For our 83rd reunion, the Strange family incorporated Juneteenth, AKA “Emancipation Day,” decor and history as part of our agenda. Conveniently enough, our reunion fell on the weekend following the United States’ newest federal holiday.

Our reunion spanned Friday through Sunday, starting with Fish Fry Friday. For most of us, it was the first time we’d seen one another since last year.

No matter how much catching up we did, the food, as usual, was the star of the show. This year, Mom led the food line.

While members of the 80s (year-old) Club went through the buffet, I raced around to take pictures of the latecomers and family members patiently waiting their turn at the buffet.

Finally, all the generations ate together. Very delicious food, thanks to the dedicated kitchen staff. In the past, Strange family reunions were a hodgepodge of potluck style covered dishes. There were multiples of the same dish, like five different potato salads.

For many years now, I’ve evolved into a very fast eater, which served me well in this instance. I used more manners than usual since I was in the public of extended family and family friends. Yet, I sped around the shelter to capture as much of the moment as possible.

My sister, who’s a member of both the Strange Family Historical Society and the Strange Marketing team, never missed an opportunity to advertise our family history book and both family calendars–all chock full of information.

A few months prior to last Christmas, I bought an outdated digital camera. Partially because it was inexpensive, but also because there were so many gadgets that came along with the camera, which were all conveniently stored in a cute little backpack.

Originally, I’d bought it to record the Christmas show that I’d written and produced for my family. Yet, for every special occasion, I’ve taken the camera out of its cute backpack and learned how to use a new feature. This time around, I took far more pictures, using the portrait mode.

For several past reunions, members have taken a hayride around some of the Strange property, but I’d never rode. I was determined to go on the practice run on Friday.

I hopped off that practice hayride and continued my quest to capture portraits. At some point, I’ll learn the other settings besides portrait and video, especially to adjust for the amount of background light. But kudos to the patience of my extended family. Added bonus, I managed to jump into a few pictures myself.

For the first time in our family reunion history, we had a s’mores and movie night. Some little ones mistook the inflatable screen as a bouncy house. Originally, we wanted to stream “Miss Juneteenth,” but that location still had unreliable connectivity. Instead, we played a DVD of a movie that was a few years old.

On Saturday morning, the Strange Family shelter transformed from a fish fry venue to a festive Juneteenth celebration.

In addition to the Juneteenth theme, all family members were invited to participate in a pop-up museum, honoring the twelve first freeborn generation of my great grandfather, Jesse Strange.

During the most sweltering part of the day, we gathered under the shelter again for our main reunion program, which consisted of the event call to order, introduction of the emcee, reading of the scripture, prayer, followed by the blessing of the food.

For the second year in a row, vegan family members had their own buffet. For the most part, the rest of us omnivores respectfully stayed away, except I demanded a dollop of Mom’s potato salad. That woman has a superpower when comes to making vegan food taste like the omnivore’s delight.

After eating, we had the lighting of the candle in remembrance of those who had transcended. Then, we listened to some family history that genealogy had uncovered.

My contribution to the program was a Juneteenth powerpoint. Once again, technology nearly stopped the showing of the presentation. Yet, with the help of three cousins and trial and error, we made it work.

Prior to showing the video, my sister and I played the “Miss Mary Mack” hand jive, which most people had heard of, but then I surprised everyone by telling them that its origin was Emancipation. I then explained the symbolism throughout the song that supports the claim.

One of our reunion traditions is recognizing graduates from high school and college along with a monetary gift.

One cousin dreamed that the family should have a flag. So, the Strange Family Association sponsored a flag design contest. To enter the contest, one had to be a dues-paying member, include the 12 colors that represented each branch of the first freeborn generation along with their names, and the SFA logo. Only members who were current with their dues could vote for design one through eight. I was lucky number seven.

The Strange Family Historical Society set up a table to sell our family book and calendars as well as update family member contact information.

Meanwhile some of the younger generations played in the kiddie pool, the playground, volleyball court and basketball court.

For Saturday’s hayride, I recorded the conversation with the oldest living member while another cousin led the group on a short hike to the spring.

Finally, at the very end of the event, they announced the results of the flag design contest. Let’s just say that my design may eventually become a Tshirt.

After sweating throughout the day, I posed with my sisters. Of course, one of our cousins had to jump into the scene.

On Sunday, another cousin gave a sermon under the shelter.

Sunday dinner consisted of leftovers from the past two days along with cold cuts and goodbyes.

In typical Virgo mode, I researched proper adult entertainment club etiquette. The most amusing comments/advice were convincing men that a dancer’s attention was on getting paid, not finding a man. On the other hand, all I wanted to know was a ballpark figure for the least amount of cash I needed on hand. I settled on 40 in $1s, which I raced to the bank after work to obtain. I even bought an inexpensive black fanny pack, expressly to keep all my singles separate from everything else.

Although I no longer pine for vacations as I did when I was a classroom teacher, making an overnight girls’ trip made me giddy. I hadn’t initially realized that this event took place over Memorial Day weekend. The built-in extra day to my weekend was just a cherry on top.

As my friend drove us nearly three hours to the hotel, we discussed dinner plans. She didn’t care for sushi and I didn’t want any national chain restaurants. During that discussion, we passed by a restaurant that reminded me of another dining prohibition: no restaurants with “family” in its name.

Once at the hotel, I showered and changed into an overdressed outfit. Why not? I’d been extra about everything else, concerning this trip.

Besides, we had time to kill since our friend would perform around 11 PM. Plans came together on our way for a pre-dinner drink when we unexpectedly rendezvoused in the hotel bar with our friend.

This was one of the reasons we’d wanted to stay at the same hotel as her. We firmed up plans. She said she’d leave our names at the door, saving us $25 apiece.

I relaxed my rule about going to a national chain since we were merely getting drinks. After all, who can resist a spicy margarita? Turns out, the drink wasn’t nearly spicy enough. Instead of the bartender informing our server that the spicy, sweet and sour mix had run out, they just made the margarita by sprinkling the spice mix into the drink. My friend was NOT fooled.

We finished our drinks, then had dinner at an unofficial family restaurant. That Indian/Nepali restaurant didn’t have “family” as part of its name, but the presence of families whose ethnic background could have been Indian or Nepali was a good sign.

We returned to the hotel to stow our leftovers and freshen up. Although we didn’t want to be too early for the event, we still managed to beat our friend there. Yet, it’s never a dull moment when alcohol and men are in abundance.

As we sat outside the venue, we witnessed a guy who was about to enter the club give the bouncer, a younger man with a larger-than-life, unruly, curly afro, some advice. “If you want other dudes to respect you, cut your hair or cornrow it.”

Upon hearing that, a woman, who spoke like a manager, berated the customer for his advice. The guy explained to her that his advice wasn’t unsolicited, but rather a continuation of a previous conversation where the bouncer had asked him about how to garner more respect.

As I listened to the conversation while pretending to look at things on my phone, I marveled at, no matter the job setting, younger employees need guidance from older employees about how to be professional. AND how out-of-touch management will catch a whiff of something and blow it all out of proportion.

Once our friend showed up, along with her assisting friend, we entered the venue. Our friend and her assistant reported to the dressing room while we approached the cashier. I proudly announced that we were guests of the featured dancer and gave our names.

I’m always in a good mood to be on such a list and wriggled my hips while slowly twirling when the security guy checked me with a metal detector. Still being extra, why stop then?

I didn’t enter like a deer in the headlights, but I gave off newbie vibes. Definitely “not from around here” energy. Even the guy at a nearby table, who only told me that he was from New York, but didn’t tell me his name (and granted, I didn’t ask), knew we were out-of-towners. At one point, our server asked if we were from California. I just smiled, thinking that even she was attempting to flatter us out of our money.

At the top of every hour, “Are You Ready for This” by Jock Jams played, signaling the show special. All the dancers formed a line to parade across the stage in a single file with a shot in their hand while the recording advertised the show special of a private dance and shot for $40.

For the first show special, one dancer approached our table. Perhaps word circulated among the dancers that we weren’t interested and no one else besides our server ever approached our table throughout the night.

By contrast, “New York” paid for innumerable (because I stopped keeping a mental count) lapdances. Initially, I minded my own business, giving “New York” and other lapdance customers privacy, but then, I thought, “What the hell, we’re all still in public.” I reasoned that I was helping them get their money’s worth by watching.

Perhaps my curiosity invited “New York” to ask where we were from and then to ridiculously ask if my friend and I were sisters. Certainly not in the genetic sense, although we shared common interests: former teachers, ethnic food, live cultural events and pole dancing class.

As a matter of fact, all of us who eventually sat at the table were all part of my chair dancing class, including the chair dance instructor, who arrived nearly two hours after we had.

Speaking of that instructor, she was absolutely hilarious as she squirmed while watching some of the pole dancers. I witnessed her inner turmoil as some dancers performed on the pole with flexed feet, knowing that she wanted to scream, “Point your fucking toes!”

Despite Hollywood depictions, the most popular dancers for whom men made it rain money, weren’t the skinny minis, but the voluptuous, had “meat on their bones” women.

Close to midnight, our friend graced the stage in a tricked out Mandalorian costume. She’d persuaded our chair instructor to don a Grogu costume, which I didn’t get a shot of because the DJ had announced late that we were permitted to take pictures.

Once she performed a choreography, she gradually removed the costume and continued performing pole, floor and chair choreography as her assistant discreetly gathered the discarded costuming and props from the stage.

I’ve done some bold things in my life, but couldn’t muster the courage to approach the stage and make it rain money. Neither could my friend. Our solution: shove our money to our chair instructor once she returned to the table.

Since our instructor had tended bar at a similar club, she knew the most practical thing to do was slide the money on the side of the stage so the performer could see it, but not provide an obstacle/hazard on the performance space. I’m sure in the history of club dancing, someone must have slipped on money before.

Besides, as other dancers twerked doggie style for tips and men rained money on their backs, the whole action seemed like a proxy for ejaculation.

I thought that the shoulder stand in the chair would have been the most impressive move my friend executed (since I’d been practicing that move for a month in chair dance class). I was mistaken. She whipped off her top and did a move I didn’t even know women could do.

Call me sexist, but had only seen men make their pecs bounce. Now, imagine a pair of attractively enhanced breasts bouncing up and down not due to “shaking her money makers,” but rather under sheer muscle control. That was the most mind-blowing thing. (Yes, I tried it once I got home. No, I STILL haven’t mastered the way of the Jedi or Mandalorian to make my breasts jump, but long term goals help motivate one out of bed in the mornings.)

Her second performance occurred nearly an hour later. Her assistant spread a tarp on the stage and laid four lit candles in the foreground. Again, she performed a choreography, this time in a flowy costume, complete with fans. Once she’d stripped down to a thong, she blew out a candle and poured the hot wax onto herself. I winced each time she did that, but the move was a clever ruse since men could imagine that was ejaculate. The stage rained money each time she did it.

The Virgo in me appreciated how the tarp made wax/costume/ props/money clean up very efficient.

We returned to the hotel after 3 AM. My friend set her alarm for 10:30 AM. I’d be up once the sun peeked through the curtains.

In the morning, we researched a family-owned breakfast place that was less than five minutes away. As we waited in a short line to be sat, I smiled at the in-house promotion of a dental clinic. In a certain light, one would think that the food was so bad that you needed a trip to the dentist rather than a family member advertising for a relative.

Although I normally have scrambled eggs Monday through Friday, I couldn’t completely escape them, but I tried my best when I ordered the Hobo Breakfast.

Yet, the best breakfast topper was finding a $20 when we were standing in line to pay for our meal. I did the civil thing and asked nearby people if they’d dropped it. Everyone, including the cashier, denied dropping the bill; so, I happily put it in my purse guilt free.

As if spending time with friends out of town and eating at good local restaurants weren’t good enough, when I returned home, I still had another day off. One thing experience has taught me is the importance of having a full day to recover from vacation fun. (And we never once turned on the hotel TV!)