state inspection, then I could go grocery shopping before returning home to hit the road with my family.

That whole plan must’ve made the devil smile.

As usual, I had a backpack with my laptop and iPad to work on a few creative projects as I waited. The silver lining was having PLENTY of time to get a lot of things done. Even my concierge smiled as she broke the news to me: “Things can never be simple, can it?”

From there, she informed me that my car wouldn’t pass inspection unless they put four new tires on. In addition, they didn’t have the tires in stock, but could get them from someplace down the road within 15 minutes. My concierge knew that I’d planned to go out of town that morning and she worked hard to have everything ready by lunch time, a mere three hours later than I’d expected. At least everyone was ready to go by the time I arrived home.

Mom drove the first leg of the trip and my sister drove the last leg with me playing navigator while riding shotgun the entire way. We made good time until we hit the hotel lobby. A long line awaited.

Apparently, the hotel computers were down globally. Instead, they used analog technology, resulting in guests reporting to occupied rooms.

Our reservations for two rooms under my sister’s and mother’s names, magically turned into reservations under mom’s and my name. Despite the fact that our names appeared in two separate places, the room numbers were the same: 340.

At least the four of us shared a suite. A small consolation, but I had been looking forward to having a break from my nephew. Our temperament clash makes seeing one another during the holidays and other rare occasions ideal. Given our current long-term living arrangement, we’d already banked an entire lifetime’s worth of “holiday time” together.

By the time we returned downstairs, the extended family were in the throes of BINGO and I was hangry. Rarely do I eat dinner past 8 PM. Fortunately, the kitchen was still open. I enjoyed a cabbage-based Asian salad with sauteed shrimp. Only after I’d inhaled most of the dish did I remember the growing outbreak of explosive diarrhea linked to salad. But that was just iceberg lettuce, right?

Next morning, Mom, my sister and I went down for breakfast. Of course my nephew had slow-assed around, so we left him behind. Not to worry, finding his way to food was definitely one of his top three skills.

As we checked in for breakfast, the surname associated with our room number was incorrect. We informed the hotel employee of our last name and how many of us were in the suite. Too bad I hadn’t noted the name that she’d had on the printout because, later on, I couldn’t access Wi-Fi, given my surname and room number.

Nonetheless, we enjoyed breakfast, complete with reacquainting ourselves with relatives and in-laws. The last reunion on this side of the family was in 2017, which I hadn’t attended. Unlike previous reunions, I was far more determined to play an active role in documenting our history, thanks to the organization and longevity of Mom’s family reunions.

We reconvened after breakfast around 9:45 to load up on a tour bus, headed for DC. Before we exited the hotel parking lot, our bus driver, who doubled as the tour guide, started his informative talk.

A vast fountain of information, the tour guide/driver overflowed with historical narratives, jokes, facts, and stats all the while navigating expertly through highway traffic and narrow DC streets.

Our first stop was at the MLK carving where we took a series of group family photos. Then, we loaded back on the bus and dropped off family members who’d already purchased their tickets for the African American Museum.

The rest of us remained on the bus to eat a cold cut six-inch sub lunch while continuing our bus tour of historical sites. Normally, I would have busy-bodied myself with taking pictures and jotting down notes, but a professional photographer alleviated me of all that, so I truly enjoyed taking in the sights.

Hours later, we collected family members from the African American Museum and went to a reasonably priced and well-stocked souvenir shop that also had clean bathrooms. Technically, there was a bathroom stall on the bus, but we were also on the bus.

Everyone in my suite napped except for me. I relaxed by working on my digital illustrations while watching TV, then taking a shower.

We all changed into “cocktail attire,” a phrase that I defined for the fashionably confused as “dressy casual.”

We were among the first to arrive in the hotel banquet room. The DJ had already begun his first set of the evening. The hotel caterers put the final touches of the buffet together.

My cousin, who was the head organizer of the reunion and emcee, made some opening remarks, introducing the live saxophonist who started his set. Later, a kid-friendly comedian did nearly an hour long set, and throughout the event, there were raffle drawings. As has been scientifically proven many times, I didn’t win anything. One of my nieces won twice and one of my sisters won a gift card.

At one point, the emcee asked for one person at each round table to come up and answer a question from a list on the table. My family voluntold me to be the spokesperson.

I introduced myself. “Good evening. I am Teresa Roberson, the third and best daughter of Karl and Velma Roberson.” After making other humorous remarks I stated that I’d answer two questions, one from each list of questions found at our table.

For the family recipe that should be passed down, we voted that would be Mom’s potato salad, which was so delicious, whether she made the regular or vegan version.

For the second question about what I’d like for the younger generations to know about our family, I turned my “answer” into a call to action. I held up the half piece of paper that the questions were written on. “I’d like for the younger generation to know our family tree. So, my ask is for at least one person at each table to write down as much of the family tree on the back of this paper.”

I added that I know that no one would outright lie to my face, but if they waited until they returned home to jot down a family tree, they probably wouldn’t do it. I asked them to do it before leaving the banquet.

Out of six large round tables, I received four family trees. A wonderful turnout, given the fact that the organizer/emcee had already started an electronic effort, which she invited me to add to.

One of my aunts, who was also voluntold to be a table spokesperson, handed me her written family tree. She’d written her son’s last name, which should have been the same as mine, with a “t.” When I questioned her about the spelling variation, she told me that there was a long story behind the “t” being dropped from our surname.

In that moment, I knew that I’d start a podcast series for this side of the family, called “Discovering the ‘T’.” I’d started “Strange Family Folklore” in 2020 for Mom’s side of the family to capture that history. Now, I needed to capture Dad’s side of the family.

Proving once again, I can never wait to complete all the other creative projects I have going on before beginning a new one. In the spirit of striking the iron while it’s hot, I have to capture as much as I can before it’s too late.

Safe from the Gods, but Not Themselves

As thrilling as the epic three-hour IMAX movie, The Odyssey, was the one line that resonated with me came in the middle of the movie: “I can save them from the gods, but not themselves.”

Without providing any spoiler context from the movie about who “the gods” nor who “themselves” are, I sat up in my seat just a little bit when I heard that line because I knew exactly what the character meant. When trying to help someone help themselves, you can smooth over all external obstacles so that person can be successful and they STILL fuck everything up in the end.

You may be able to influence the circumstances, but it’s much more challenging to change a person’s nature. Bad habits are hard to break, and the change has to come from within. As much as we can care for another, if they don’t break their own bad habits, there is no saving someone from themselves.

Too bad relationship drama isn’t so entertainingly projected on a large screen like a well-done epic movie. That would be a silver lining.

Instead, the experience drains both time and energy. During those times, I have to remind myself that I don’t have to carry such a burden.

The currently popular “Let Them Theory” advises one to let another person be who they are. That’s not a dismissal of the situation nor a capitulation to allow others to treat you any way they please. It’s a philosophy that guides you to accept others as they are when navigating through life.

What I’ve also found is that some people, instead of breaking a bad habit, will step back and allow others to do things for them. So, they adopt another bad habit, waiting to be enabled. Or manipulating others to enable them.

The truth is, we all die in the end. During our brief existence, we journey through life, accomplishing as much as we can. Or not.

They’ll Keep Coming

I’d just entered the dance studio with my bag of stuff to make yet another instructional yoga video in the back room. Apparently, I hit the studio just in time. A pole class was wrapping up when I spied a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

I walked up to her where she sat on the floor to remove her thigh-high boots. She complimented my dress, which I used as a cover up, while I squatted beside her. I told her that after I left, I’d go to the hospital to visit my father.

Her facial expression changed. Something beyond mere politeness prompted me to ask her what she’d been up to. She said that her grandmother was also in the hospital; so, my friend and her aunt were rearranging her grandmother’s house to make it more accommodating when her grandmother returned home.

I acknowledged how challenging it was to have a loved one hospitalized. Then she added, “Yeah, I’m just trying not to go down the alcoholic path, but these bitches keep coming after me.”

Cries for help come in different forms. Even though the statement was made in anger, I saw it for what it really was.

I assured her that being in the studio, surrounded by positive woman-energy was a step in the right direction. I briefly shared that when I was younger, stressful situations could have also driven me to drink and other destructive habits. Instead, I chose swimming, dancing, doing yoga and other forms of self care.

I added, “If no one else has told you this, let me tell you: you’re worth it. You are worth fighting for because those bitches will keep coming.”

I encouraged her to continue putting energy into positive things like dancing because life and people will grind her down if she lets them.

I left so she could finish up her class and I could set up my film shoot. Even though our conversation only lasted no more than five minutes, I felt that we both needed that exchange.

When I was around her age, I’d concluded that happiness was the point of my life. At that time, I thought I could attain happiness by no longer having “the bitches” in my life. What I’ve since learned is that one will never be free of them.

As a matter of fact, waiting to live “happily ever after” means “never living happily.” My happiness outlook is now, as the Founding Fathers wrote, a pursuit every single waking moment. What the Founders were too professional to say is that one must pursue happiness even when the bitches keep coming for you.

That’s a far more complete picture. Nothing happens in a vacuum. Plus, in pursuing happiness, one’s energy flows into something positive versus self pity or negativity.

As much as I love a good rant, half the time they’re pretty funny too, but I’d rather return to some creative project than to dwell in a negative headspace. Just like my friend and I did.

Acknowledge the bullshit, then return to the good shit. There’s a good bumper sticker/T-shirt slogan/mantra. I’ll embody the spirit of that philosophy and make the most of life while the parade of “bitches” do their worst.

Reaching Another Filmmaking Level

After making the worst content I’d ever made in form of an instructional yoga video, my next video project was remarkably better. So much so that friends and family alike praised how good it was, suggesting that it should be entered into film festivals. One writer friend even commented on how professional the documentary was.

That’s because I’d learned from my experiences–the good, the bad and the questionable. Other than the learning curve from regular practice of making digital movies, I actively explored other techniques out of necessity.

Initially, I was intimidated by the challenge to make a total of 15 hours’ worth of instructional yoga videos for my 200-hour yoga teacher training course. I overcame that apprehension by reframing the situation. I embraced the opportunity to further my filmmaking skills through those videos.

Figuring that I’d never use the audio from any of my yoga recordings, I learned how to use the voiceover feature in a video-editing platform. The first video where I used the technique didn’t go well because I’d inappropriately overdramatized my voice. Who knew voice acting was so challenging?

For absolutely no yoga reason at all, I added a short animated clip to the beginning of each yoga video. My thinking was if I continued to practice with that medium, I’d get better at it and eventually make an episode-length animation.

As a matter of fact, I’d been so preoccupied by visuals, that I didn’t appreciate how much sound shaped my story. Of course, I knew about the power of sound and how sound mixing played a powerful part in movies and TV series, but for some inexplicable reason, that aspect of filmmaking didn’t concern me until recently. That was the time I discovered the library of music clips and sound effects available in the video-editing platform.

I saved both time and precious computer storage by adding sound directly from the video-editing platform rather than saving the whole thing, then creating a soundtrack in an audio-editing platform. As basic as my sound-mixing needs have been, I didn’t need to use the audio-editing platform unless working on a podcast episode.

After learning how to adjust the volume for individual sound clips while editing digital film, I didn’t explore any further until recently. Now, I pay far more attention to how sound shapes a narrative not only in my own projects, but also in everything that I watch.

The trick is, sound should be seamlessly integrated such that it emerges prominently when necessary, but recedes into the background to highlight the visual when not featured. Sound should only be a distraction when aural distraction is necessary to the storytelling.

Another time-saving use of the voiceover feature is to record a specific sound effect not found on the platform’s library. After finding a clip on my phone, I hold my phone near my laptop and record it directly into the video-editing platform.

The only drawback is that other sounds in the room or immediately outside the room will be recorded as well. I discovered how noisy my intestines were after eating. Since I recline on my bed to edit, resting the laptop on my body, my digestive track competed with the voiceover, which caused me to redo a few takes.

Another hurdle I flattened was getting the video from my smartphone to my laptop. I’d used airdrop before with other people, but never between my phone and my laptop until now. Although taking longer than I would like, it’s still a more efficient way to get a video clip to my laptop when, after a few days, those two devices don’t sync.

Once the video clip is available in the photo library, I save it to its own album, which I then import into the video-editing platform.

I’ve not yet bridged the gap between transitioning from the animated clip in the beginning of the yoga video to the live action, but with the help of YouTube videos and good ol’ trial and error, I plan to master more techniques over time.

My long-term plan is to continue perfecting my filmmaking storytelling skills, knowing full well that absolute perfection isn’t attainable.

Bathroom Recordings

For the 85th Strange family reunion, we made history by putting on a family play, based on the First Generation of Freeborn Stranges, all sired by my great grandfather, Jesse Strange and his first wife, Annie, and his second wife, Lucy.

All but one of the rehearsals were virtual. Unfortunately for me, the sound tech, the recorded sounds and music that I’d saved in an audio platform couldn’t be heard by most of the virtual participants.

At the one live rehearsal we had the night before the play, I couldn’t hear the sound coming out of the speakers. Yet, I’d figured out that if I placed the microphone on the left side of the laptop, the sound would come through the shelter’s speakers.

After that late-night rehearsal, I got it in my head that I needed to delete several things on my laptop in order to free up storage space. I have no idea why that activity seemed so urgent at the time, but of course, I did the inevitable.

As soon as I discovered that I’d accidentally deleted the play’s soundtrack, along with emptying the trash–since why would I stop at making merely one mistake around midnight–my mind when into a late-night overdrive.

I shared a hotel room with Mom, who although hard of hearing, could still hear well enough if I attempted to recreate the soundtrack. Most of the tracks were sound effect cues that I played from my phone to record directly into the audio platform on the laptop. Also, there was a song that I had to modify by recording myself whispering the names of the First Freeborn Generation of Stranges.

I relocated to the bathroom since acoustics tend to be better there than in a room. Besides, I escaped the sound of the hotel AC unit, which may have been wonderful to sleep to, but registered as noise pollution for my recordings.

The one good thing about having to redo the play soundtrack was drastically scaling back my ambitions. Prior to our live rehearsal, I’d had various sound cues for different parts of the play such as the first time we saw a certain character, the beginning of scenes and to punctuate dialogue. All of that went out the window.

I only kept a song that two dancers performed to, sound cues that the characters reacted to, music that went along with a poem and part of a song to indicate a dream.

The next evening, no one noticed that I’d redone the soundtrack. We all brought our best to the performance.

One of my cousins, who sat in the front, provided me with hand signals to indicate whether the sound was too loud or not loud enough. Unlike during the live rehearsal, I couldn’t merely place a microphone on the left hand side of my computer.

As a matter of fact, there were three microphones during the performance. One cordless mic that I wouldn’t dare use since I figured the battery would die at any moment since it had been used for the evening program. The other two mics were plugged in, but I couldn’t use one of them because every time I turned it on, it produced ear-piercing feedback distortion.

So, the narrator and I share the one good mic while some of the actors shared the cordless mic since many of them didn’t project loud enough for the entire audience to hear.

A week after the performance, my cousin who’d wrote, directed and starred in the play had a post-performance meeting. We shared a lot of useful feedback. I suggested having a stage manager, turning it into an animation and researching how much it costs to use the copyrighted song that was used throughout the play.

When another cousin suggested moving the play from its original location to a local church or some other enclosed place, several of us pointed out the power of doing the play at our family reunion shelter again since houses and our family church that the characters refer to can literally be seen from the shelter. Those were powerful moments that brought a smile to the audience’s faces.

Another cousin suggested that our family history could be a mini series, especially if we were going to do an animation.

Of course, many assumed that I would edit the video since I’d just shared the link with family members of my Ghana vacation documentary. Although that project turned out very well, I wasn’t trying to add more projects to the docket since I have a total of 15 hours of yoga instruction videos that I need to complete.

Once I thought about it, there was not too much I needed to do since only two people recorded the play. The only thing that I’d do, if possible, is intercut between the two views, add the sound cues that weren’t possible to play during the performance and add a title and end credits.

One thing we’re all optimistically waiting for is the writer-director to receive funding. As they say, “Have money, will travel.”

In this case, this creative project will go much further with more funding. The leif motif of the play was: when we all put our hands to the plow, there’s nothing that we cannot accomplish. Hopefully, this endeavor will be another example of that.