After a dozen or so years, I've got the hang of the Down Home Family Reunion.
Truthfully, it couldn't be simpler. The festival takes place two blocks away and all it requires is carrying a chair and a beverage.
I got there just as the organizer was chiding the crowd about their fixation on the headliner, which she saw as a lack of respect for all the other performers. Okay, fair enough.
Next to me, a woman with a Wells Fargo fan began complaining about the humidity and lack of breeze. "I want to go home and take a shower and sit in the air conditioning," she whined.
Rather than listening to live music? Clearly we have nothing in common, friend.
Instead she hung around for comedian Micah "Bam Bam" White, although she was unimpressed, observing, "He's not very funny, is he?"
Actually, his humor about the difference in how historically black colleges hold a football game versus white colleges was pretty hilarious to me. He did an imitation of a half time show and mocked how black vocalists, unlike white ones, never just sing the words on the page. According to him, they testify, they bend notes, they stretch things out.
Yep, and that's what we like about it.
Next up was Full Power Blues, a D.C. blues band led by a woman named Mama Moon, who welcomed the crowd, saying, "Welcome to full moon music!"
And, just as Bam Bam had noted, she and the band testified, they bent notes, they stretched things out.
After they finished, a lone singer named Shep (who will apparently be performing at the Folk Fest this fall) came out to do "A Change is Gonna Come," making for one of the more moving parts of the evening.
In between sets, a DJ played music that defined the demographic of the crowd: "One Nation Under a Groove," "Super Freaky" and "Higher Ground." I know because I sit squarely in that demographic.
A guy came over and sat down near me, striking up a conversation by asking if I was having a good time. Sure was. While the Elegba Folklore Society's performance group played, sang and danced (its leader proclaiming, "If you can walk, you can dance!"), he went on to explain African drumming to me as each drum beat meaning a different word.
When I said I did know that much, he changed tactics. "Do you smoke weed?' he asked blithely despite the cops a few feet away. I guess since I already knew about African drumming, he just assumed I was cool that way, too.
Or maybe it was that I was still wearing sunglasses after dark. I'd tried taking them off, but the park was lit too brightly and the whole scene looked less tawdry with shades on.
What I'm saying is, no one needs to see a fryer lit up. "Someone left their phone at the funnel cake booth," Bam Bam announced between sets. "If you left your phone, go get it now!"
It wasn't me, so I headed down to the row of Porta-Johns, where I found an entirely different party going on. A row of motorcycles, many strung with LED lights, was holding court near the outdoor bathrooms and Prince was blaring from a boombox.
Clearly they didn't need any stinkin' live music.
As the stage was being prepped for DC go-go/funk band EU (Experience Unlimited for the uninitiated), Bam Bam came out and announced that activist Dick Gregory had "transitioned." I've never understood using euphemisms for death. The man died, so just say died.
A collective groan went up from the crowd.
The members of EU showed up onstage wearing all white and ready to party. Leader Sugar Bear began exhorting the crowd immediately. "Get up, Richmond! Y'all got to get up!" We did.
Weaving in classics such as "Family Affair," "Shake It Like a White Girl" and "It's Your Thing," the 7-piece band showed off their smooth choreography, still strong voices and vintage showmanship. Even better, they looked to be having a ball doing it.
When they got to their set closer and biggest hit, "Da Butt," you better believe we - young and old - were following Sugar Bear's directive to, "Shake what your Mama gave you!"
No regular at the Down Home Family Reunion has to be told that twice.
Showing posts with label abner clay park. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abner clay park. Show all posts
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Monday, May 1, 2017
United, We Bargain. Divided, We Beg
Life teaches us you can't always be someone's first choice.
S: Going down the list to see who might join me at Rapp Session. If I must, I will go alone, but I must eat more of their luscious crabcakes now. Can you join me?
Me: This moment or when?
S: No time like the present.
Since I was at a stopping point in my writing (waiting for a source to respond) and that bowl of soup I'd had for lunch was a distant memory, why wouldn't I stroll over to Rapp Session on the dot of 4 to see someone I hadn't seen in at least a year?
For that matter, why wouldn't I go eat a dozen discounted Old Saltes during oyster happy hour? Or sip my favorite orgeat lemonade given the 82-degree afternoon heat I'd walked through to get there? Not to mention that a few bites of those crabcakes my friend had been craving proved why we were in an oyster saloon in the first place.
As a Marylander might say, my, my, major backfin.
After catching up and filling up, I mentioned I was on my way to Abner Clay Park for the annual May Day parade and to my surprise, my friend wanted to join me, a sequel of sort to having been at the Science March in D.C. two weeks ago.
I started doing Richmond's May Day parade in 2009, back when I was laid off, on unemployment and trying to figure out the wreckage of my new life.
Then it had felt like a way to show solidarity with all those still fortunate enough to be employed as the Great Recession of 2008 trickled down. Now it felt like another thread in the anti-fascism tapestry decent Americans are trying to weave in reaction to a leader who just yesterday questioned why the Civil War could not be worked out.
Clearly when the Constitution was framed and the requirements for President laid out, the founding fathers couldn't foresee that it would be necessary to stipulate that he/she had a working knowledge of U.S. history. Sad.
Arriving at Abner Clay Park to a larger than usual police presence, a guy with the United National Antiwar Coalition handed me a flier and shared the reason for all the black and whites: a couple of white supremacists had shown up earlier and tried to pick a fight.
It's nothing short of terrifying how quickly the bigots have gotten comfortable with spewing their venom in public since 45 took the reins.
But they were gone now and tonight's pre-parade rally began, as they always do, with free food and short speeches about capitalism, socialism, and fighting white supremacy and the patriarchy while people socialized and chose signs, puppets and placards to carry.
My friend bravely took on a slug costume - paper mache slug head, business suit, cardboard briefcase emblazoned with the name of banks - Wells Fargo, Bank of America, Citibank - who took advantage of consumers for corporate gain.
A parade veteran, my pick was a large "Sanctuary" flag to wave. "Your shirt matches your flag," the harmonium player observed. I told her it wasn't intentional. "Yea, right!" she cracked, grinning.
Unsurprisingly, I ran into loads of friends: my favorite hippie couple, the tailor, the Civil War re-enactor, multiple servers from a favorite wine bar, the dancer, the Party Liberation Front maestro, the activist and, of course, the event's organizer, master puppet-maker Lily, herding cats, assigning parade duties and totally in her element.
She said the plan was to walk down Leigh Street, through the public housing projects and on to City Hall, but the police, who'd be escorting us, nixed that because of a situation involving a shooter on Northside.
Instead, the drum contingent led us down Marshall Street to City Hall, chanting all the way.
No hate
No KKK
No fascist USA
Whose streets?
Our streets!
Tonight's crowd was far larger than those of past parades (hmm, do you suppose people could be motivated by the daily onslaught of disturbing information coming out of the blowhard-in-chief?), so things got warm walking downtown between tall buildings with zero room for air flow. The good news was every cross street delivered a gusty breeze that whipped banners and cooled us off.
We finished at City Hall, sweaty but resolute, but they wouldn't let us in. Still, our point had been made.
As we walked back down Broad Street, my friend mentioned a dream two nights ago about something very like tonight's parade and wondered now if it had something to do with being in a period of Mercury Retrograde (when coincidences are more common and frustration reigns supreme) since I'd been the one to share the news about the parade when we met up.
I said that on my walk this morning, I'd thought about where I might go eat tonight, considered Rapp Session and decided I wouldn't have time to get there before the parade. Mighty coincidental, both.
As for Mercury Retrograde's other effects, I can only assume that frustration was the motivation behind the carful of girls I just now heard egging the apartment downstairs. No doubt one of the young male occupants living underneath me was the source of frustration.
You can't always be someone's first choice, honey. You'll learn that what matters is who - or what - you're playing second fiddle to.
S: Going down the list to see who might join me at Rapp Session. If I must, I will go alone, but I must eat more of their luscious crabcakes now. Can you join me?
Me: This moment or when?
S: No time like the present.
Since I was at a stopping point in my writing (waiting for a source to respond) and that bowl of soup I'd had for lunch was a distant memory, why wouldn't I stroll over to Rapp Session on the dot of 4 to see someone I hadn't seen in at least a year?
For that matter, why wouldn't I go eat a dozen discounted Old Saltes during oyster happy hour? Or sip my favorite orgeat lemonade given the 82-degree afternoon heat I'd walked through to get there? Not to mention that a few bites of those crabcakes my friend had been craving proved why we were in an oyster saloon in the first place.
As a Marylander might say, my, my, major backfin.
After catching up and filling up, I mentioned I was on my way to Abner Clay Park for the annual May Day parade and to my surprise, my friend wanted to join me, a sequel of sort to having been at the Science March in D.C. two weeks ago.
I started doing Richmond's May Day parade in 2009, back when I was laid off, on unemployment and trying to figure out the wreckage of my new life.
Then it had felt like a way to show solidarity with all those still fortunate enough to be employed as the Great Recession of 2008 trickled down. Now it felt like another thread in the anti-fascism tapestry decent Americans are trying to weave in reaction to a leader who just yesterday questioned why the Civil War could not be worked out.
Clearly when the Constitution was framed and the requirements for President laid out, the founding fathers couldn't foresee that it would be necessary to stipulate that he/she had a working knowledge of U.S. history. Sad.
Arriving at Abner Clay Park to a larger than usual police presence, a guy with the United National Antiwar Coalition handed me a flier and shared the reason for all the black and whites: a couple of white supremacists had shown up earlier and tried to pick a fight.
It's nothing short of terrifying how quickly the bigots have gotten comfortable with spewing their venom in public since 45 took the reins.
But they were gone now and tonight's pre-parade rally began, as they always do, with free food and short speeches about capitalism, socialism, and fighting white supremacy and the patriarchy while people socialized and chose signs, puppets and placards to carry.
My friend bravely took on a slug costume - paper mache slug head, business suit, cardboard briefcase emblazoned with the name of banks - Wells Fargo, Bank of America, Citibank - who took advantage of consumers for corporate gain.
A parade veteran, my pick was a large "Sanctuary" flag to wave. "Your shirt matches your flag," the harmonium player observed. I told her it wasn't intentional. "Yea, right!" she cracked, grinning.
Unsurprisingly, I ran into loads of friends: my favorite hippie couple, the tailor, the Civil War re-enactor, multiple servers from a favorite wine bar, the dancer, the Party Liberation Front maestro, the activist and, of course, the event's organizer, master puppet-maker Lily, herding cats, assigning parade duties and totally in her element.
She said the plan was to walk down Leigh Street, through the public housing projects and on to City Hall, but the police, who'd be escorting us, nixed that because of a situation involving a shooter on Northside.
Instead, the drum contingent led us down Marshall Street to City Hall, chanting all the way.
No hate
No KKK
No fascist USA
Whose streets?
Our streets!
Tonight's crowd was far larger than those of past parades (hmm, do you suppose people could be motivated by the daily onslaught of disturbing information coming out of the blowhard-in-chief?), so things got warm walking downtown between tall buildings with zero room for air flow. The good news was every cross street delivered a gusty breeze that whipped banners and cooled us off.
We finished at City Hall, sweaty but resolute, but they wouldn't let us in. Still, our point had been made.
As we walked back down Broad Street, my friend mentioned a dream two nights ago about something very like tonight's parade and wondered now if it had something to do with being in a period of Mercury Retrograde (when coincidences are more common and frustration reigns supreme) since I'd been the one to share the news about the parade when we met up.
I said that on my walk this morning, I'd thought about where I might go eat tonight, considered Rapp Session and decided I wouldn't have time to get there before the parade. Mighty coincidental, both.
As for Mercury Retrograde's other effects, I can only assume that frustration was the motivation behind the carful of girls I just now heard egging the apartment downstairs. No doubt one of the young male occupants living underneath me was the source of frustration.
You can't always be someone's first choice, honey. You'll learn that what matters is who - or what - you're playing second fiddle to.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Agony and the Blown Mind
Sartre was right. Hell is other people and I've concluded that those other people are incoming freshmen.
Somehow I must have missed the dire warnings that the Class of 2019 has been moving in over the past two days, discovering it only when I tried to get to Shoryuken Ramen to meet my dinner date and found Franklin Street closed to cars while over-sized suburban SUVs delivered spawn to dorms.
Another crop of Northern Virginia teenagers who've never lived in a city before have descended en masse to make our life more complicated while they learn to cross streets and parallel park.
I waited an eternity today behind a kid who sat in front of a flashing red light assuming it would eventually turn green. It didn't. And it won't ever.
My dinner companion and I weren't sure whether to expect Shoryuken to be empty or mobbed given the blockades, so we were pleasantly surprised at how uninhabited it was. That said, within half an hour every seat was filled and an awful lot of them looked like parents and or/parents and freshmen.
Translation: none of them looked like Richmonders.
Eating my Hiyashi Chucka - cold ramen in soy-tahini vinaigrette with corn, pulled chicken, scallions, pickled mushrooms, egg and bamboo - facing a window over Franklin Street, I marveled at a student toting a vacuum cleaner (probably his mother's idea) into his new abode. Surely he's not planning on using that thing.
Meanwhile my classic ramen-eating companion told me great stories about a mutual friend who now works at the Ignatius Hat Company in Petersburg. Of course I know someone who works in the hat business.
Replete, we headed to the Firehouse Theater to see Jean Paul Sartre's "No Exit," a play I'd never even read, unlike the guy behind me who boasted that he'd read Sartre in philosophy class. Even so, he was the worst kind of person to sit in front of, constantly fidgeting, folding and unfolding his program and moving in his seat non-stop.
I want to choose my own hell.
I was fascinated to learn that the play had been formatted as a one-act play so French audiences could get home before the German-imposed curfew. There was no curfew, but I definitely had plans to get my mind blown afterwards, so I appreciated the brevity tonight.
You can always tell what a man really wants by his actions.
Because it's the Firehouse Theater, no performance would be complete without a fire truck screeching by mid-play. It's nice to know that there are constants in life.
You are your life and nothing else.
It's even better to know that a provocative play cast with three solid leads can take an audience into hell for a night. Of course the lately-ubiquitous McLean Jesse nails the shallow socialite and DL Hopkins inhabits the cowardly journalist but it's Bianca Bryan's all encompassing portrayal of the lesbian secretary that's most electrifying. Foot tapping, eyes piercing, legs open when sitting, she's a fiercely cruel combatant.
But surely all of us would be miserable in a windowless room with no need to sleep and two people we can't stand our only company for eternity.
Outside on the sidewalk afterwards, we were surprised by fireworks exploding over the Diamond and paused to opine about what we'd just seen while we watched the explosions. "We could talk about the play all night, but you have places to be," he reminded me after 20 minutes of discussion.
As if nubile freshmen weren't enough of a hazard, tonight was also the Down Home Family Reunion in Abner Clay Park, so the streets of Jackson Ward were alive with cars cruising for parking spaces and people lugging chairs to the park.
Clearly Hell was all around me today.
I lugged my own chair to a prime spot and was soon joined by Charlie, a sweet man who has worked at the Pepsi Cola bottling plant in Mechanicsville for 25 years. In fact, he'd come straight from work, intending to stay 20 minutes and go home.
By the time we met, he'd been there five hours. But like me (and probably most of the crowd), he was looking forward to seeing the Delphonics. I give him credit; he knew the words to practically every song and the man could sing.
I've been to enough Down Home Family Reunions to know that by the time the headliner comes on, the show is running seriously behind. Tonight, the Delphonics came on at 10:43 instead of the 9:30 start time listed on the schedule. Not a problem for me, but plenty of people packed up and gave up.
There was a teachable moment tonight when I learned that Major Harris had been a Delphonic back in the '70s (what?), with the band covering Harris' big solo hit, "Love Won't Let Me Wait." The shocker was that Harris was a Richmond boy (Charlie tells me, "I met him in Petersburg a good while back. Nice guy"), news to me.
Maybe because the Delphonics didn't have loads of big hits, their set included a few classics from groups like the Temptations - "My Girl" got the dancing started followed by "Just My Imagination" - and in their shiny red suits, they pulled it off.
Some of the high notes were still there ("I ain't lost nothin'!" the lead singer said after a particularly silvery one), a very good things when they got to the biggies: "La-la Means I Love You" and "Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time" which got not only broken down, but an extended jam. The entire crowd sang along in fine voice, plenty swaying in place.
Walking home, mind blown, a guy in a giant truck looks at me and asks if he has enough room to pull out of his parking space. Are you kidding, buddy? There's at least three feet in front of your truck. Just go.
Gack. Too many people harshing my mellow.
Don't let me end up in a locked room with people who wait endlessly at flashing red lights or can't parallel park. Please, no freshmen after death. I want to choose my own Hell.
Somehow I must have missed the dire warnings that the Class of 2019 has been moving in over the past two days, discovering it only when I tried to get to Shoryuken Ramen to meet my dinner date and found Franklin Street closed to cars while over-sized suburban SUVs delivered spawn to dorms.
Another crop of Northern Virginia teenagers who've never lived in a city before have descended en masse to make our life more complicated while they learn to cross streets and parallel park.
I waited an eternity today behind a kid who sat in front of a flashing red light assuming it would eventually turn green. It didn't. And it won't ever.
My dinner companion and I weren't sure whether to expect Shoryuken to be empty or mobbed given the blockades, so we were pleasantly surprised at how uninhabited it was. That said, within half an hour every seat was filled and an awful lot of them looked like parents and or/parents and freshmen.
Translation: none of them looked like Richmonders.
Eating my Hiyashi Chucka - cold ramen in soy-tahini vinaigrette with corn, pulled chicken, scallions, pickled mushrooms, egg and bamboo - facing a window over Franklin Street, I marveled at a student toting a vacuum cleaner (probably his mother's idea) into his new abode. Surely he's not planning on using that thing.
Meanwhile my classic ramen-eating companion told me great stories about a mutual friend who now works at the Ignatius Hat Company in Petersburg. Of course I know someone who works in the hat business.
Replete, we headed to the Firehouse Theater to see Jean Paul Sartre's "No Exit," a play I'd never even read, unlike the guy behind me who boasted that he'd read Sartre in philosophy class. Even so, he was the worst kind of person to sit in front of, constantly fidgeting, folding and unfolding his program and moving in his seat non-stop.
I want to choose my own hell.
I was fascinated to learn that the play had been formatted as a one-act play so French audiences could get home before the German-imposed curfew. There was no curfew, but I definitely had plans to get my mind blown afterwards, so I appreciated the brevity tonight.
You can always tell what a man really wants by his actions.
Because it's the Firehouse Theater, no performance would be complete without a fire truck screeching by mid-play. It's nice to know that there are constants in life.
You are your life and nothing else.
It's even better to know that a provocative play cast with three solid leads can take an audience into hell for a night. Of course the lately-ubiquitous McLean Jesse nails the shallow socialite and DL Hopkins inhabits the cowardly journalist but it's Bianca Bryan's all encompassing portrayal of the lesbian secretary that's most electrifying. Foot tapping, eyes piercing, legs open when sitting, she's a fiercely cruel combatant.
But surely all of us would be miserable in a windowless room with no need to sleep and two people we can't stand our only company for eternity.
Outside on the sidewalk afterwards, we were surprised by fireworks exploding over the Diamond and paused to opine about what we'd just seen while we watched the explosions. "We could talk about the play all night, but you have places to be," he reminded me after 20 minutes of discussion.
As if nubile freshmen weren't enough of a hazard, tonight was also the Down Home Family Reunion in Abner Clay Park, so the streets of Jackson Ward were alive with cars cruising for parking spaces and people lugging chairs to the park.
Clearly Hell was all around me today.
I lugged my own chair to a prime spot and was soon joined by Charlie, a sweet man who has worked at the Pepsi Cola bottling plant in Mechanicsville for 25 years. In fact, he'd come straight from work, intending to stay 20 minutes and go home.
By the time we met, he'd been there five hours. But like me (and probably most of the crowd), he was looking forward to seeing the Delphonics. I give him credit; he knew the words to practically every song and the man could sing.
I've been to enough Down Home Family Reunions to know that by the time the headliner comes on, the show is running seriously behind. Tonight, the Delphonics came on at 10:43 instead of the 9:30 start time listed on the schedule. Not a problem for me, but plenty of people packed up and gave up.
There was a teachable moment tonight when I learned that Major Harris had been a Delphonic back in the '70s (what?), with the band covering Harris' big solo hit, "Love Won't Let Me Wait." The shocker was that Harris was a Richmond boy (Charlie tells me, "I met him in Petersburg a good while back. Nice guy"), news to me.
Maybe because the Delphonics didn't have loads of big hits, their set included a few classics from groups like the Temptations - "My Girl" got the dancing started followed by "Just My Imagination" - and in their shiny red suits, they pulled it off.
Some of the high notes were still there ("I ain't lost nothin'!" the lead singer said after a particularly silvery one), a very good things when they got to the biggies: "La-la Means I Love You" and "Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time" which got not only broken down, but an extended jam. The entire crowd sang along in fine voice, plenty swaying in place.
Walking home, mind blown, a guy in a giant truck looks at me and asks if he has enough room to pull out of his parking space. Are you kidding, buddy? There's at least three feet in front of your truck. Just go.
Gack. Too many people harshing my mellow.
Don't let me end up in a locked room with people who wait endlessly at flashing red lights or can't parallel park. Please, no freshmen after death. I want to choose my own Hell.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Praise Be
If the field at Abner Clay Park is filled with weekend warriors playing a Turkey Bowl, it must be Thanksgiving Day.
The other clue that the annual day of gluttony has arrived is that my neighborhood is deserted.
Wednesday evening I was in the Museum District and parking was impossible to find. Apparently all the turkey-serving grandmothers live there and all the starving students live here.
And there's really no other day that I begin by frying up a pound of hot breakfast sausage to go with the multiple sticks of butter that go into making stuffing, this year my only contribution to the big meal that defines the day...and leaves my apartment smelling delicious for hours.
Having a glass of wine at a not-so neighborhood bar, I met a couple who stopped for a snack before hitting the road for the Outer Banks to meet up with friends.
The time spent eating their mini-feast - smoked trout, housemade pickles, turkey, crackers- both fortified them and gave us a chance to get acquainted.
Because they lived in Washington and because that's my hometown, we found lots to discuss.
They live in Shaw, so they recommended their favorite Ethiopian restaurant. I told them I'm on my way to D.C. Sunday and they wanted to hear what my plans were.
Eat, art, eat, art, eat, art... they got the idea and we got off on a tangent about the under-appreciated Building Museum, one of their favorites and one of my destinations Monday.
I met a policeman who claimed he didn't like yams but gobbled them up for the first time today, acknowledging that perhaps it was the simple preparation that won him over.
There was a woman who started talking about how bad Virginia wines were until a friend (who, after years of wearing glasses, doesn't anymore and so I'm still getting used to seeing his face naked) with superior Virginia wine knowledge started a small campaign to inform her, leading off with Cardinal Point "Green" as a good entry point.
Since the last time I was at Cardinal Point, after doing the tasting, my date and I chose "Green" as the bottle we bought and took outside to enjoy on that sunny afternoon, I seconded his recommendation.
And of course, I ate a fabulous turkey meal, made all the more so because I didn't have to cook it; making stuffing doesn't count because it's really just an excuse to pick at the sausage and onion cooking in the pan.
As for what I'm thankful for, it's probably the same things we were all appreciating today.
Family and friends. Health. Sunny skies and occasional rainy days. Music and art, theater, poetry and anything else that entertains and/or makes me feel. Random conversations with strangers...and non-strangers. A funny man who can crack up an eccentric woman.
To paraphrase Woody Allen, I am thankful for laughter, except whenmilk wine comes out my nose.
The other clue that the annual day of gluttony has arrived is that my neighborhood is deserted.
Wednesday evening I was in the Museum District and parking was impossible to find. Apparently all the turkey-serving grandmothers live there and all the starving students live here.
And there's really no other day that I begin by frying up a pound of hot breakfast sausage to go with the multiple sticks of butter that go into making stuffing, this year my only contribution to the big meal that defines the day...and leaves my apartment smelling delicious for hours.
Having a glass of wine at a not-so neighborhood bar, I met a couple who stopped for a snack before hitting the road for the Outer Banks to meet up with friends.
The time spent eating their mini-feast - smoked trout, housemade pickles, turkey, crackers- both fortified them and gave us a chance to get acquainted.
Because they lived in Washington and because that's my hometown, we found lots to discuss.
They live in Shaw, so they recommended their favorite Ethiopian restaurant. I told them I'm on my way to D.C. Sunday and they wanted to hear what my plans were.
Eat, art, eat, art, eat, art... they got the idea and we got off on a tangent about the under-appreciated Building Museum, one of their favorites and one of my destinations Monday.
I met a policeman who claimed he didn't like yams but gobbled them up for the first time today, acknowledging that perhaps it was the simple preparation that won him over.
There was a woman who started talking about how bad Virginia wines were until a friend (who, after years of wearing glasses, doesn't anymore and so I'm still getting used to seeing his face naked) with superior Virginia wine knowledge started a small campaign to inform her, leading off with Cardinal Point "Green" as a good entry point.
Since the last time I was at Cardinal Point, after doing the tasting, my date and I chose "Green" as the bottle we bought and took outside to enjoy on that sunny afternoon, I seconded his recommendation.
And of course, I ate a fabulous turkey meal, made all the more so because I didn't have to cook it; making stuffing doesn't count because it's really just an excuse to pick at the sausage and onion cooking in the pan.
As for what I'm thankful for, it's probably the same things we were all appreciating today.
Family and friends. Health. Sunny skies and occasional rainy days. Music and art, theater, poetry and anything else that entertains and/or makes me feel. Random conversations with strangers...and non-strangers. A funny man who can crack up an eccentric woman.
To paraphrase Woody Allen, I am thankful for laughter, except when
Sunday, July 14, 2013
La Fete Nationale
I was an utter failure at celebrating Bastille Day.
It wasn't for lack of desire to mark the occasion, only that I had too much else on my plate.
Man, I hate when that happens.
The day began with a high-wire act; walking down Broad Street on my daily constitutional, I spotted a worker walking the length of the jib of the tower crane that's sitting over on Grace Street for the new dorm construction.
I watched for three or four minutes, certain I was about to see a man plunge to his death and then walked away so I wouldn't be the only witness.
My next stop was Sugar Shack Donuts, where a sign on the door stopped me cold.
Sugar Shack is currently closed on Sundays.
I bet they are after that write-up in "Style" last week.
If things were mobbed before, I can only imagine how that piece fed the fire.
As a neighbor of Sugar Shack's, I'd far prefer to see them close on a weekday and be open on Sundays for the 'hood.
Or at least for all those people who were streaming out of Moore Street Baptist Church a block away this morning.
And me.
After lunch with a friend at an undisclosed but overly-filling location, I spent the afternoon working, not my first choice for Sunday afternoon occupations.
If only I didn't like food and shelter...
Late in the day, I took a mental break to water the window boxes in my living room and unexpectedly spotted my lunch friend below, in front of my house.
He'd come to dig up the black-eyed Susans in the back yard, which I'd offered him earlier.
Only now I needed a dinner companion (approaching deadline, you know) and there he was.
How convenient.
I cajoled him into putting his shovel and garden gloves down and accompanying me for another overly-filling meal.
The funniest part was, he told me that after our abundant lunch, he'd gone home and promptly fallen asleep.
Now here I was dragging him along for another food coma-inducing meal.
On the plus side, we overheard a spontaneous, soulful singalong, the likes of which we're not likely to hear again, even as we clogged our arteries.
By the time we returned, it was dusk and I dutifully followed him to the backyard to provide moral support while he dug up my flowers for his front yard.
After being bitten by bugs, but with Susans firmly potted, we decided to go for a walk in hopes of aiding digestion.
It turned out to be the nicest part of the day.
Strolling Jackson Ward, we walked alleys and side streets as lacy, white clouds streaked across the sky just under the rising moon.
Friend, who is a photographer, was taken by the beauty of the evening light, which lent a rich (almost European-looking) burnish to brick walls and house fronts.
Even I had to admit that it was my beloved J-Ward at its loveliest.
As we strolled along Abner Clay Park, he stopped to take pictures of the crescent moon with streaks of pink clouds around it.
It didn't have quite the cachet of fireworks and a glass of French bubbly, but c'est la vie.
Next year I intend to celebrate more fittingly.
I may not have a drop of French blood in me, but I do hate to miss the pleasures of a perfectly good holiday.
It wasn't for lack of desire to mark the occasion, only that I had too much else on my plate.
Man, I hate when that happens.
The day began with a high-wire act; walking down Broad Street on my daily constitutional, I spotted a worker walking the length of the jib of the tower crane that's sitting over on Grace Street for the new dorm construction.
I watched for three or four minutes, certain I was about to see a man plunge to his death and then walked away so I wouldn't be the only witness.
My next stop was Sugar Shack Donuts, where a sign on the door stopped me cold.
Sugar Shack is currently closed on Sundays.
I bet they are after that write-up in "Style" last week.
If things were mobbed before, I can only imagine how that piece fed the fire.
As a neighbor of Sugar Shack's, I'd far prefer to see them close on a weekday and be open on Sundays for the 'hood.
Or at least for all those people who were streaming out of Moore Street Baptist Church a block away this morning.
And me.
After lunch with a friend at an undisclosed but overly-filling location, I spent the afternoon working, not my first choice for Sunday afternoon occupations.
If only I didn't like food and shelter...
Late in the day, I took a mental break to water the window boxes in my living room and unexpectedly spotted my lunch friend below, in front of my house.
He'd come to dig up the black-eyed Susans in the back yard, which I'd offered him earlier.
Only now I needed a dinner companion (approaching deadline, you know) and there he was.
How convenient.
I cajoled him into putting his shovel and garden gloves down and accompanying me for another overly-filling meal.
The funniest part was, he told me that after our abundant lunch, he'd gone home and promptly fallen asleep.
Now here I was dragging him along for another food coma-inducing meal.
On the plus side, we overheard a spontaneous, soulful singalong, the likes of which we're not likely to hear again, even as we clogged our arteries.
By the time we returned, it was dusk and I dutifully followed him to the backyard to provide moral support while he dug up my flowers for his front yard.
After being bitten by bugs, but with Susans firmly potted, we decided to go for a walk in hopes of aiding digestion.
It turned out to be the nicest part of the day.
Strolling Jackson Ward, we walked alleys and side streets as lacy, white clouds streaked across the sky just under the rising moon.
Friend, who is a photographer, was taken by the beauty of the evening light, which lent a rich (almost European-looking) burnish to brick walls and house fronts.
Even I had to admit that it was my beloved J-Ward at its loveliest.
As we strolled along Abner Clay Park, he stopped to take pictures of the crescent moon with streaks of pink clouds around it.
It didn't have quite the cachet of fireworks and a glass of French bubbly, but c'est la vie.
Next year I intend to celebrate more fittingly.
I may not have a drop of French blood in me, but I do hate to miss the pleasures of a perfectly good holiday.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Park It
Anatomy of a November afternoon in Jackson Ward.
Sunny and 77 degrees with crunchy leaves underfoot.
Under the gazebo in Abner Clay Park are two Gamelan musicians, shoeless and sitting cross-legged facing each other, tapping out Balinese melodies.
The music travels in all directions
On the tennis courts are bike polo players participating in the annual RVA Turducken tournament.
I know because it's that time of year.
Plus I made a couple of side dishes for the first-ever Turducken post-match feast a few years back.
We take up positions at the chain link fence where we have an ideal overlook point to take in the offensive and defensive moves of the two teams in front of us.
The lean purple-shirted guys in jorts and gloves are clearly the better players and tighter team.
The team in black shirts look like they do something besides ride their bikes. Something nerd-like.
Turns out they're the Washington team and they're struggling.
It makes me like them more.
Before long, the purple shirts are talking trash about the other team and I'm close enough to their goal to hear.
"They're no good. This is boring," one said as he pedaled around his teammate.
Later, when one of the black team falls and clearly hurts his hand, a purple shirt makes an unkind comment about the guy's worth.
Then a heckler yells a derogatory comment about the guy who'd fallen.
Bad form, if you ask me.
As I turn to go, a guy on a bike with a polo mallet is right there so I ask him for the skinny on the tournament.
Guys were there from Atlanta, Athens, Rochester, Seattle, Ontario and other places where the biking community is strong and interest in polo is keen
Purple team had one local and two guys from Lexington. They were known to be g.o.o.d.
We'd caught a good match, he seemed to say.
With my sports quota for the day satisfied, we ambled on down sunny Leigh Street admiring the late-blooming roses with me enjoying being bare-legged and feeling the warmth.
Coming up Clay, we see one of the Gamelan musicians carrying his instrument toward his house.
Just another neighbor enjoying this incredible day.
Just another November day in the Ward.
Sunny and 77 degrees with crunchy leaves underfoot.
Under the gazebo in Abner Clay Park are two Gamelan musicians, shoeless and sitting cross-legged facing each other, tapping out Balinese melodies.
The music travels in all directions
On the tennis courts are bike polo players participating in the annual RVA Turducken tournament.
I know because it's that time of year.
Plus I made a couple of side dishes for the first-ever Turducken post-match feast a few years back.
We take up positions at the chain link fence where we have an ideal overlook point to take in the offensive and defensive moves of the two teams in front of us.
The lean purple-shirted guys in jorts and gloves are clearly the better players and tighter team.
The team in black shirts look like they do something besides ride their bikes. Something nerd-like.
Turns out they're the Washington team and they're struggling.
It makes me like them more.
Before long, the purple shirts are talking trash about the other team and I'm close enough to their goal to hear.
"They're no good. This is boring," one said as he pedaled around his teammate.
Later, when one of the black team falls and clearly hurts his hand, a purple shirt makes an unkind comment about the guy's worth.
Then a heckler yells a derogatory comment about the guy who'd fallen.
Bad form, if you ask me.
As I turn to go, a guy on a bike with a polo mallet is right there so I ask him for the skinny on the tournament.
Guys were there from Atlanta, Athens, Rochester, Seattle, Ontario and other places where the biking community is strong and interest in polo is keen
Purple team had one local and two guys from Lexington. They were known to be g.o.o.d.
We'd caught a good match, he seemed to say.
With my sports quota for the day satisfied, we ambled on down sunny Leigh Street admiring the late-blooming roses with me enjoying being bare-legged and feeling the warmth.
Coming up Clay, we see one of the Gamelan musicians carrying his instrument toward his house.
Just another neighbor enjoying this incredible day.
Just another November day in the Ward.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Give Up the Funk
You've got a real type of thing going down, getting down
There's a whole lot of rhythm going round
I can always tell when the Down Home Family Reunion starts because I can hear it through my open windows.
After all, I'm only two blocks from Abner Clay Park.
I'd invited a non-family member to join me and he arrived with a picnic, so we took our chairs and dinner and walked the short distance toward the sound.
The Down Home Family Reunion isn't like any other festival I've been to, which is exactly what I love about it.
Besides the fact that it's two blocks away.
You see people dressed up at this one.
Like a leopard print jumpsuit.
Jean shorts, a red t-shirt and red and gold pumps.
His and her black leather chaps.
Skintight paisley bell-bottoms and a purple polyester shirt and hat.
I don't even try to compete with the likes of that.
Settling in with our picnic, the emcee said, "I wish y'all could see what y'all look like from up here!"
I'll bet the two of us looked starved, considering how we dug into roast chicken, caprese salad, bean and olive salad, hummus and peach pie.
We took a break to move closer when the Kenya Safari Acrobats took the stage.
Part dance, part magic, part gymnastic, part yoga, they amazed.
One condensed his body to almost nothing in the way they were taught to do in Kenya and Tanzania when confronted with a leopard.
Another got on a table and proceeded to bend his body backwards until his feet were resting on his head.
He even removed his hat with his toes.
There was a limbo dance (done to win a wife) with a stick on fire, making it essential to go as low as the limber, brave man could go.
He did.
For their final act, they created a human pyramid using a woman as the base.
It was significant because no acrobatic troupes there will use women because the men presume a woman will drop them.
Aminia, the female base, went on to support all kinds of men in various configurations, even walking a short distance while supporting them all.
The entire act required such skill and precision as to have been absolutely Olympic-worthy.
Meanwhile, I ran into a friend (and pianist for the Richmond Symphony) and caught up with his escapades (turkey burgers! Chopin! Pocahontas Park!)
And that's exactly what's supposed to happen at the Reunion.
I spent over six hours behind a woman who was serially greeted by no less than thirty people.
It was impressive to see.
A girl asked me to take a survey about the festival, inquiring about how far I'd come to see it, how much I might spend and if I'd been before.
I'm always happy to share my opinions.
Next onstage were NYCE, a local group who wore matching salmon-colored outfits while executing synchronized steps and singing '60s and '70s R & B.
Stuff like Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and the Temptations, but not the Top 40 stuff.
Their set got people in the mood, like when a man walked by, spotted a friend and did a synchronized dance move in front of him before saying hello.
The Elegba Folklore performance group played drums and danced while a costumed figure on stilts moved through the crowd.
"If you can walk, you can dance," the group's director shouted.
I would have broken it down even more basically than that.
Periodically, the scent of incense wafted by.
Once the sun went down and I lost my companion to work, I was glad I had a blanket to drape over my legs.
"You had the right idea with that blanket," a man said to me when he saw me getting cozy.
By the time the big names arrived, the crowd was large and feisty.
Original P, comprised of four of the original members of Parliament Funkadelic and eight of their siblings and children, took the stage like they owned it.
"We're ready to party like it's 1975!" leader Calvin shouted to raucous response.
Almost at once, a freaky-looking guy started walking through the crowd with a large sign saying, "One Nation Under a Groove."
A guy came by to check on me. "How you doing?" he inquired sweetly. "You look comfortable! Enjoy yourself."
Of course the twelve piece had a big horn section and an array of back-up singers, but I was unprepared for the keytar.
Damn, we were taking it all the way back.
The crowd went wild for "We Want the Funk," but they also went crazy for tales of booty patrols and an extended psychedelic jam that had people dancing in the field.
By that point, audience and band were feeding off of each other under the night sky.
"Richmond Vee-Yay in the mother-fu*kin' house!" the bandleader yelled as people waved glow light swords and hands in the air.
I alternated between staying in my seat (where a guy came over to ask if I was okay by myself over there) and standing closer to the stage to enjoy the sheer spectacle of so many musicians clearly having a ball.
"If y'all don't get up off your asses now, I'm gonna be forced to get mean," we were informed.
It only took one warning for everyone but the oldest and most infirm to follow P-Funk's advice: "Free your mind and your ass will follow."
When the band finally ended, it was only because the organizers told them they had to.
The band made it clear that they wanted to keep playing.
Danced out, the crowd resignedly started packing up.
Original P serenaded us as we made our way out to the streets of Jackson Ward.
If you're not gonna get it on
Grab your date and take her home
My date long gone, it looked like I wasn't going to get it on.
But my answer to the final survey question had been confirmed in spades.
Would I come back to the festival next year?
Hell, yes. We want the funk.
There's a whole lot of rhythm going round
I can always tell when the Down Home Family Reunion starts because I can hear it through my open windows.
After all, I'm only two blocks from Abner Clay Park.
I'd invited a non-family member to join me and he arrived with a picnic, so we took our chairs and dinner and walked the short distance toward the sound.
The Down Home Family Reunion isn't like any other festival I've been to, which is exactly what I love about it.
Besides the fact that it's two blocks away.
You see people dressed up at this one.
Like a leopard print jumpsuit.
Jean shorts, a red t-shirt and red and gold pumps.
His and her black leather chaps.
Skintight paisley bell-bottoms and a purple polyester shirt and hat.
I don't even try to compete with the likes of that.
Settling in with our picnic, the emcee said, "I wish y'all could see what y'all look like from up here!"
I'll bet the two of us looked starved, considering how we dug into roast chicken, caprese salad, bean and olive salad, hummus and peach pie.
We took a break to move closer when the Kenya Safari Acrobats took the stage.
Part dance, part magic, part gymnastic, part yoga, they amazed.
One condensed his body to almost nothing in the way they were taught to do in Kenya and Tanzania when confronted with a leopard.
Another got on a table and proceeded to bend his body backwards until his feet were resting on his head.
He even removed his hat with his toes.
There was a limbo dance (done to win a wife) with a stick on fire, making it essential to go as low as the limber, brave man could go.
He did.
For their final act, they created a human pyramid using a woman as the base.
It was significant because no acrobatic troupes there will use women because the men presume a woman will drop them.
Aminia, the female base, went on to support all kinds of men in various configurations, even walking a short distance while supporting them all.
The entire act required such skill and precision as to have been absolutely Olympic-worthy.
Meanwhile, I ran into a friend (and pianist for the Richmond Symphony) and caught up with his escapades (turkey burgers! Chopin! Pocahontas Park!)
And that's exactly what's supposed to happen at the Reunion.
I spent over six hours behind a woman who was serially greeted by no less than thirty people.
It was impressive to see.
A girl asked me to take a survey about the festival, inquiring about how far I'd come to see it, how much I might spend and if I'd been before.
I'm always happy to share my opinions.
Next onstage were NYCE, a local group who wore matching salmon-colored outfits while executing synchronized steps and singing '60s and '70s R & B.
Stuff like Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and the Temptations, but not the Top 40 stuff.
Their set got people in the mood, like when a man walked by, spotted a friend and did a synchronized dance move in front of him before saying hello.
The Elegba Folklore performance group played drums and danced while a costumed figure on stilts moved through the crowd.
"If you can walk, you can dance," the group's director shouted.
I would have broken it down even more basically than that.
Periodically, the scent of incense wafted by.
Once the sun went down and I lost my companion to work, I was glad I had a blanket to drape over my legs.
"You had the right idea with that blanket," a man said to me when he saw me getting cozy.
By the time the big names arrived, the crowd was large and feisty.
Original P, comprised of four of the original members of Parliament Funkadelic and eight of their siblings and children, took the stage like they owned it.
"We're ready to party like it's 1975!" leader Calvin shouted to raucous response.
Almost at once, a freaky-looking guy started walking through the crowd with a large sign saying, "One Nation Under a Groove."
A guy came by to check on me. "How you doing?" he inquired sweetly. "You look comfortable! Enjoy yourself."
Of course the twelve piece had a big horn section and an array of back-up singers, but I was unprepared for the keytar.
Damn, we were taking it all the way back.
The crowd went wild for "We Want the Funk," but they also went crazy for tales of booty patrols and an extended psychedelic jam that had people dancing in the field.
By that point, audience and band were feeding off of each other under the night sky.
"Richmond Vee-Yay in the mother-fu*kin' house!" the bandleader yelled as people waved glow light swords and hands in the air.
I alternated between staying in my seat (where a guy came over to ask if I was okay by myself over there) and standing closer to the stage to enjoy the sheer spectacle of so many musicians clearly having a ball.
"If y'all don't get up off your asses now, I'm gonna be forced to get mean," we were informed.
It only took one warning for everyone but the oldest and most infirm to follow P-Funk's advice: "Free your mind and your ass will follow."
When the band finally ended, it was only because the organizers told them they had to.
The band made it clear that they wanted to keep playing.
Danced out, the crowd resignedly started packing up.
Original P serenaded us as we made our way out to the streets of Jackson Ward.
If you're not gonna get it on
Grab your date and take her home
My date long gone, it looked like I wasn't going to get it on.
But my answer to the final survey question had been confirmed in spades.
Would I come back to the festival next year?
Hell, yes. We want the funk.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Hoping to Rooster Like I Used To
Much the way the Watermelon Festival swells the Museum District for a day, the Down Home Family Reunion takes over Jackson Ward every August.
And naturally J-Ward girl has to be in attendance.
It was about 3:30 that I was standing in my bathroom next to the open window, and I heard music.
Since the festival starts at 4, I recognized it as what had to be the sound check.
Listening as I brushed my teeth, I realized it was time to gather my forces and get myself over to Abner Clay Park.
There was a surprisingly good-sized crowd already seated in front of the stage when I arrived. I found a shady spot and set up my chair just as the MC began introducing Leroy Thomas and the Zydeco Roadrunners.
People started dancing to the very first song of their accordion-based sound and more joined in throughout, despite the heat of the afternoon sun.
The band had driven all night from Rhode Island to make this gig and had to leave the second it was over to play another in Baltimore tonight.
You'd never have known it by the energy that they expended onstage.
Introducing one song, Leroy said, "This a song my Daddy wrote waaay back in 1981!"
Wow, practically a golden oldie.
Most ear-catching lyric: "Can't rooster like I used to, I think I need a booster."
Yes, it was a song about Viagra and Cialis.
That's 21st century zydeco for you...and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.
After their set, I wandered the global market, admiring fabrics and clothing and inhaling a lot of essential oils.
Wanting a little something to eat, I tried ordering a Hawk's BBQ, but they'd already sold out.
I ended up with a jumbo hot dog instead and took it back to my corner of the park to enjoy.
A recent transplant from Idaho sat down with me to chat.
I said hello to several neighbors, but didn't run into the one I was certain I'd see until the next band had started.
They were Back 'n Da Day, a group who sang classic Motown to recorded music.
But they had all the required voices to duplicate every big hit of the Spinners, The Temptations, et al and, just as importantly, all the right choreographed moves.
More than a few of the guys lounging behind me sang every note perfectly along with them, which I found pretty cool. It was my very own chorus.
I know from previous years that the crowd will grow much larger for the evening performances, and the atmosphere will get very party-like, familiar and fun.
My neighbor and I had been so busy talking that I hadn't even realized how late it was getting.
But it was, so I put my shoes back on and we walked out together, him going to a neighbor's house for another drink before returning for more music and me home to get ready to go out.
Three hours plus lost in a haze of zydeco, Motown and neighbors; now that's a down home family reunion in the 'hood.
And now I'm going to make some arriving reunion-goer very happy when I vacate my parking space.
I know they'll enjoy.
And naturally J-Ward girl has to be in attendance.
It was about 3:30 that I was standing in my bathroom next to the open window, and I heard music.
Since the festival starts at 4, I recognized it as what had to be the sound check.
Listening as I brushed my teeth, I realized it was time to gather my forces and get myself over to Abner Clay Park.
There was a surprisingly good-sized crowd already seated in front of the stage when I arrived. I found a shady spot and set up my chair just as the MC began introducing Leroy Thomas and the Zydeco Roadrunners.
People started dancing to the very first song of their accordion-based sound and more joined in throughout, despite the heat of the afternoon sun.
The band had driven all night from Rhode Island to make this gig and had to leave the second it was over to play another in Baltimore tonight.
You'd never have known it by the energy that they expended onstage.
Introducing one song, Leroy said, "This a song my Daddy wrote waaay back in 1981!"
Wow, practically a golden oldie.
Most ear-catching lyric: "Can't rooster like I used to, I think I need a booster."
Yes, it was a song about Viagra and Cialis.
That's 21st century zydeco for you...and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.
After their set, I wandered the global market, admiring fabrics and clothing and inhaling a lot of essential oils.
Wanting a little something to eat, I tried ordering a Hawk's BBQ, but they'd already sold out.
I ended up with a jumbo hot dog instead and took it back to my corner of the park to enjoy.
A recent transplant from Idaho sat down with me to chat.
I said hello to several neighbors, but didn't run into the one I was certain I'd see until the next band had started.
They were Back 'n Da Day, a group who sang classic Motown to recorded music.
But they had all the required voices to duplicate every big hit of the Spinners, The Temptations, et al and, just as importantly, all the right choreographed moves.
More than a few of the guys lounging behind me sang every note perfectly along with them, which I found pretty cool. It was my very own chorus.
I know from previous years that the crowd will grow much larger for the evening performances, and the atmosphere will get very party-like, familiar and fun.
My neighbor and I had been so busy talking that I hadn't even realized how late it was getting.
But it was, so I put my shoes back on and we walked out together, him going to a neighbor's house for another drink before returning for more music and me home to get ready to go out.
Three hours plus lost in a haze of zydeco, Motown and neighbors; now that's a down home family reunion in the 'hood.
And now I'm going to make some arriving reunion-goer very happy when I vacate my parking space.
I know they'll enjoy.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
This Is What Democracy Looks Like
Last year I participated in the first rva May Day parade, here, feeling the need to represent and show my support for the unemployed workers of whom I'd recently become a member. Here I am a year later, still looking for work (the Census won't go on forever) and marching today in my second May Day parade.
The rally began at 4:00 at Abner Clay Park and we heard from various speakers from organizations like Food Not Bombs, the Socialist Party and the Virginia People's Assembly; some were inspirational, others informational and one guy did some excellent spoken word. The organizers had even secured a permit this year, giving us a police escort as we headed down Clay Street past my house into Carver to Harrison, where we headed up to Broad and turned onto Adams. Along Broad Street, restaurant employees stood outside watching us since the dinner rush had not yet begun.
Last year's parade was part of First Fridays and stayed in that area, so tonight's route was far longer. People were out on the streets in much large numbers this year too, watching and waving us on; it may have been the music and our chanting that brought them out of their houses. Traffic was stopped for us at key intersections and we even got some honks of approval and raised fists from supporters as we moved along. Mostly, people took pictures and waved but at least they saw our message.
The sign I was carrying high over my head said, "Solidarity. Workers Unite." Assuming my status doesn't change, next year I plan to make my own sign to acknowledge people like me. I think it'll say something like. "Jobs for ALL."
But whether I'm working or not, I know I'll be walking in the parade. After all, May Day kicks off my birthday month and there's nothing like a parade to begin the festivities.
Likewise, there's no feeling quite like being part of democracy in action.
The rally began at 4:00 at Abner Clay Park and we heard from various speakers from organizations like Food Not Bombs, the Socialist Party and the Virginia People's Assembly; some were inspirational, others informational and one guy did some excellent spoken word. The organizers had even secured a permit this year, giving us a police escort as we headed down Clay Street past my house into Carver to Harrison, where we headed up to Broad and turned onto Adams. Along Broad Street, restaurant employees stood outside watching us since the dinner rush had not yet begun.
Last year's parade was part of First Fridays and stayed in that area, so tonight's route was far longer. People were out on the streets in much large numbers this year too, watching and waving us on; it may have been the music and our chanting that brought them out of their houses. Traffic was stopped for us at key intersections and we even got some honks of approval and raised fists from supporters as we moved along. Mostly, people took pictures and waved but at least they saw our message.
The sign I was carrying high over my head said, "Solidarity. Workers Unite." Assuming my status doesn't change, next year I plan to make my own sign to acknowledge people like me. I think it'll say something like. "Jobs for ALL."
But whether I'm working or not, I know I'll be walking in the parade. After all, May Day kicks off my birthday month and there's nothing like a parade to begin the festivities.
Likewise, there's no feeling quite like being part of democracy in action.
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