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I’m not sure if I should refer to myself as an “emerging” or a “recovering” entrepreneur.
Certainly, when I was an independent contractor, first as a health/life insurance agent, then as a customer service representative, I made money. That was the closest I came to my entrepreneurial dreams of working for myself, making money, setting my own schedule and enjoying my quality of life.
But the purely entrepreneurial ambitions of being my own boss was more of an exercise in “spending $3 to make 2.”
Just as I prepared to give selling CBD another go, the Devil rubbed his greasy palms together rapidly to set a fire to my plans.
As soon as I formulated a creative action plan that energized me, I spent a week hammering out the technical issues of a mobile app to access my virtual warehouse. Before I resolved the tech issues, I received two notifications. Both credit cards that I’d listed on Amazon had been hacked.
Although I agree with the practice of cancelling compromised cards and receiving new ones, I put my ambitions on the back burner as I waited for the replacements. From here on out, only one card will be listed on Amazon.
That bullshit delayed stocking my virtual warehouse. Once I gained access to the platform, I learned that the latest iteration of the virtual warehouse, which I’d purchased, wasn’t available yet. Not only that, but the deadline for its availability kept being pushed back. That bad news could have taken the wind out of my sails except I knew that patience now would reap rewards later.
Control the controllables. I learned that mantra when I was an insurance agent. I wouldn’t live out the fantasy of dressing up as Santa’s little helper and passing out the free samples of CBD product to my fellow exercise students. I still dressed up as Santa’s helper for a dance class and have a good time.
I watched a 2-week old recording of the CBD company’s weekly meeting. In the beginning of the zoom call, they always recognized the top 10 enrollers, followed by the top 10 retailers. And there it was at number five: my name and present location. I paused the recording and raced upstairs with my laptop. I asked my parents to look at number five. “Do you see it? Do you see my name?” They congratulated me.
Never did I expect to see my name. I normally have sarcastic things to say about such recognitions, but undeniably, seeing my name on the list energized me just when I needed it. Devil be damned.
At this point, it’s a race to see what will be available first: my replacement credit card or my virtual warehouse. Eventually, I’ll need both to put my plan in action.
After seeing author Tricia Hersey interviewed on TV, I put her latest book, Rest Is Resistance, on my ever-growing booklist. The book asserts that American grind culture is the conclusion of white supremacy and capitalism, especially for Black people.
I’d always been immersed in the grind, but had been too busy hustling to analyze the situation. Starting in childhood, my parents and other older relatives preached the survival strategy of working twice as hard to get half as much as white people, but never seeing that that hustle was a never-ending, life-shortening detriment, not really a healthy, sustainable way to proceed.
At a few dead-end jobs, I remember feeling like an insignificant cog in the great machinery of the organization. At the best jobs, I believed I made a difference in the betterment of society.
In the end, whether the job was dead-end or not, the grind thrived. Bodies, especially bodies of color, were expected to grind and sacrifice our flesh to the secular gods of capitalism and white supremacy.
And here I thought I was free. When I was an independent contractor, either as an insurance agent or a customer service representative, I’d taken myself out of the machine. Or so I thought.
I’d inserted myself into a different part of the machine. More enjoyable since I loved setting my own schedule. Midday yoga class, followed by lunch with a glass of wine. Civilized. Yet, I still felt compelled to grind.
Work hard, play hard. Right?
They told us our life expectancy was lower because of health inequities. That certainly factors into Black people’s overall health. Yet how many of those reports/studies looked at the overall expectation that Black people must grind until our bones turned to dust? How we have to neglect our health for the capitalistic gain of others who don’t look like us, but look down on us? From that view, apparently it’s challenging to see our humanity.
I’m a naturally organized person who’s good at both writing and math. Those skills alone can be applied to a vast majority of jobs, which I’ve done in order to make a living. Yet, for the most part, the most enjoyable parts of my life have been outside of work.
Teaching math and science was a notable exception. For many years, the only reason I sustained being a teacher was the much needed, much earned time off. Having a creative outlet in which to teach students was always yoked with doing a lot of bullshit, decided by people who either couldn’t teach or wouldn’t dare take the cut in pay to do so.
Such is life. I always told my students to be lifelong learners. My latest lesson will be to remove myself from the grind.
Typically, a Thanksgiving post would show the actual meal, either with or without all the people gathered around. So, even though all that traditional stuff happened, my niece, nephew and I did something untraditional as an edible project, which involved good old-fashioned trial and error. We made Margarita Jello Shots.
Last month, my niece and I had made Strawberry/Orange Jello shots, using orange hulls as our containers. From that experience, I knew we needed handheld juicers to make the process easier.
Time-saving Juicers
With the juicing step simplified, we still fumbled when removing the pulp with a spoon. My niece gave up the effort sooner than I did. After googling the challenge, she read that we should turn the juiced lime hulls inside out. My first instinct was to push my thumb against the center. That worked like a charm except that my thumb went through the center. On my second attempt, I worked my thumb and fingers around the hull’s edge to turn it inside out. That worked very well, keeping the hulls intact.
Jello-Filled Hulls
Continuing the scientific-method journey, I originally placed the empty lime hulls in a rectangular plastic tray. I thought that with the hulls packed in together, they’d support one another once they were filled. I was mistaken. Those hulls became less stable and tipped to the side, spilling some of the contents.
Then I recalled the last time we’d made shots. I’d filled a mini muffin tray with leftover liquid jello. That didn’t turn out well either, but this time around, I used the pan to stabilize the hulls. With the hulls firmly in place, I quickly filled them and put the tray in the mini fridge in the den. We drank the leftover Jello like the cocktail it was.
Jello Slices
I originally thought we’d sample the shot after Thanksgiving dinner. Wrong again! After breakfast on Thanksgiving morning, I brought up the tray to slice the hulls in half. People were game to try them then. Normally, I wouldn’t have alcohol quite that early, but I figured someone was probably having a breakfast cocktail somewhere.
Although Mom wasn’t hosting Thanksgiving dinner, she made about half the sides, including sweet potatoes. Instead of garnishing them with marshmallows, Mom made a delicious sauce made of rum, brown sugar, cinnamon, and vegan butter. She put the leftover sauce in a container, inviting me to make a drink out of it.
Sweet Potato Garnish
The first thing that came to mind was mulled wine. When I looked up the ingredients, Mom’s sweet potato sauce wasn’t too far off the mark. I’d just have to add a few more ingredients and warm up the entire concoction.
An Orange and Spices
Our kitchen is always stocked with fresh fruit and whole spices. I sliced an orange and added it, along with whole cloves and a few cinnamon sticks to Mom’s sauce in a pot.
The Fresh Ingredients
Since I worked on Black Friday, I texted all the women in the family, who’d gone out together like a shopping pack of she wolves, to pick up an inexpensive bottle of Malbec. That was the only ingredient we didn’t already have enough of. I always have boxed Malbec, but I didn’t want to sacrifice my stash.
The Added Alcohol
“Inexpensive” is a relative term. I was pleased with the Malbec selection someone had chosen. I sacrificed the entire bottle for the mulled wine, along with a quarter cup of peach brandy.
With the Malbec Added
I continued stirring the concoction slowly on low heat. The point was to warm the brew, not to boil it. Too much heat would have burned off the alcohol, defeating part of our purpose.
With the Brandy Added
Compared to the Jello shots, mulled was very easy to make. My nephew held a strainer over a measuring cup as I slowly poured the wine. Once the measuring cup was full, my nephew then poured the wine into the mugs. We repeated that process until all the wine was strained and poured into mugs. I divided the orange slices and cinnamon sticks into the mugs.
My Mug of Wine
The mulled wine was delicious and I had the added bonus of using the cinnamon stick as my drinking straw. Although we had mulled wine on Black Friday night, it tasted more like Christmas. At least it didn’t feel “too soon.”
Months ago, I had an epiphany: I didn’t need to “good job” my way out of Texas. I stopped putting undue stress on myself with the weekly job hunt rat race. My current job was portable. All I had to do was make a plan to leave.
Once I returned home, I resisted most attempts by other people to pull me into extracurricular activities since I didn’t have the mental bandwidth for much. I’d packed up and relocated 14 years of my life and unloaded all of it in one bedroom in my parents’ house. That in and of itself was a great source of stress, time and expense.
Being back home was the financial restart that I needed. Plus, I, along with my sister and her son, were able to do the literal heavy lifting my parents needed to organize their things through storage, recycling or throwing it away.
A new financial picture started to form after a few weeks. Although I had the thin illusion of disposable income, I was highly aware that my life was subsidized by my parents for the first time in over 30 years. On the one hand, I was fortunate to still have this option. On the other hand, I needed a new mojo.
I’d joined a CBD company as an ambassador about 9 months prior to the pandemic. My heart had never really been into recruiting others nor selling although I loved the products. I’d dedicated my efforts on the other things I was juggling. Few of them were money-making ventures.
As a matter of fact, my attitude toward making money had ranged between, “if I do good work, the money will come,” and “if I’m organized enough, the money will come.” At this point, I know better. The facile belief that the quality of my work would govern how much money I earn is so far removed from most of my experience.
After reassessing my financial situation, I revisited the CBD company and researched investing in a different pathway to success. Something that’s more tailored to what I’m actually willing to do. After all, writing a business plan that one doesn’t put into action isn’t actually a business plan. It’s a fiction. So far, none of my fictions have motivated me to quit my day job.
With my newfound parental subsidy, I now can feasibly and comfortably invest in setting up myself in business with a virtual warehouse. The biggest appeal is that my customers will be able to place an order with me, then the company packages it up and ships the package to the customer.
I felt energized coming up with this plan. Not only is it a new endeavor, but if successful, the additional income will allow me to quit my day job and have control over my own schedule…AGAIN.
I didn’t grow up celebrating Juneteenth, but I learned more about its origins and celebration, thanks to living in Austin, TX for 14 years. One of the aspects of the celebration is consuming red libations. The color red has symbolic meanings from blood to spiritual renewal.
One particular red food that caught my eye was Red Velvet Cake. When I discovered that Red Velvet was actually a chocolate cake with red food coloring, of course I asked that oft repeated question: why not just have a chocolate cake without the food coloring?
The answer may lie in the symbolic meaning of red, but regardless of whether I ever figure out a definitive answer, I found an online recipe that used a natural way to color the cake, which intrigued me more than anything else.
The Ingredients
The most obscure ingredient turned out being the chocolate powder. The vast majority of chocolate that we buy is Dutch processed, meaning that it’s processed with alkali, so the cocoa is neutral rather than acidic. I was about to buy the cocoa powder online until I saw that shipping cost as much as the chocolate. So, I checked my local upscale grocery store.
Chopped Beets
That grocery store had the chocolate I needed, but in solid, not powder form. Since I no longer have the patience to drive around town to buy ingredients, I bought everything I needed at that pricey place. The way I saw it, since I don’t buy the weekly groceries in my parents’ home, I could afford to spend about what I used to on a week’s worth of groceries prior to the pandemic.
Gloves and Covered Cutting Board
Two precautions I took were to wear disposable gloves and to wrap the cutting board with plastic before chopping up the beet–the source of the beautiful red coloring. As a matter of fact, the author of the recipe that I found online had included their narrative trial and error with beets as part of the recipe.
Fresh Lemon Juice
Originally, they had cooked the beet puree, which caused the redness color to fade to brown once baked. So, they recommended raw beet puree. Additionally, the batter had to be acidic to help preserve beet’s color. Hence, the use of non Dutch processed chocolate, buttermilk, creme fraiche, and fresh lemon juice.
Mixing the Batter
Since I used chocolate chunks, I mixed them into part of the batter that I processed in the blender. The butter and sugar were creamed in the mixer, while the flour and other dry ingredients were stirred in a large bowl. At one point, I switched off pouring the beet and flour mixture into the mixing bowl.
Beautiful Batter
This was one of the few recipes where the batter was attractive. Of course I had to sample it. Absolutely delicious! No earthy nor acidic taste, thanks to two cups of sugar.
Baked Cake Layers
Most of my baked goods have tended to be over baked because my parents’ oven. As much time, energy and money I put into this cake, I put the lowest suggested baking time, 25 minutes, on the timer. I added 10 minutes when the cakes didn’t pass the toothpick test. If I ever make this recipe again, I’ll know that it needs to bake for 45 minutes in this particular oven.
Haphazardly Frosted
Although I’d started the baking process on Saturday morning, I didn’t frost the cake until nighttime since I’d seen “Wakanda Forever” in the afternoon AND I’d forgotten to buy cream cheese for the frosting. My sister, who I thought would arrive sooner, brought the cream cheese since she was picking me up anyway.
Beautiful Through and Through
I’d left the ingredients for the frosting out. Maybe they were too warm rather than room temperature. At that point, I didn’t care. I’d seemingly spent all day baking. The frosting was less viscous than I would have liked, but that didn’t stop me. Even the second thoughts of adding lemon zest to the frosting didn’t stop me from adding it. I’m glad I followed that suggestion because the bright taste of the lemon contrasted well with the cake.
The spirit doesn’t move me very often to bake/cook, but when it does, I’m so happy that things turn out as delicious as this.
Of all the things to teach the younger generations, perhaps this one was near the bottom of the list. So happy we got to it!
One of my nieces, who already makes Jello Shots, helped me with this twist on the alcoholic dessert. Since we didn’t have a handheld juicer, we first squeezed the oranges after cutting them in half. Then we used a tablespoon to remove the pulp although at one point, simply peeling the slices out of the orange was more effective. We saved the pulp so Nanna could use it in her smoothies.
Two challenges arose: we couldn’t squeeze the oranges too hard or the hull would tear. Then we had to leave some of the white stalk and peel in place where the navel was or else there was a hole. Both challenges meant Jello would ooze out of its “container.”
Jello-Filled Orange Hulls
We’d mixed strawberry and orange flavored Jello together with two cups of hot water, followed by two cups of alcohol. For this batch, we mixed a cup of Cointreau with a cup of Rum. My niece was initially concerned that one of the boxes of Jello had expired. None of us older adults were the least bit concerned about that. The way we saw it, the alcohol would cure anything that was “wrong” with expired Jello. Besides, the expiration date mostly meant that stores couldn’t sell it.
Jello Shot Slices
Apparently, we only needed one box of Jello to fill the number of hulls we had. The rest of the Jello mix I poured into a nonstick mini muffin tray. In retrospect, we should have simply drank the remaining Jello as a cocktail because those Jello shots didn’t pop out of the muffin tray intact. We still ate them in a bowl with a spoon.
Next time, I’ll have the proper equipment, and we’ll try using large limes. There is plenty of lime jello in the pantry, so I’m thinking margarita Jello shots. Besides, we can make an actual margarita by repurposing the lime pulp, which will help mitigate our delayed gratification of consuming Jello shots by drinking a homemade batch of margarita.
My sister invited me to participate in the Trunk or Treat activity at the church where we attend. I’d never heard of it before, but apparently it’s been going on for a while…to the extent that there are costumes to deck out one’s car that can be bought online. Of course. Halloween is my favorite holiday, but this past celebration was bittersweet because I’d donated all my costumes before relocating, so I couldn’t just throw something together for this event.
Plus, in my mind, I’m still in the process of getting settled. It’s more than simply unpacking my things. I’ve passed many a day stuck in rumination, so I hardly gave more than a passing thought about this activity. My sister and I even went shopping for some decorations a few weeks prior to the event, but nothing really clicked since I thought she was simply using my car to run her own Trunk or Treat activity.
As we got closer to the event, I’d brainstormed “Musical Pumpkins,” played like Musical Chairs except instead of walking around chairs as music played, kids would pass small pumpkins around in a circle until the music stopped.
In order to get a better idea of how we’d run our own Trunk or Treat, we visited another such activity at a school the week before.
Ever so popular Mario Brothers
The Haunted Cemetery
Or was it a portable haunted house?
More Mario Brothers
Skeletal Remains
Pumpkin Patch
Candyland
Spiderwebs & Pumpkins
The Nightmare Before Christmas
We didn’t participate in a single game and as far as getting candy. My highbrow self didn’t care for any of that cheap stuff. If I was going to challenge my prediabetic status, it might as well been with the good candy. In the end, I accepted a fun size pack of peanut M & Ms. Peanuts are nutritional. Besides, there were only five or six pieces. Nothing too bad to make my left eye throb…my internal monitor that there’s too much sugar in my blood.
Musical Pumpkin Patch
My sister bit off far too much. I knew that she was in charge of the event, but I hadn’t realized how much she’d signed off to do rather than delegating the work. In addition to decorating my trunk for Musical Pumpkins, she decorated two other trunks; had chopped onions in two different styles for the hamburgers and hot dogs; provided games for other people; had made a game out of styrofoam and a cardboard box; and circulated around the event, which was held in the church parking lot. In other words, I was left alone to run my activity.
Pumpkin Ghost Game
My sister had put a lot of effort into making the Pumpkin Ghost game, but turned out that no one needed it. I took it off her hands. The objective was simple: manipulate the box to place the three balls, which were painted to look like Jack ‘O Lanterns, into the three indentations, which were the ghost’s mouth and eyes. The dexterity needed to place all three balls into the indentations eluded most of the little kids, who wildly jerked the box around. The preteens to teenagers got it although I had to reset the balls in the middle of the styrofoam because they’d get stuck along the edges.
Dad playing Pumpkin Ghost
As hokey as Pumpkin Ghost was, I found that I became too invested while watching the kids manipulate the box. Without thinking, I’d be all up in the box myself before recovering and taking a few steps back. Even parents complimented me for such a simplistic, yet engaging game.
For some of the little kids, I encouraged them to try for at least one ball, so I could reward them with a piece of candy. The older kids walked away with at least two or three pieces of candy.
Nighttime View
I could have easily left long before the sun went down, but darkness brought out the beauty of the lights. I believe next time, Trunk or Treat will be held earlier in the day. If asked to participate, I will order a car decoration and have a matching costume!
Once again, I found myself using up something in the refrigerator that my parents, this time Dad, had opened, but hadn’t finished. Specifically, a bottle of peach wine and a bottle of a dessert wine. Both bottles had about a glass of wine left in them. Lord only knows when that would’ve been poured, since much to Dad’s delight, eggnog season had come early. Even Mom had temporarily switched from her evening nip of Triple Sec* to eggnog.
*If you’re wondering, “Isn’t Triple Sec usually used to make such drinks as a margarita?” You’d be absolutely correct. For years, Mom loved sipping peach schnapps or peach brandy at night, occasionally adding a splash of OJ to make a Fuzzy Navel. Then, one day, she tasted Triple Sec and that became her nightcap.
I came across those two nearly empty bottles while hunting for something else. Since the shelf where they resided was prime territory, I brainstormed how to use them up. I certainly wasn’t going to drink them as they were since I prefer dry, full-bodied reds. So, I fell back on my old favorite white wine concoction: sangria.
I’d used a pint-sized mason jar to handshake other cocktails in the past, which seemed like the perfect serving size for the four of us. Since Mom and Dad are both in their 80s, they only took a “taste,” whereas my sister and I essentially had double portions.
I chopped up two limes, a peach and an orange, placing them in the jar. Then I poured in the two wines and topped it off with Cointreau. Everyone else had sat around the kitchen table, watching me put the sangria together. I announced that we’d drink it with tomorrow’s dinner.
So, of course, Dad sampled it before the appointed time because “it looked so pretty.”
We all got a healthy share of the fruit with our drink. Since Dad had already taken his taste, I only served him the alcohol-infused fruit. The peaches were the best and the limes were best to add to a glass of water.
Since Dad only had a glass of fruit, he let me know every time he had to deal with a lime, complaining that I’d put in too many and some slices were cut too thick. I think he was more bitter than a lime because he wasn’t served more sangria, but out of all of us, he’s the one who really should drink the least.
I realize that it’s a fool’s mission to “clear out” my parents’ refrigerator, one cocktail at a time, since they have all day to go out and buy even more stuff. I just like to consume things so they don’t go to waste. It’s a win-win when something delicious can be made in the process.
Can’t believe I waited so long to do this. After all, I’ve written a variety of other things, but for some reason, I never thought about writing my own bible for storytelling purposes. It’s not a coincidence that all the details of a TV series, summed up in one convenient place, has been referred to as a “bible” versus an “encyclopedia” since The Bible is a collection of parables, which details the Christian faith. The same is true for TV bibles for the shows they represent.
For over a month, I’ve been reading through a variety of TV bibles for different genres of shows. By and large, my favorite ones combine the overall feel of the show in pitch fashion rather than a dry collection of facts. Since episode dialogue can be added to a bible as an example of an exchange or to show characterization, the overall gist of the story arcs can be discussed in broad sweeps without getting into the weeds.
TV bibles can take many forms as long as the form enhances the storytelling rather than distracts from it. Some of the detractors I’ve found so far are pictures that don’t reproduce well when photocopied; fonts that are too small and once enlarged, margins too wide to see the complete sentences without scrolling from side to side; and fonts that are smudgy to give it an old typewriter feel.
The best part is that I can quickly jot down several ideas about a show to get them on paper, figuring out plot twists ahead of time prior to writing episodes and committing to all the characters.
Another thing I’d not considered: selling the show. At best, I’m an emerging entrepreneur. At worst, I suck at it. I joke about monetizing certain skills that I have, which I do nothing about because the capitalistic way forward eludes me. Whenever I do make an effort, I’m amazed at how I STILL don’t make money.
Even though I want to have an episode ready in case someone is interested in the show, I’m not clear as what the industry. In other words, the example episode doesn’t necessarily have to be the pilot although that seems counterintuitive to me. I don’t know if the rest of the series would make any sense without the opening pilot. Then again, what do I know?
I took a Friday off to travel with my parents to visit my father’s side of the family. On a rare occasion, we left exactly on time. Of course we left with the usual bickering between my parents, which is more of a sign of a longtime couple who’ve been married for 61 years. I sat in the back with my laptop and cell phone, not feeling the least bit weird of being an adult child relegated to the same position as much younger counterparts.
Our travels went blessedly uneventful until we reached our destination: Langley Air Force Base. Since Dad is retired from the military, we were able to stay in guest quarters on base for one-third of the cost of a commercial hotel. Instead of driving directly to the inn, Mom was absolutely convinced that she had to check in at the gas station across the street from the inn.
I knew that made no logical sense. I figured, “What the hell, I’d taken the day off. Entertain me!” I wasn’t disappointed as Mom asked the first random guy with a long ponytail about checking in at the gas station for accommodations at the inn. I normally use Mom as my example of a person in her 80s who still functions independently, but this was the moment I thought perhaps eight decades on this rock and increasingly taking on more responsibility as Dad’s caregiver may have finally triggered her breaking point.
Ponytail Guy confessed to being a civilian mechanic contractor for only a short time and stated he wasn’t too sure how things worked on base. I thought that was a sweet way of telling Mom she was crazy.
At this point, Mom called the inn, confirmed she’d misunderstood the original directive and drove across the street to check in at the inn. Once checked in, Mom drove us to a second location of the inn, which was about three minutes away, but with a much nicer view.
Of course there had to be another hitch once we arrived at our suite…or rather the door to our suite. The key card didn’t work. This time, it wasn’t Mom being goofy. She called the front desk at the other location and the receptionist sent a maintenance guy to let us into the room with other keys.
I knew I wasn’t going to eat at Golden Corral.
We were so hungry after such a long drive. Even so, when Mom suggested eating at her old favorite, which we frequent many a Sunday, I protested and looked up nearby restaurants. Thank goodness it was open at that time of day. I risked ordering a brisket sandwich. It was far better than the brisket I’d eaten in NC, but still not as good as in TX.
Afterwards, we made a quick trip over to one of my aunt’s house, which served as a central meeting place for all of Dad’s extended family.
Mom and Dad with his two sisters.
One enviable thing about retired people was their flexible schedule. No one cared too much that our arrival ended up being several hours after we thought we’d be there. This was a case of late being better than never. Dad hadn’t seen them in a while, but I hadn’t been to that house since my paternal grandmother had passed.
My uncles, who’d bravely married into the family.
The ultimate plan was for all the retirees to go to the local casino while I hung out with a first cousin who lived nearby. Even though I’d seen him a few months ago in Austin, I’m not a gambler and I’d recently started collaborating with him on a digital animation series, which was loosely based on his life.
As a matter of fact, thanks to this project, I learned that I actually can write screenplays. I think I was too stressed with other things in my life when I took my one and only screenwriting course. Secondly, I started researching TV bibles in order to write one for this series. Why has it taken this long to discover this storytelling pitching tool? Again, better late than never.
Morning view from my room.
Those retirees gambled into the night much longer than I would have originally thought they would have. Casinos must have perfected the fountain of youth atmosphere while people are gambling. Nonetheless, I slept well and woke up early enough to do morning stretches and writing before meeting my sister and her family and a cousin for breakfast…well, lunch by the time everything was said and done.
Our long awaited table.
All I can say is that I’m so happy I ate a banana prior to going to the restaurant. Not eating wouldn’t have “saved” my appetite. My sister and her family joined us in Hampton from their VA beach vacation. Our cousin merely had to escape his bed because he lived in Hampton. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even have to endure the nearly hour’s wait for a large table.
Post lunch group picture.
Again, I appreciated the fluidity of everyone’s schedule. My parents, sister, brother-in-law and I continued to the same aunt’s house after lunch. Part of the appeal was that my paternal grandmother had lived there in the last years of her life. The warmth of the memories made it feel like the “home house,” as we say.
Dad’s only living brother.
At 84, Dad is not only the oldest living brother, but the only one who’s reached that age. His older sibling passed at a younger age. Compared to Dad, that uncle seemed as if he was taken away from us too soon. All the fresh laughter from his antics are no longer with us. Even Dad’s younger twin brothers passed due more to life in the fast lane than age.
The four living siblings out of seven.
In a way, this trip was a mini family reunion. Hurricane Ian had delayed our visit by a week, but in the big scheme of things, that delay was worth our safety.
First attempt to get just the aunts.
I grew up thinking that Dad’s side of the family wasn’t too close, compared to Mom’s. After what I know now about the struggle being real, even after umpteen years of Emancipation, Civil Rights and every other movement in this country to bring us to the full expression of first class citizenship in our own country, I now think that so much energy was instead invested in survival.
Finally, a picture of just my aunts.
Now that this generation has retired, they can stop and smell the roses and enjoy a better life. They’ve definitely earned it. The closest permutation of me retiring will be working from home like I’m doing right now.
Of course Mom had to get in the mix.
I may not be the first generation who didn’t do better or as well as their parents, but the game has changed. I don’t want to blame that all on Nixon taking the dollar off the gold standard to pay for Vietnam, but that didn’t help.
The other spouses join in.
What also didn’t help was my passion lie in doing creative things such as teaching, writing, painting…pretty much everything which guarantee that it’ll be a long shot, even in good times, to make much money. Too bad I can’t monetize “rich in personality.”
Mother/son picture.
At the same time, now that I’m middle aged, I’m saving for whatever retirement is going to look like. Some days at work, I consider myself semi-retired when I have less work to do for the same pay. That’s the direction I’d love to move into. The biggest jump will be working for myself like I did in the before times. I had a good run with that while it lasted. At the end of the day, I’m not an entrepreneur. That’s not a good thing in a country known for such strong capitalistic ways.
Cousins and Aunt
I may not be able to control my work schedule, but I’ve already planted the seed to work reduced full time, Monday through Thursday. Oh, all the wonderfully creative things I plan to do, besides running errands and doing chores! It’s so tantalizing. I find it unbelievable that when other people retire, they feel lost because they were their jobs. As for me, I cannot usually find enough time in the day to do everything I want to do unless it’s on the weekends. Having an extra weekend day would just boost that.
Mom and my sister jump in.
At this point, I have conceded that I’ll never be in the position to retire. The best I can do is stop and smell the roses along the way. This weekend was just a taste of the possibilities of a three-day weekend.
Playmate cousin when growing up.
I’d heard more stories about my father’s side of the family than ever before. Not only am I old enough to ask the questions, I’m mature enough to listen and appreciate the answers. And for things that happened when I was alive, I marvel at which parts of the shared memory we’d all tucked away inside of us, only to bring those pieces out when we get together to see what the big picture would be.
The James River Bridge.
This sight always reminded me of the beginning and the end of visiting my Hampton relatives. Since Mom can’t swim, but does most of the driving, she makes record time across it. Her (ir)rationale was she wanted to minimize her time on the bridge just in case it collapsed and put her at risk of having to swim. I’ve never bothered asking her how she’d survive the collapse long enough to hit the water. Happy to report, just like all the other times, there was no collapsed bridge.
