Top Ten: Flight of Random Ideas.

Hi y'all!!

Life is busy right now. Very. When it gets this way, it's hard for me to stay at a story long enough to finish it. But that doesn't mean I don't want to write anything. Wait. Does that even make sense?

Oh well.

In medicine we call it "flight of ideas" when  a person jumps from subject to subject without any rhyme or reason to the discussion. In the blog world we call it being "random." Either way, when I get this crazy busy, I definitely wrestle with a flight of random ideas when it comes to my thinking and hence my writing. Matter o'fact, I even wrote a little top ten about it. 

Like to hear it? Here it go.

I bring you:

THE TOP TEN RANDOM THOUGHTS SWIRLING THROUGH MY HEAD ON MY CURRENT FLIGHT OF IDEAS WHIRLWIND MANY OF WHICH ARE NOT EARTH-SHATTERING, DEEP-THOUGHT-PROVOKING, OR EVEN WORTHY OF YOUR TIME

#10  Biking Boldness

I'm the first to admit that I'm no real biking guru. I do admire the folks who jump on them to go hither and thither. I like this idea of getting physically and cardiovascular-ly fit whilst being kind to the earth. I do.

But.

I have a confession. Please don't hate me, biker-people. Let me first say that I DO share the road. I make plenty of space for my two-wheeled travelers when heading down the streets in my car and I also try my best to be mindful of where they are. I do. 

But.

Sometimes? The Bike Nation can get pretty bold, man. Lately I've encountered my fair share of folks rolling right in the middle of the lane in front of me. No. Not making a left turn or anything but just trucking along. At, like, 17 miles per hour. When I'm late. 

Sigh.

I guess my confession is that I feel annoyed when that happens. I need to figure out how to reconcile the mad respect I have for what you are doing with the fact that you aren't in a car. Because maybe, just maybe, I've had a few choice words (in my head, of course) for you when I ride behind you on Briarcliff Road at a snail's pace.

I'm just saying.

#9  Football season has HIT THE BUILDING.

As we say in our house, "We 'bout that LIFE!"  Those entrenched in hip-hop youth culture will know this phrase. For the rest of you, it's this all-encompassing saying that can mean a whole bunch of things. Mostly it means being fully entrenched in the culture of something. Said culture might get one arrested if you are listening to certain references, but not our football one. 

Ha.

Look at these cleats, people. My son is HYPED, do you hear me? He's trying out for the travel team this year. When the boys were out in California, I sent Zachary some snapshots of cleats from the sporting goods catalog. He picked the Batman Cam Newtons. Why, you ask? 'Cause! WE 'BOUT THAT LIFE! So. Cannot. Wait.

And yes. My seven year-old son plays football and I'm okay with it. #nojudging #didyouseetheworldcup #theytotallygetheadinjuries #relaxpeople

 #8 Me-ma

This week was the anniversary of my maternal grandmother's passing. Here are some snapshots from one of the last really good conversations we shared. That day I was talking to her about hair, eyebrows, wrinkles, and everything else you can name. We were laughing and hugging and just yucking it up. It was actually a flight of random ideas that day. Which was fine with me.

My grandma was awesome.

#7 Not-so-cool Runnings

I have no idea why I'm smiling on this photo. Summer running for me has been a major chore, to say the least. Anything over 3 miles feels heinous. And before you ask why I would run more than 3 miles in the summer in Georgia, I'll tell you that I don't really have a great answer for you.

Oh, I'm cheap.

Yes, that. See, I signed up for a half marathon that's coming up. . .errrr. . . this Sunday. And once I've paid my hard-earned money, I'm going to get my moulah's worth. Yep. So yeah, I've been training. But it's been painful. The good news is that I'm running it with my very, very awesome sorority sister and friend, Glencia W. We pledged together in 1992 and she's absolutely hilarious. So that's going to be fun. She lives in Chicago so I'll also get to visit there.

Please wish me luck. And pray to whomever you pray to that I don't turn into "The Fly" on mile 12. Oh. You're too young to remember this movie scene? Well. Here you go.



Ha ha. You're welcome.

#6  #sister

Had this super cute necklace made for JoLai and myself. Isn't it, like, the cutest thing ever?

Oh. Did I mention? Mine came in the mail first. Umm. . .yeah. JoLai's hasn't yet. #actuallyabadsister




#5  The Medical Student Teaching Competition

How cool is this? Remember the Fellows' Teaching Competition that I told you all about? The thing where our fellows in training gave these 8 minute talks before a panel of judges for a prize? Well. Our awesome medical students have taken it upon themselves to organize a similar version for medical students.

I'm advising them but man! They are SO organized. They even have a website:

www.emorymstc.com

I'm so two thousand and late. They are SO 3008, man. Totally. They even had the bright idea to assign each student competitor a faculty coach/mentor. Kind of like that show The Voice. Ha. This photo above if of me with my mentee, Kelly A.  All I'm saying is this:

We. Are. Beast. Mode.

Have I mentioned how competitive I can be? Ha ha. It's on. Don't be surprised if Kelly comes swinging in on a flying trapeze in less than 8 minutes. I'm just saying.

Emory peeps! Be there or be square. man.

#4  The parental units.

My mom and dad are simply awesome. Even if my dad's fanny pack has gotten even larger in the last few years, he's still cool. And how can you not love a mom who photobombs your picture with her childhood teddy bear? I mean, seriously?

Best. Parents. Ever.

#3  Speaking of photos. . . .

Here is my little godson/nephew the other day who was introduced to the MacBook photobooth. This is one of twelve trillion photos. My lap top now has zero memory because a three-year old has taken it up with selfies. Oh and did I mention? He knew the word "selfie."

Seriously? Seriously.

#2   For my protection


How annoyed am I that every twelve months my bank keeps sending me a new debit Visa "for my protection?" Don't they realize that I have fifty ka-trillion things connected to my debit card that ALL get jacked up when they do this? Seriously, this is like the fourth time they've done this to me. And then it's all cryptic when I call to ask what, pray tell, prompted it.

"It's for your protection," the Siri-sounding lady says.

Maaaaaaaan. That's real, real annoying. Almost as annoying as the dude riding down Clairmont in the fast lane on his ten speed.

Ah hem.


#1  Ridiculous gifs

Every day, I send my sister JoLai a ridiculous gif via text. For absolutely no reason whatsoever. I find gifs to be absolutely hilarious. I also animate any and every text I can with them. This is particularly fun when someone is supposed to be behaving themselves but has taken it upon themselves to message me. I'm ruthless like that. Here's a sample of the awesomeness:

I'm not a fan of any of those reality women from Bravo. But dang they make some good gifs! Especially Nene Leakes and the other woman Quad from Married to Medicine. Kanye has some winners, too.

I also make my own just to torture my sister with. Here is one from right after my last ten mile run the other day. I had just run around Stone Mountain twice which is SUPER hellaciously hilly.

Ha.

Wait: Bonus item!

 

This BIG A bug landed on me when I was down in Florida for the fourth! OMG! My toe is there for size reference. The south is on something else. That thing was as heavy as a hamster! I sent a pic of it to our pest control man who just LOL'd at me and said it was a "ground beetle" and "harmless." 

I lost 4 pounds from the cardio workout I got from flailing around after seeing that damn thing on my leg. 

*thump*

Just fainted thinking about it again.

Ha. That's all I got y'all. Wish me luck on my run!

***
Happy Friday

This man is a QUITTER.

Image taken and shared with my patient's permission.

Two packs of cigarettes per day at $5 per pack for many, many years.
Numerous failed attempts in the past.
A world of people who love you and need you.
And one young physician who didn't just talk at you about quitting but who stood by your side and patiently believed that you could be a non-smoker.

Until you did, too.

Here you are at your follow up visit. Proud to say that you are a quitter. Because you are.

Congratulations, sir. You did it. And like you told me yesterday, "I hope me quitting blesses someone and encourages them, too." My guess is that you've already achieved that goal. As a matter of fact, I know you have.

Yeah.

Man. I love this job.

***
Happy Friday. And thank you, Heval M.K. for seeing triumph in your patients' futures. You inspire me, too.

Feeling kind of proud.

Manning KD. The Nod. JAMA. 2014;312(2):133-134.

I originally wrote a version of a special essay for this blog back in 2011. My friend, the Profesora in Pittsburgh--and many of you--gave me the courage to revise and send it in for journal publication. Even Deanna once told me that she thought I should share this story in particular with a larger audience. That made the piece just that much more sentimental to me.

And so. Finally, I did. I bit the bullet and sent it in.

Well. In the July 9, 2014 issue of The Journal of The American Medical Association (JAMA), you can find an essay by your old friend. A piece that I know I never could have or would have written were it not for this space.

You know what else? I was even asked to do an author reading for their website. Yes. The JAMA website. Which blows my mind, actually. 

Crazy, right?

Man. I was so afraid to submit this. And even when it got accepted for publication, I felt nervous about it and started second guessing myself. 

But.

When I heard my own voice reading my own truth on that recording? Out loud and for the whole world to hear? And when thought of it all--this truth so many of you have graciously given me permission to share so freely? Man. I broke down crying once I got to the end. Hard. I did. Because I felt really proud of myself. And super grateful. For you. For this. For words. For truth. For all of it.

Wow, man. Yet do I marvel.

Yeah.

(Click on the picture to hear the audio version.)

Yet Do I Marvel. . . .

If you click this photo, it will link you to the author reading on the JAMA website. It can be found next to a thumbnail of this same image. Also, just as an FYI, you'll need to be on a computer and not a mobile device for the link to work. And to read it full text you have to have either an individual or institutional subscription to JAMA. (But not to hear the audio.)

__________________________________________

Yet Do I Marvel

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,

And did He stoop to quibble could tell why

The little buried mole continues blind,   

Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,

Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus

Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare   

If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus

To struggle up a never-ending stair.   

Inscrutable His ways are, and immune   

To catechism by a mind too strewn   

With petty cares to slightly understand   

What awful brain compels His awful hand.   

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:   

To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

~ Countee Cullen

Share it, okay? The more we think together, the better we are together.

***

Happy Wednesday. And thank you so, so much for seeing me. I mean that with all of my heart.

Redeemed.

*details changed for anonymity and. . sigh. . you know the deal.

 

"Do you believe in redemption?" she asked me.

"Yes," I answered.

____________________________________________

Me

My shoulders sagged with exhaustion with every detail of your story. You'd seen "someone else" at Grady who, of course, was conveniently no longer here. That person had "promised you" that they'd fill out your lengthy stack of disability forms. So that was your agenda when you came that day. To get this paperwork completed so that you could go on your not-so-merry way.

Wait. Not so fast.

For starters, you'd strolled right in and handed those papers to the resident doctor. No trace of an antalgic gait or slippery cognition to anchor such a title as "total disability." I scrolled through the scant documentation of your hospital encounters in the electronic medical record. I mean, yes, you did have your share of hard luck. Health problems, indeed, but not ones that necessarily deemed you unable to achieve gainful employment ever again.  And so. I would be honest.

But that wasn't what you wanted to hear.


You

Here we go. I guess now she got to go get some other doctor to come in here and give me the run around. This is some bullshit. Some total bullshit.

I guess she thinks since we both black she can smooth talk me or something. Looking me all in the eye like we both know some secret. But really, I ain't here for none of that shit. I'm all messed up. My back hurt and I can't do the work I used to do. I just can't.

If I don't get some kind of income to get me the fuck out of this shelter? I just don't know, man. I just don't.


Me

"Tell me about your back."

"What?"

"Your back. Can you tell me about it? Like when it started hurting and the story behind how you've been feeling?"

You seemed so shocked by that question. Almost appalled. So I just sat there with my eyes fixed on yours waiting. Waiting to hear what would make a man not even ten years older than me want to get permanent disability.

Even though I think I sort of knew already.


You

"My back got hurt from all my years of lifting heavy stuff. Over time it was just too much. And now that I'm older, nobody want to hire you if you can't stay on the job for a long time. A lot of these young guys and immigrant dudes is so hungry, man. They can work a good fifteen hours straight like it ain't shit. I can't do that. And that's always been my job."

I told her the truth. The black lady with the short hair that was sitting in front of me ice-grilling me like she Dr. Phil or Oprah or somebody. And really, it all seem like one of those bullshit questions you ask somebody when you already know what you gon' do anyway. Rhetorical, they call it. Yeah. That.

She thought I didn't know a rhetorical question when I heard one. But she was wrong.


Me

"That sucks."

I said that because it was true. I mean, it did suck that a man like you who used to work manual labor could no longer hang with the competition. It also sucked that you were living in a homeless shelter which appeared to add urgency to your need for some sort of supplemental income. I hated that.

"You know? It does suck."

Your expression softened a tiny bit when you said that. I'd learned during some tough times in my own life that something as simple as an acknowledgement of the shittiness of a situation could bring comfort.

"I'm sorry." I paused for a second before saying more. "How long has this been going on?"

You thought for a few seconds, almost like someone under oath. Your answer was careful. "A while."

I nodded my head. "Um. Okay."

When I said that you mopped your face hard with your hand. I could see this mix of anger and frustration welling up inside of you and I quickly tried to assess whether it was something that could threaten my safety. I decided that it wasn't.

Although I sort of wasn't completely sure.


You

She seem nice but with a angle. Like she got my number and just waiting to dial it. I prefer the doctor to just come in like an asshole and start refusing everything from the start. At least I don't have to think so hard.

That clock on the wall is ticking hard. Maybe it isn't but all I can see is the fact that right now it's two something in the afternoon and I got to go back to that crowded ass shelter in the next few hours. A man was hollering in there all night yesterday. They have big roaches and little roaches in there and I'm still trying to decide what's worse. It's hard to tell who is just hard on their luck like me and who is effed up in the head. Like, somebody might start talking to you and you can't tell if they high, about to rob you, schizophrenic or just in a jam. It's too much. And I ain't used to all that.

I feel my blood starting to boil so I tried to wipe my hand over it to keep from punching this wall next to me. The doctor look scared like she think I'm gon' hurt her. But I wouldn't.

This wall next to me, on the other hand, is another story.


Me

I stuck to my motto: "Everything I say about you outside of this room is what I say inside of this room." In this case, it was that I couldn't in good conscience say that you were disabled and unable to work permanently. Not based upon the information I had in front of me, your exam, or what you'd told me.

You reacted as I expected. Some complex mixture of anger, frustration and despair. You threw out expletives as you pounded your fist on the desk. You said you felt trapped. And like a caged animal.

And that part sucked, too. But I was too scared to say it.


You

"Where is your family? I mean. . . . do you have any who are aware of what's going on with you?"

She asked that shit like it was so simple. "Hello? Hey. It's me. The one who ruined your lives because I couldn't get my shit together. Uh huh. Yeah. I'm homeless. Can I come there? Great!"

Man, please.

She got this short hair cut that you can tell she got professionally cut by somebody. Lined up in the back and clipped close on the sides. The kind of thing you do when you have a job and house to go to. So I'm looking at her wondering do she have any idea what it's like to lay on a cot still like a statue with your eyes wide open because you don't want a big roach to crawl on you or a little one to crawl in your ear or in your bag. I know she don't. I can tell by that haircut that she don't.

Nope.


Me

It sucked that a lot of this--okay nearly all of it--was an issue of resources. Like, if you had a place to stay while you sorted a few things out, you could and likely would get some sort of job. I could tell.

You said things that suggested you were worldly and full of the wisdom of hard-fought lessons. I wanted to know. I wanted to know why you were too proud to turn to your family. Because when I asked if you had any, you never said no.

You didn't.


You

One of my daughters had two babies when she was still a teenager. But she raised those girls up and they both made it to college and they doing good. Granddaughters in college. Good colleges, too. And it wasn't too far of a stretch because in spite of me and the hell I put their mama through, both of my daughters went to four-year universities, too. Married with good families and situations. So I feel like I owe it to them to stay out of their way.

Their mama forgave me. Not in the way where you forget what happened. But she always told me that I was sick from the alcohol and that, since my daddy was the same way, a little piece of it wasn't my fault. She real happy in her life, too, so I think that gave her room to let go of that anger. Some part of that is what gave me the courage to do the same thing eight years ago.

Eight whole years now. And I got the Alcoholics Anonymous key chains to show for it.


Me

Wait a minute. Eight years of sobriety? Eight years? And all you've done is exchange mundane text messages and front like everything is "all good" on the telephone with your daughters and granddaughters? The ones who, in your own words, were "very, very, very proud" of you for your recovery and who invited you to see your granddaughter graduate in the top ten from her high school right here in Atlanta?

"Why didn't you go to the graduation?" I asked.

"Because. They might find out I'm homeless. And I promised myself that I wouldn't be a burden."

"You don't think they'd want to know about what's going on?"

"It doesn't matter."

So I stopped talking there. Instead I just promised you that I'd get the social worker since we'd pretty much shelved the idea of permanent disability. And you seemed a little less upset when I said that and shrugged and said it was fine.

And that was that.


You

3:12 PM. Just a couple of hours before I have to go back to the little roaches and the big roaches and the screaming people and the maybe crooked ones.

Deep breath.

The social worker was nice. She told me some stuff I didn't know. And it turns out that my current medical issues do qualify me for some temporary help, too. She even knew about some places where you can get on your feet with working while you live there.

"Family?" she asked me.

Sigh. 

Here we go again.


Me

I popped back in after the social worker Mrs. Beasley had finished up. You were sitting there alone and, for the first time, you looked me square in the eye and smiled. I returned the gesture.

I took a chair right in front of you. Just as I parted my lips to speak, you spoke first.

"Thank you." That's all you said.

I felt my face get very hot, very fast and my eyes immediately starting to prickle with tears. I want to be kind. And I want to make people feel like they are significant. The look on your face, the tone of your voice just. . . .yeah.

"It has been an honor to meet you. Thank you for your honesty." It felt corny when I said it but it was true.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Like the proud father and grandfather you are, you showed me a picture of a group of five young women, one of whom was wearing a cap and gown. "That's my grandbaby that just graduated," you said. "Heading up north to school. A good school, too."

"I know they are proud of you for your recovery. I just know it."

You nodded. "Now that is a true statement. They always send me messages on the milestones of my sobriety. Always, always."

"That's awesome." I decided to go there once more. "And you're sure you don't want to reach out to any of your family?"

You stared at me for a few seconds. Then you dropped your head into your hands and cried and cried.


You

I haven't cried in over ten years. I thought my tears had all dried up. But I guess they were just being stored up for this moment. It felt embarrassing but I couldn't hold it in anymore.

This kind, kind black lady doctor with her haircut and dry-cleaned coat didn't understand. The very best gift I ever gave my daughters was the day I left them alone. That's why I was crying. Because the best thing I ever did has always felt like the worst.

She asked me if I believed in redemption.

"Yes," I told her, "and I give it to my girls every single day that I stay at arm's length from their joy."

Me

I have this bad habit of underestimating the enormity of how harsh a reality my patients face sometimes. With my Pollyanna view on the world, I suggest things like calling family or moving to the part of town where it's hard to get crack or applying for some kind of other job somewhere.

Sigh.

You started crying and it was clear. This was too big. Too big for me and my little bag of internal medicine tricks. But some part of me wasn't sure.

I tried to put myself first, in your shoes, and second, in your daughters' shoes. I tried and tried but couldn't really get my foot all the way inside enough to be objective. It kept playing like some ABC After School Special where everyone would hold hands and dance ring-around-the-roses as the credits rolled.

"I'm sorry if it seemed like I oversimplified this. I'm sorry."

"No. I appreciate you caring so much. I really do." You were still weepy a little and patting your eyes. All of it so complex and so riddled with regret.

"It is really your decision to make, sir. And not an easy one." I took a big drag of air and stood up. "I will be praying for you, okay?"

"You will? I'd appreciate that."

"Okay. Then I promise, I will." And I said that because it was true.

Perhaps some might think that's inappropriate to say but it felt right.


You

I didn't get any of the things I asked for when I arrived. But I somehow felt better anyway.

My phone rang as I was walking out of the clinic. One of the girls.

"Hey Dad. Just checking on you."

"Hey there. Just leaving a doctor's appointment."

"Is everything alright?"

I checked my watch once more. 4:01 PM. Plenty of time to make it back to the shelter without risk of being stuck outside for the night.

"Is everything alright? Yeah, baby. Your dad is cool. Cool as a fan."


Me

God,

Bless my patient indeed. Enlarge his territory. Let Your hand be with him and keep him from harm so that he will be free of pain. Please, God. Grant this request.

And Lord? Keep blessing those girls of his. And blessing their mama because mamas are important. And, I guess, just let Your will be done in this. 

Thanks so much for giving my patient sobriety. Please God. Give him his life back, too, so that he can be a blessing to somebody. 

And God? Bless me, too, so that I can keep doing this. Help me to sleep tonight. And to not be haunted by the unbalance of the world . . . or the sound of someone hollering in the cot next to my patient.

Amen.



 ***
Happy Monday.

Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, "Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain." And God granted his request.

~ 1 Chronicles 4:10

Now playing on my mental iPod. This, a song that I love to let minister to my soul. Playing this song for my patient today. . . and for myself, too. Even if if it sort of makes me cry.

Images of This American Life: Firecracker Weekend.

The fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays. It takes me back to my childhood and the long day of anticipation we'd have each year for dusk to fall. Dad would have the barbecue going on one of those half barrel makeshift grills, laughing loud with his brothers all of them with soul brother picks in their enormous afros.

In our neighborhood, fireworks were legal. Yep. All of those sparks flew right in our driveways and on our streets. And all of us kids would run around barefoot all day long playing tag and waiting for the sun to finally, finally, finally disappear from sight. We called it "Firecracker Day" and, in a lot of ways, it was as wonderful as Christmas.

Yeah.

Those were very good times. Full of family and great memories. We'd extend it full into the weekend which made it all the better. Man. It was the best.

Well. My kids were on the west coast this year. And we were on the opposite side of the map. But that doesn't mean aren't still making it great. This Firecracker Weekend was as epic as ever. From coast to coast, baby.

Want to see it? Here it go.

Started off with an Atlanta tradition: The Peachtree Road Race. This is the world's biggest 10K and has the most amazing energy. I will always love the Peachtree because it was my very first real race. I began running in memory of my sister Deanna and I'll always have a special place in my heart for this and the Army Ten Miler since they were firsts.

Started out at 5AM with my go-to pre run fuel. Some sort of crunchy peanut or almond butter, a banana and coffee. Oh, and the "go go juice" (also known as Accelerade.) Ha.

Weather this year was unseasonably COOL which was fantastic. And even better--it wasn't raining like last year.

Next stop was the MARTA. MARTA is our public train system in Atlanta and everyone knows that if you are running a race with 65,000 other people that MARTA is smarta.

Mmmm hmmm.

Met up with by BFF/road dog Lisa D. which is always a blast.

But you know us Delta girls had to make an event out of it. One of my collegiate chapter sorority sisters arranged for us to get cool shirts with our chapter of initiation on it. Such a treat.

That last one was the "mean mug" shot. Don't we look bad ass? Ha. All of my girls ran strong and did our hearts good. Deanna would have been so proud of us. And especially hyped to see all of these Tuskegee Delta girls together.

After the race, Lisa's son (my godson) met us at the finish with Lisa's mom. Jackson and I took this picture which will go down as one of my all time favorites. It totally captures the relationship I share with him.

He asked, "Did you and Mommy win, Gigi?"

"We surely did," I told him.

He seemed to like that.

Thank goodness for grandparents. While mine were in LA with Poopdeck, Lisa's little boy stayed on with his nana. After the race, we made a "Thelma and Louise" decision and headed for a little-kid-free jaunt to the beach. My mom, brother, and some of his kids were already down there so they welcomed us to join.

And can I just say that I just LOVE the BHE because he values the fact that we both need to maintain our close friendships and that doing so takes time. It also takes a little sacrifice and "room" from your spouse. When we started kicking around going to the beach, Harry was awesome about it. The BHE and I didn't have big plans here plus he had a few business irons in the fire anyway. Him being so sweet about it made it just that much better.

So off we went! Girls' trip! Woot! Woot!

Just six hours later, we were floating in this inflatable raft and yucking it up in Florida.

The night was as magical as the July 4 nights of my childhood. The only difference was that Will (my brother) did the grilling on a gas grill and the fireworks that went off were on the beach instead of the block.

Yes. I said on the beach. Which we watched from the pleasant location of our deck. 

Way cool.

Some kids were actually involved. Just teenage ones. Here's me with my twin, aka my nephew David, who is now a rising senior in high school. (What the heck!?!) Once we got them to put down their cell phones, we played fun games together like "Thumper." We also played some other one that I forgot the name of. Essentially, the same games that involved adult beverages when we were in college but . . .uhh. . dry.
Who knew those games were fun on their own?

So that part was fun.

Here is my niece Tyler's All-American pedicure. I bet someone told her it was "fun." Which it sort of is.

I preferred to just tell her it was cute.

How about my All-American swim gear moment? (Really it was two separate pieces from a Target special, but it worked for Independence Day, man.) Flag sold separately.

Corny, I know.

Here's a snap from an awesome toast at dinner Saturday. Will, Lisa, my mom and me. We were at the "grown up table." Spirits could be found there. But no games were involved.

Oh yeah.

But what about my kids, you ask?

How awesome is it that THEY were on the west coast having the EXACT kind of Firecracker Day that I grew up having? Please note the bare feet and the fact the they are on my Dad's block. I guarantee you that there were all kinds of sparklers, rockets and spinners going off. And barbecue, too.

But no afro pick for Poopdeck these days for obvious reasons. I'm just sayin'.

They rounded up their weekend with an early morning hike in Baldwin Hills. How gorgeous is that?

Those stairs are SUPER steep. The boys took them with no problem. Grandpa said he needed the oxygen station.

Auntie JoLai did great on the stairs, of course. But she's the exercise guru. Of course this hike was her idea.

I still love Firecracker Weekend. For all of the same reasons, I do.

What did you all do for your weekend? What kind of traditions did you grow up with?

****
Happy Post Firecracker Weekend.

How can I not hear this on my mental iPod?



And for old school sake. . . . y'all don't know nothin' 'bout this here. (Unless, of course, your daddy had a afro pick in his hair and was grilling on the half barrel barbecue.)