Not a book review of "32 Candles"

I tend to get violent when something is REALLY good. Like, the way I want to drop kick a toddler over the banana pudding ice cream at Dominion Ice Cream shop. Or how I claw at my chest when I hear an amazing song like Raphael Saadiq's "Just Don't". Or how I would thrash my body across the bed, almost as if I were having a seizure when I read Ernessa T. Carter's "32 Candles". I literally had to stop myself from throwing this book out of my bedroom window a few times, y'all. It is THAT serious.

This is hands down the best novel I've read this year and by far the best love story I've ever read. Period. "32 Candles" is smart, humorous, authentic, and just down right awesome.  I kept asking myself, "Who the hell is Ernessa Carter and where did she come up with this stuff?" Seriously, she's amazing. This book is so well written it's effortless. *sigh* Let me stop gushing. I implore you to read this book. I promise you won't be disappointed. If you don't like this book, I'm reporting you to the FBI as a possible terrorist. Seriously. There's no way you can't fall in love with "32 Candles".

Edit: One more thing.

Dear Hollywood,

PLEASE make 32 Candles into a movie and please don't fuck it up.

Sincerely,

Sarah

The Road Trip, Part 13: Southern Hospitality? What's That?

I’m not crazy. Seriously, I’m not. I know this is going to sound crazy but please hear me out, guys. The time between preparing my mother’s funeral arrangements and when we buried her were equal parts tortuous and fun. Yes, I said fun.The hardest I’ve ever laughed in my life came during those days. I would say that I cried the hardest then, too, but that would be a lie. The hardest I cried was once I got back to campus and was alone with my grief in my dorm room every night.

During that week prior to the burial, I was surrounded by loving and generous people. Most of all, those bamas were funny. Reminiscing on the old days is always a riot and with such a diverse group of family and friends filling our house to capacity, the stories were constant and hilarious. I would go from crying over the loss of my mother to crying laughing at the fact that my brother’s friend was STILL rocking a fanny pack in 2004. (I tell you no lies here, people. He showed up at the house with a LEATHER fanny pack on and I have never laughed so hard in my life!)

Even with what seemed like a million people in our house, there was an overwhelming amount of food. Neighbors and friends made sure we didn’t have to lift a finger. There was a definitive presence from a supportive community. They either loved us or respected my mother enough to make sure that even though our appetite waned from grief, we wouldn’t have to go looking for food when we were inclined to eat.

This was not the case in Newport, Arkansas. I thought surely that as soon as the news of my grandfather’s death hit that little town, people would be coming to The House with aluminum platters of spaghetti and baked chicken. I just knew someone was going to bring over a fruit or pasta salad. This is the South. That’s what they do, right? Apparently not.

Every day leading up to the funeral, we had to go out and find food. We visited one of the two Chinese restaurants in town and ordered take-out from a place famous for their pork chops. I couldn’t wrap my mind around why my grieving family was forced to order Chinese take-out, between picking out a casket and putting together an obituary. Call me presumptuous but I was disappointed in these Southerners. Even after the wake, we had to go out to Long John Silver’s for dinner.

I couldn’t figure it out. My family is well known and respected in that town. What was the deal? I still don’t know but honestly, it pissed me off. My dad and his siblings were incredibly stressed. They were frazzled beyond measure. They were all shells of themselves, walking around like zombies, fumbling through the tasks that come along with burying a loved one. I had to constantly prod them to eat. I couldn’t stop thinking of how there was such an abundant amount of food around after my mother’s passing. Foraging for meals was never a concern added to our already muddled minds.

But my disappointment was about more than food. Back in Minneapolis there was a constant stream of people in the house coming to support the family. In Arkansas, I felt deserted by the community. Where was every one? Then they had the nerve to show up in numbers for the wake and treat it like a party? Oh yeah, I was too through with Newport.

The Road Trip, Part 12: Is this a wake or a party?

After getting my godsister successfully married off, my dad and I drove back to Arkansas the next morning. The newlyweds were having a BBQ that day but we had a wake to attend. We stopped in Memphis along the way to pick up my brother, who had flown in from Minneapolis for the services.

The juxtaposition of emotions was nauseating. One day I was witnessing the happiest day of a loved one’s life and the very next day I was attending my grandfather’s wake. It seemed only right that tornadoes were chasing us. The whirlwind of emotions swirling inside both my father and I were manifesting themselves in the atmosphere, it seemed.

Arriving in Newport, AR in the pouring rain, we checked into a hotel. My grandfather’s house was filled with family pouring in from the Midwest for the services, so, staying there wasn’t an option. By the time we got checked in and dried off from the rain, we only had time to change clothes before heading off to meet with the rest of the family at the funeral home.

I’ve been to quite a few wakes in my lifetime but I’ve never seen anything like this one. It was like a mix between a class reunion and a funeral. The chapel was filled to capacity with family from Minneapolis, St. Louis and Arkansas. My father’s friends from Memphis also came. There were a lot of family and friends from Newport and they were very excited to see the visitors.

I sat in the pew next to the casket in awe of the atmosphere. One of our distant cousins was literally taking pictures with folks! There was lots of laughing and smiling going on in the back of the room and you could tell the grieving family in the front were just as thrown off by it as I was.

Even in this atmosphere, a few of my family members were crying themselves into fits. All the shaking and chest heaving going on in the front row, I was sure someone was going to pass smooth out while their cousins laughed and chatted in the background. To add to the chaos, there was a gospel CD playing in the background that kept skipping. I kept side-eyeing the CD player and thinking, “Would I be wrong to go turn this thing off?”

I didn’t. I just sat there holding whatever family member’s hand that came to sit next to me and cry. While it felt good to have so much family in the same place, it hurt to see everyone in so much pain.

Newspaper Don't Lie

I couldn’t sleep in my own room. It was unusually cold upstairs and I was afraid to walk past her room. When I had to go upstairs, I’d rush past my parent’s bedroom with my eyes cast down so I wouldn’t look in. I didn’t want to see that bed. My mind kept imagining her lying there.

August 29, 2004 was the beginning of a lifetime of pain for me and the end of my mother’s. The woman who knew me so intimately even before I was born, was dead. She died in her own bed with my father at her side while I was starting my junior year of college.

Upon arriving home after receiving the news of my mother’s death, I chose to sleep on the floor of our den rather than my own bed. My cousins slept down there with me so I wouldn’t be alone.

The morning the Star Tribune published her obituary, my male cousins went out to raid the newspaper dispensers for extra copies for the family. They came in the house at dawn to drop off the papers and I pretended to sleep. Lying there on the floor, my mind raced. “The newspaper don’t lie.” How could I continue to deny this loss when it was in the paper?

After they finished their delivery and went home, I hopped from my pallet on the floor and rushed to the bathroom. Locking myself inside, I released the intense sobs aching to burst forth from my broken heart. I desperately tried to muffle my cries. I didn’t want to wake the others, my father in particular.

My cousins Kim’El and Jackie began frantically knocking on the door, trying to get me to come out. When I finally composed myself, they told me not to lock myself in anymore, in case I passed out so they’d be able to get to me.

Seven years later, I still feel like I’m locked in that bathroom, the reality hitting me suddenly and I’m desperately fighting not to grieve too loud.

This morning I dreamed I was at a funeral. I was sitting in a middle pew, not extremely close to the front. I was sitting behind one of my younger cousins and I was holding a child’s hand next to me. Someone was singing my mother’s favorite gospel song, “Precious Lord” and I silently sat staring at the edge of the pew in front of me. Suddenly, I let out a shrill and resounding cry that seems to be alive within me, fighting to escape. Without letting go of the child’s hand, I burst into grief filled sobs.

This is what I'm feeling as the anniversary of my mother’s death approaches by the hour. I feel like this pain is living inside me and I keep it bottled up to keep from waking or disturbing others. But it won’t be contained. It always bursts forth in uncontrollable ways.

It's holding me back. There's something I want to do but can't get through it without a visit from my grief. I'm tired of it. Tired of that pressure on my chest and in my head. Tired of hot tears in my eyes and on my face. Tired to dream crippling exhaustion of being tired of grieving.

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Bey Day and the fool who almost ruined it.

Here's a video of me describing my first Beyoncé concert! She's amazing but some of her fans? Not so much. Let me know what you think.

The Road Trip, Part 11: Rest For The Weary

Thank God I had forgotten about her bacherlorette party! I didn’t have time to get dressed to go out and I didn’t want to go out with a 12-year-old’s hairstyle, anyway. I shooed my godsister and her friend out the door, ignoring her questions about why I wasn’t going. Once they were gone, I convinced my dad to take me to Sonic to get one of their soul healing slushies and some tater tots.

The next day was Friday and the agenda was packed with wedding activities. A bridal lucheon, rehearsal and dinner, along with miscellaneous wedding tasks assigned by the bride-to-be. Why my godsister would have us eating so much the day before we prayed ourselves into bridesmaids dresses is beyond me but we sure did eat! I was still a bit self conscious about my hair so, I kept a low profile at the rehearsal and dinner while simultaneously praying I could fix my ‘do back at the hotel.

The busyness kept the grief of my grandpa’s passing at bay. I found myself thinking of that stormy night at the VA less and less. I gasped for air at the shock of it all less often, feeling the prickly pain of sadness deep in my lungs subside. Although I knew the relief was temporary, I pleaded with God that my father felt it, too.

Several times a day I checked with him to see if he had spoken to his siblings. “Some letter from the VA came to The House, today,” he said.

“What did it say?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They all broke down crying when they read it and couldn’t tell me what it said.”

Hair not perfect but a hell of a lot better than before!

Selfishly, I was glad we weren’t there to share in the collective grief with my family. The hurt in that house was all encompassing. There was no escaping it. But we had. We dodged tornadoes to not only see my godsister down the aisle but to find some relief from the pain.

The next morning, I met my godmom to get manicures and pedicures. The wedding day had come and it was time to get fresh! After my nails were mostly dry, I hurried back to the hotel to tackle my hair. Jackie pinned up the coils in the back into a cute french roll then she stepped back to let me handle the mess in the front of my head. After dilly dallying in the mirror for a while, I decided to unravel each twist half way down and coil the ends for more fullness in the crown. Then I would pin the coils over to the left side to create a focal point.

Me and Daddy Dearest. :-)

Here’s the kicker, I can’t flat twist very well, so if unraveled too far I was screwed. I got to work. I would have kept my fingers crossed the whole while if I could have done so and completed the style. I didn’t have to apply any styling products because Mr. Pretentious hair stylist had globbed so much product into my hair. Once I got the first twist halfway unraveled, I tried to coil my hair as I had seen him do. No success. Undeterred I added a bit of water to the failed coil to make it curl and two strand twisted it. Success! I did this for the rest of the way across the front of my hair, pinned the twists where I wanted them, looked in the mirror and beamed. I looked like myself again!

A Few Gripes with "Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest"

I was 7-years-old when A Tribe Called Quest’s first album People’s Instinctive Travels and Paths of Rhythms was released but my brother was 17. Thanks to him, I quickly learned that ATCQ was the pinnacle of Hip Hop groups. While I heard plenty of NWA and Public Enemy in our house, nothing compared to his love for Tribe. I followed after my brother like a hungry puppy. If he liked it, it HAD to be the best and Tribe was his absolute favorite Hip Hop group (and still is).

The love for Tribe, and all the artists represented in the Native Tongues, grew feverishly in our house with each release. I was too young to fully understand the lyrics but I wasn’t too young to recognize the feeling. This music made me feel damn good. It induced feverish dancing (Buddy), coy coolness (Bonita Applebum), pure uncut hype (Scenario) and quiet contemplation (Stressed Out).

Years passed and Tribe broke up. I’ve since fallen madly in love with the groups ATCQ paved the way for: Outkast and The Roots being the most notable. When I heard that Michael Rappaport was directing “Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest,” I thought surely the documentary would focus on Tribes impact and legacy. Sadly, this was not the case.

Rappaport’s story was almost elementarily linear. He seemed to be rushing through the history of Tribe to get to the recent beef between Q-Tip and Phife. Tribe’s foundation and first albums were succinctly detailed in the beginning of the film to make room for the more salacious footage of strife within the group.

Rappaport is a self professed Tribe fan, so, I was surprised at the film’s lack of focus on the music. Q-Tip explained where he came up with some of the samples for some of the beats and where in the hell “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo” came from. It would have been nice to have more of these insights into how one of Hip Hop’s greatest groups actually created the classics we still rock to today.

Ali Shaheed Muhammad agrees with me. In an interview with Exclaim.ca he said:

"I think it's decent," Muhammad says. "What I would like to have seen from it, and this is one of the issues that Q-Tip and I have had with the director, is that we felt that -- we're perfectionists in everything we do and we understand the culture and we understand the art form, we understood ourselves and we felt the music was not -- he didn't spend enough time on the composition, on the music. Periods of music that we were pulling from was as important as the way we compiled it, what we pulled away and sampled. He would say 'I've only got 90 minutes to get it done, I gotta shorten it up.' I felt there was too much time on the bickering and not enough time on the musicality of it. But other than that it's pretty fair."

The interviews chosen for the documentary were entertaining and informative. Pharrell, Black Thought and Questlove all provided comical quips and insights from a fan’s perspective. What was missing from this footage was any real discussion of Tribe’s legacy. The very short clips from these artists don’t do ATCQ’s oeuvre justice. No where in the film was their almost religious connection and significance to their fanbase explained.

Another disappointment in “Beats, Rhymes & Life” was that Rappaport chose to use the perspective of a Tribe fan, taking for granted that his audience was already familiar with the group. Anyone watching this film without a working knowledge of ATCQ’s work and impact would walk away not understanding that Tribe was (and is) a big fucking deal. They created a movement within Hip Hop that is still alive today but this film didn’t reflect the immensity of the task.

I will say that I think Q-Tip was in a huff about nothing prior to the release of the documentary. He wasn’t necessarily portrayed as the big bad wolf in “Beats, Rhymes & Life.” If you must choose sides, Tip clearly comes out as the villain in the film but I should hope that fans are able to be a bit more mature with their judgements. I don’t think it was an issue of ego but a lack of sensitivity and understanding. We’ve probably all been guilty of the same thing. Phife isn’t at all guilt free in my view. His hyper sensitivity and lack of communication exacerbated the tensions between the two.

Despite the many flaws in the film, I still thought it was pretty good. The insights that were uncovered in the hour and a half were well worth the price of admission and the trip down memory lane is priceless.

The Road Trip, Part 10: Get Out Of My Hair

I looked in the mirror at the finished product and tried to remain optimistic. I’d watched enough natural hair videos on Youtube to salvage this, I thought. There was a battle raging inside me. One side was screaming, “I look like a fucking 10-year-old!” The other side was saying in a calm, soothing voice, “Don’t panic. You will find a way to make this work.”

I made a little face in the mirror as Mr. Pretentious fluffed my hair. “I kinda feel like I look like a 10-year-old,” I said.

“Yeah, the twists in the front are a little juvenile,” he said. “You have two different styles going on. I wish you had gotten one or the other.”

“Well, when I was describing the type of style I wanted, I would expect a stylist to have a look in mind before they do my hair...”

“... and work it,” he said.

“Exactly.” Then, there was silence.

I couldn’t tell Mr. Pretentious I wanted a new style. It had been an extremely long trip and I didn’t have it in me to argue with this stranger. I also didn’t trust his skills as a stylist. Even if he had done it over, what if whatever he did came out jacked up? I didn’t have the patience to risk it. I paid him and left. The coils themselves were neatly done, they just weren’t stylishly done.

When my dad first saw me, he didn’t say a word. He knew I hated my hair and was treading lightly. He’s not too keen on the natural hair thing, anyway, so I’m sure he thought this was what I get for refusing to press my hair.

My mood and confidence were both in the dumps. We got in the car and started to drive to the mall. I needed to buy a dress for my grandfather’s funeral. Clearly, when I packed for the trip, I hadn’t known I’d need to bring funeral attire. The mix of disappointment in my hairstyle and the stress of the week was too much. I sat in the passenger seat and cried. I felt silly and shamed for crying but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“I don’t know what you’re crying for,” my dad said. “Why’d you pay him if you didn’t like it?”

I was beyond annoyed. Why couldn’t he at least be quiet until I had gotten it  out of my system? He tried talking about something else. My replies were curt and bitter.

“Don’t be mad at me! I didn’t do it!” he shouted.  

All the while I had been texting my cousin, Jackie, to meet us at the mall. She’d know what to do. She was always good with hair and would be able to tell me how to fix it.
Once we got to Lenox Square mall, I quickly found a stylish black dress on sale at Bloomingdale’s. Jackie met us in the store and I wanted to immediately talk about how to fix my ‘do but it wasn’t the right time. I did, however, get her to agree to help me fix the mess before the wedding.

As we left Bloomingdale’s, I remembered, “Damnit. I don’t have any shoes to wear with this dress.” I had only brought sandals, club shoes and the shoes for the wedding. The wedding shoes were black and low enough for my funeral dress but they were satin. There was no way I could wear them in a muddy cemetery.

Once again, good fortune was on my side. I found some adorable black leather pumps with a cute bow in the front in Nine West. AND they were on sale! My shopping was done in record time.

The weight started ascend from my chest, as time went on. I still felt like people were staring at my head but I knew it was all in my mind. I turned my confidence up a notch and kept it moving.

With our shopping done, my dad and I headed out to the bride-to-be’s house way out in Fairburn, GA. When we walked in, my goddad fixed my dad a bowl of hog maws and my godmom sat at the dining room table, decorating a box for the wedding guests to put cards in.

After about a half hour, my godsister emerged from upstairs. “Sarah, why aren’t you dressed? Put some heels on. Let’s go!”

“Oh shit,” I thought. “I forgot about her bacherlorette party!”

The Road Trip, Part 9: Hair Horrors

Passing out from exhaustion in our hotel beds at The Historic Tutwiler hotel in downtown Birmingham allowed our overwhelmed minds and bodies a night to recover. The next morning my dad and I enjoyed the continental breakfast and headed on our way to Atlanta. It was Thursday, April 28th and I had an 11:30 AM hair appointment to get my hair together for the wedding.

The plan was to leave early enough to make it to Atlanta about an hour or so before my appointment just in case we ran into traffic or got lost. As we travelled down the highway, my godsister (the soon-to-be bride) texts to make sure we were ok. She inquired about our whereabouts and what time my hair appointment was. After receiving my reply she texts, “Speed!” Her response puzzled me. I thought we were making good time and would make it to Atlanta well ahead of my appointment time. “Birmingham is in a different time zone, dummy!” she said.

I sank into the passenger seat and made the, “you’ve got to be shitting me” face. I refused to be worried about and hoped we’d get there just in time, which we did.

The idea to get my hair done in Atlanta was not my own. I have an amazing stylist here in DC and planned to have her hook me up for the wedding. My godsister preferred I get my hair done in Atlanta in hopes of my hair being “fresh” for the big day. The only issue is, I don’t wear my hair straight and she couldn’t suggest any natural stylists in the city. I am VERY particular about who puts their hands in my hair, so, I was extremely wary of going to an unknown stylist. After turning to twitter for help and still not being able to get any suggestions, I did my best to pick from a handful of stylists I found via google.

I walked into the shop exactly at 11:30. The shop was in a nice neighborhood somewhere near downtown Atlanta but there was no sign on the outside of the building. I walked up a flight of stairs and there were two doors. One was clearly marked as a dance studio and the other had no markings at all. I opened this mystery door to find a pretty nice, and clearly new, hair salon. I walked to the reception desk to find a balding man with what looked to be dry s-curl looking down at a laptop. He did not look up at me or even acknowledge my presence.

“Hi. I’m Sarah. I have an 11:30 appointment with [stylist’s name redacted].”

“Ok, have a seat.”

I chuckled to myself as I stood there. Rude, pretentious people crack me up. I have to laugh to keep myself from cracking their skulls.

I sat down in the waiting area and was soon met by a friendly young man who kind of reminded me of Disney’s Pocahontas with a lip piercing. We chatted about the products I use in my hair and the type of style I had in mind. I thought, “Ok. This might just work out.” I soon found that Pocahontas wasn’t my stylist, he was just going to wash my hair. “Oh lord, Mr. Pretentious with the S-Curl is going to be doing my hair,” I thought.

Pocahontas walked me to the shampoo bowl where we were met by Mr. Pretentious’ rude ass. “What’s she getting today?” he asked Pocahontas as if I couldn’t speak for myself.  Mr. Pretentious stuck his hands into my hair and felt around, while Pocahontas told him what I wanted.

After Pocahontas washed my hair I asked Mr. Pretentious for his opinion on my style. “I want twists in the front and something curly in the back that I can pin up for the wedding. What do you suggest? A twist out or something else?”

He turned in his chair and suggests a coil out. I’d never had coils in my hair but thought they may turn out nice. I was mostly trusting that Mr. Pretentious had a look in mind, thus his suggestion, so I rolled with it.

Pocahontas started to flat twist my hair in the front. My stylist in DC does small, intricate flat twists. These were huge in contrast. He asked me how far back I wanted the twists to go before the coils started. I showed him with my hand and he made a face. “If you have them go back to here,” he said pointing near my ear, “then the coils could start from there.” He was the professional, so I trusted his judgement. One he got halfway done with the twists, I thought, “Maybe this will turn out cuter when it’s all done.”  

After Pocahontas got done with the twists, I was still skeptical. Once Mr. Pretentious finally came over to do the coils, I asked him if he thought the style of the flat twists would look right with the coils or if they went too far back. “I think he did them a too big,” he said. Um... sir? You sat there and let your assistant do something to my head that you didn’t think you could work with and didn’t say a word? He then assured me it would come together once the coils were done and they had a chance to expand in the humidity. Again, I trusted him.

Mr. Pretentious globbed handfuls of Miss Jessie’s products into my hair. “Most people don’t use enough product,” he said in what I can only assume was his response to the look of horror on my face. He asked me about what types of products I used in my hair. I told him I used all natural products, to which he replied, “With all the technology we have now, people don’t need to use that stuff anymore.” At that point, I knew I had made a drastic mistake.

The Road Trip, Part 8: Tornadoes and GPS Woes

             
Having dodged one twister sized bullet, it was time to figure out how to get out of this traffic and on to Atlanta. Traffic was at a stand still on Hwy 78 and our GPS would only reroute us to the same road.

My dad called the family friend we were going to stay with when we got to Atlanta that night to let her know we'd be coming in late. She quickly advised us to find a hotel in Birmingham for the night because there were multiple tornadoes making their way to the ATL. Even if we had missed the tornado in Alabama, had we not been stuck in traffic we would probably have run into a twister on the way to Georgia. I'd never been so grateful for a ingrown nail in all my days.

We pulled into a parking lot where a 18-wheeler was parked. The driver was also on his way to Atlanta. He said there was a back way to get around the traffic but he wasn't sure of the exact route. We called around to find a hotel with power and found a couple available in downtown Birmingham. Just how exactly were we supposed to get downtown without using the highway in a city we'd never been to before? The hotel attendants couldn't give us any directions over the phone so, we were on our own.

NIghtfall quickly came and so did the rain. We decided to follow some cars into a residential area and see if we could get far enough away from the highway to get the GPS to reroute us using the streets only. Dead end after dead end in a pitch-black city was not only frustrating but frightening. Somehow we came to a road with lots of cars being rerouted away from Hwy 78. The detour was treacherous. Maneuvering around fallen trees in the road and downed power lines in the rain was enough to make one weary.

I worried for my dad. He was already under immense stress from his father's passing, now he had to dodge tornadoes? Would this be too much? I looked for signs of breaking in his face but there were none. I saw only intense focus and determination to get us to safety.

After a close call with a hanging power line coming loose directly above our car, we were able to find our way to the hotel. We even made it just before room service closed. My dad had a Reuben and fries with strawberry cheesecake for dessert. I had a Caesar salad, scallops and spinach risotto. I ate most of my dad's cheesecake. It seemed it tasted better than any cheesecake I ever had. In the midst of a week of death and destruction, this sliver of sweetness was much appreciated.

The Road Trip, Part 7: Mysterious Ways

The two sides of my family couldn’t be more different. My mom was from the city and my dad is from the backwoods. My dad’s family is generally pretty reserved while my mom’s side is rather rowdy. They both have their share of dysfunction but my mom’s side, the Lewis’, can be just plain hood with theirs. The Lewis side of my personality was ready to come out when I learned that someone had stolen my grandfather’s suits.

My dad and his siblings shook their heads at the discovery while I fought the urge to put up wanted posters throughout the town. I laid on the couch and thought of exactly what I’d say. “Wanted: whoever stole my granddaddy’s suits. I’m looking for you.” If I didn’t think it would embarrass my family, I would have at least taken an ad out in the local paper.

Who in the world steals from an 88-year-old man? My cousin is known to associate and procreate with felons, so, maybe some of her friends needed court clothes. Also, my grandpa had a friend known for “boosting.” If you’d steal from JC Penny’s and sell the stolen goods, maybe you’d steal from an old man and sell his suits? I don’t know. The whole situation was beyond logic.

To add to the insanity of it all, my father went looking for a pair of silk pajamas he and my mother had given my grandfather as a gift. They were also gone.

We didn’t have time to go pistol whipping the citizens of Newport, AR looking for these pajamas, we had a wedding to get to. My dad and I climbed into his white Lincoln MKS and started along our way. When we reached West Memphis, we stopped for gas and I reminded him to call his friend, Mary, about my foot. Mary said her pedicurist wouldn’t be available for an hour but her podiatrist could see me right away. We opted to see the podiatrist and headed into the city to get some professional help for this pain in my toe.

I was concerned about seeing a doctor because I didn’t have insurance. What if it was something serious and I needed a procedure? How much would this cost? Once I checked in at the doctor’s office, I found out it would cost $150 just to see the doctor. By this time, I’m praying it’s something simple that won’t require multiple visits.

Once the fee was paid and I waited a short while, a young lady with coke bottle glasses and microbraids escorted me to the back. My dad was torn between making sure his car was ok or going back to the room with me. I won this initial round versus the Lincoln.

The lazy eyed woman took me back up near the front of the office to weigh me but she couldn’t operate the machine. I don’t know if she couldn’t see if the bar was balanced in the middle of the beam or if she just didn’t understand the concept of the non-digital scale but I tried to pretend not to notice. Poor thing.


Mary stopped by the office to make sure we were taken care of. When Dr. Davis came into the room, they hugged like they were best friends and she told him to make sure he took good care of me.

The doctor was very friendly. He moved to Memphis from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. He took one look at my inflamed toe and said, “Yep. You have an ingrown toe nail.” THANK YOU JESUS! It wasn’t an infection and didn’t need to be amputated or whatever other dramatic outcome I had been bracing myself for.

Dr. Davis said he’d have to cut a portion of my toenail away and the nailbed would be exposed until it healed. “Um.... I have a wedding to be in on the 30th and I have to wear open toe heels,” I said. He said he could cut a little from the corner of my toe to relieve the pressure and the pain. You wouldn’t be able to tell he’d done anything, he assured me.  I’d still be able to get a pedicure and wear heels but I’d have to come back to get the rest taken care of after the wedding. “Ok, that sounds great. When I come back, will I have to pay the $150 again?”

“Oh, no. I’ll make a note for the front desk that it’s free of charge,” he said. I beamed. Thank God for Mary and the homie hookup!

We soon got back on the road to make the six hour trip to Atlanta. It looked like everything would work out and my mind finally started to rest. We ran into a little rain just as we were leaving Memphis but it passed quickly.

As we approached Jasper, AL the clouds were eerily dark. The closer we got, we started hearing sirens and fire trucks rushed past. We kept on our way and noticed the highway signs were completely bent. Some bent over backwards, others twisted as if stretching before a workout. Then we started noticing large tree branches in the middle of the highway. Clearly, a serious windstorm had just come through this very highway.

Once we got to Birmingham, we were four miles from the exit to highway 20 heading toward Atlanta when the traffic made a complete stop. Nothing moved and the lights were out in the city.

We sat there for about 20 minutes when my dad told me to ask the person in the truck next to us what was going on. “A tornado just hit about four blocks ahead,” she said.

All I could think about was my toe and how if it hadn’t been such a pain, my dad and I probably would have met that tornado head on in Birmingham.

The Road Trip, Part 6: Decisions, Decisions

My grandfather was known for being stylish. Ever the classy one, he kept an extensive wardrobe with all manner of suits, boots, and hats. He was particularly fond of Kangol hats.

I remember being shocked during a family reunion picnic in the early 2000’s, “Does my granddad have on Jordans?” Yes. Yes, he did. He had on the black and red Jordan XIV’s. I almost passed out right there in the park.

Due to my grandpa’s reputation, the pressure was on us to make sure his funeral fit his elegant image. Obituaries are keepsakes. People send them to relatives who were unable to attend the services. There was no way we could use a picture of my grandpa with a jheri curl on the cover.

Thankfully, I was able to crop my hand out of the picture from last year’s family reunion and the family was more than pleased with the result. I completed the rest of my writing duties and left the rest to my aunt and uncle, as my dad and I would be leaving for Atlanta in the morning.

The next morning, we were all supposed to go to Craft Funeral Home and choose my grandfather’s casket. After that, my dad and I would hit the road headed to Atlanta. As plans were being made for the next day’s activities, I thought it was a good time to consult my dad about my toe, which hadn’t gotten any better despite my faithful water pill routine.

“Dad, maybe I have an ingrown toenail or something. Can we stop in Memphis in the morning and have your pedicurist friend look at it? At least she’d be able to tell me if that’s the issue.”

My mom was from Memphis and after her passing, her friend Laurice made it a point to make sure my dad wasn’t lonely. She’d invite him to Memphis events and through her, he made a lot of friends in the city. One of these friends, Mary, has turned out to be more special than the others. At first, I was pissed at the thought of my father dating again but she ended up being an awesome woman. Plus, she buys me MAC makeup during the holidays. This is the quickest way to get in good with me.

My father always raved about Mary’s pedicurist so he agreed to give her a call once we got on the road in the morning.

Morning came and I got dressed in just enough time to make it to the funeral home on time. To my surprise, I was the only one ready. My dad was upstairs yakking on the phone and my Uncle Jerome wasn’t even dressed! The rest of my family was walking around looking dazed.

It had been stressed that we needed to be on time to the funeral home because the woman handling the business had other obligations for the day. She couldn’t sit around and wait for us. So, why was I the only one ready?

Eventually, I fussed enough at my dad that we ended up leaving everyone else. About half of us were there within 10 minutes of our appointment time and got started on the paperwork before my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome arrived. We got some of the questions answered but for most of them, my dad said, “You’d have to ask Lois.” And when she finally got there and the funeral home representative started asking her questions, she would look at my dad and there would be an awkward silence. These questions consisted of things like, “How many death certificates will you need? How many insurance policies were there? When would the services be held?”

In all things, my father takes the lead. I was both frustrated and alarmed that he would take a back seat on this. He is always the authority and always leads the charge. What in the world was going on?

I struggle with impatience so, all the blank stares and awkward silences were really bugging me. It only got worse when it was time to pick out the casket. As I looked around the room full of caskets, I immediately saw the one I thought would be best. It was two toned, black and silver. Black on the top and bottom with embossed silver along the sides. It looked elegant and manly, just like my granddad.

I stood next to my dad and pointed to the black and silver casket in the corner. We all agreed that this was the best fit but my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome wouldn’t bite the bullet. They just stood there, looking back and forth between us and the casket. No argument was being made for or against the thing, they just looked.

It came time to choose what type of vault we’d put my grandpa in. There are only two types: the kind that has a decorated top and the other kind that doesn’t. More standing and staring occurred. I don’t remember which one they chose because sometime along the way my brain shut off.

We went back into the woman’s office and she instructed us on the next steps: bring the clothes he’d be buried in by Friday and bring the insurance policy information by the day of the services. Ok, got it.

We got back to The House and my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome went to pick out a suit for my grandpa but only one could be found. I reached in my purse to text a friend, “Lord... someone done stole all my granddaddy’s suits!”

The Road Trip, Part 5: "We aint doing no jheri curls!"

After his brief tour in WWII, my grandfather started a career as a sharecropper and would use his ten children as field hands. Life on the farm equipped the kids not only with agricultural skills but carpentry, auto-mechanic, plumbing and a host of other handy talents.

They raised cows, pigs and goats in a section of land called “Blacksville.” They made much of their money from their cotton and soybean crops, as well as corn, sorghum, wheat, okra and cucumbers.

As the eldest boy, my father started driving a tractor at 5-years-old when he was too small to see over the steering wheel. He’d have to start the tractor in gear, stand up to reach the pedals, and cut the gas to make it stop.

In 1966, the children helped to build their family home after my grandparent’s stopped renting from the farm owner’s land. The Lake clan could build whatever they put their minds to: deconstructing cars and tractors for fun, just to see whether they could put them back together again.

In 1982, the old house was moved to it’s current location on Highway 17 and totally remodeled. Most of the Lake siblings had moved to Minnesota by this time, leaving Jerome to do much of the work with the contractors. A second level was added to the house, as well as a den and attached garage. For 28 years, “The House” went untouched. The wallpaper, carpet and furniture remained the same.

After years of prodding from the Minnesota crew, my grandfather and Uncle Jerome agreed to allow the house to be remodeled again in 2010. My family put in new floors, bought new kitchen appliances and painted the first floor bedrooms. They hired a contractor to install new cabinets in the kitchen while they put in tile floors on their own. The bathroom was totally redone, with dual sinks added, a tile floor, new bathtub and toilet, and a sliding door separating the sinks from the interior of the bathroom.

On the morning after my grandfather passed, I limped to the bathroom to bathe and tame my fro for the day. The pain in my toe was so severe I couldn’t completely put on my left house shoe. I had to walk around with it only half on, making a shushing noise as I walked across the new floors.

I undressed, started the water and climbed into the shower. As the warm water hit my feet I felt a burn in my left big toe. At this point, I was blown away. “Really? WATER is hurting me?” So here I was, standing in the shower at an angle because I couldn’t take the burn but I couldn’t cut my shower short, as I needed to fully wash the previous day’s travel funk and grief away.

The Road Trip, Part 4: Seeing Is Believing

Every single funeral or wake I’ve attended someone says, “They look just like they’re sleeping.” Every time I hear this, I think, “Um... no they don’t. They definitely look dead” I get that it’s supposed to be a comforting thing to say but most times I find it to be untrue.

When it was time to view my grandfather’s recently deceased body at the VA in Little Rock, AR, my Uncle Jerome refused to go. He was the closest to my grandpa in life and simply couldn’t bare it. They had a symbiotic relationship. My grandpa relied on him to maintain the house, drive him to his doctors appointments and care for him when he just didn’t feel like caring for himself. My uncle relied on my grandpa’s company and his income, as his disability kept him out of the workforce. The stress of grief and worry over what would now become of his life visibly wrought my uncle’s face as we left him sitting on a bench in the hallway outside ICU.

We had missed my grandfather’s last breath by a mere 20 minutes. His body was still warm to the touch. Despite my disagreement with the cliche, he really did appear to be simply sleeping. He was freshly washed and groomed by the nurses and looked quite dapper lying in the hospital bed. They had shaved his mustache away but it didn’t look odd. He still looked very much like himself.

There was a calmness about his face. He looked at peace. It may have been a delusion but I swear I saw a faint smile on his lips. He looked amazing.

This awe at how well he looked soon gave way to grief. I walked to a corner of the room, turning my back to his body and cried. My mind didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. A nurse came in, passing around kleenex. I took some from her hands and again found my way back to my father’s side. His once stoic face finally gave way to tears.

My Uncle Robert clasped my grandpa’s shoulder and shook him forcefully. I can’t recall what he was saying but it seemed to be an attempt to wake my grandfather. The hospital’s chaplain soon came in and prayed with the family. It was an awkward prayer but we took what we could get.

The chaplain advised us on where to make arrangements for the body to be picked up and other administrative tasks, then shuffled out of the room leaving us with to grieve. The nurse with the tissues remained in the room with us. She commented repeatedly on how much we looked like my grandfather. She told us how hard they had tried to save him. Then she began to cry.

I was mildly alarmed by this stranger’s tears but appreciated her empathy. She even looked shocked at her own tears. I can only imagine the toll it takes on one’s spirit to work in the ICU, watching people die daily and routinely witnessing a family’s heartbreak. She walked around the room, holding anyone who would accept her embrace. I gratefully accepted.

After the administrative business was taken care of, we left Little Rock for my grandfather’s house. Once we got there, it was time to figure out who was sleeping where. My Uncle Robert went home to his wife and daughter. My aunt and her husband were sleeping in my grandmother’s old room. My Uncle Jerome had his room on the second floor and my other two uncles occupied the double beds my father and I generally sleep in on visits. Where were me and my dad going to sleep?

“I can change the linen on Diddy’s bed and you can sleep in there,” my aunt said to me. “Diddy” is what my aunts call my grandfather (long before Puffy changed his name) and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in his bed that night! No, sir! No, ma’am! Not me! I politely shook my head and made the “No, ma’am” face.

My dad spoke up, “You’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the lay-z-boy in the den.” Now, THAT I could do! He could have abandoned me to sleep on the couch and went upstairs to sleep with one of his brothers but he knew I was too scary to sleep anywhere by myself. This was perfect. Just as long as I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom... I’d rather pee on myself than walk down that hallway at night by myself.

Pillows and blankets were gathered and we settled in to attempt rest. As I pulled the blanket over my feet, I felt a sharp pain. If I know nothing else, I know this for a fact: a blanket shouldn’t hurt you. Now, not only was I sad about my grandpa’s passing, I was worried about my health. My eyes widened as I thought, “What the HELL is wrong with my toe?”

The Road Trip, Part 3: It's Gonna Be Alright

He had a pulse. It was faint but there. The doctors had revived my grandfather from cardiac arrest and urged us to get to Little Rock as quickly as possible.

He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.

Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.

Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.

The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.

Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.

Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”

My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.

He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.

Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.

Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.

The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.

Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.

Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”

My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.