Saying Goodbye to 'Uncle'

Though it usually isn’t spoken, allowed, repeated very often and denied if confronted, most people from large families usually have that one favorite aunt or uncle they worshipped and loved just a tad bit more than the others. What was it about that favorite aunt or uncle? Maybe they loved to cook and always had a spread when the family came to visit. It could have been the uncle that always pulled out his wallet and pushed some money into your hand or pocket along with a smile and the comment, ‘get yourself a little something.’ Then there was the relative that always had the no-nonsense advice – and a tall-tale to back it up. I had an uncle like that. He was my father’s oldest brother, and though he had kids who were old enough to be my parents, he played with us so much we thought of him as a big brother. We affectionately and simply called him ‘Uncle’ for as long as I can remember, and I was a teenager before I knew his real first name. I think some of my fondest memories of Uncle were the stories he told. I never knew if he was making them up, or if he was telling the truth, but I was always fascinated, as he was an amazing storyteller. Some of them bordered on the scandalous to a certain degree: “I used to be in love with my father’s brother’s wife. She was only five years older than me,” he confessed one day when I found a newspaper clipping on a history website that dated back to the 1940’s and told a story of her accidental death at the age of 30. Some were over-the-top lies that had us laughing for years after we heard the stories: He was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack once, and there was only one television. Trying to make him smile, I said, ‘Uncle – there is only one TV. If your roommate wants to watch channel 5 and you want to watch channel 7, what are you gonna do?’ He raised his eyebrows and said, “We’re gonna watch channel 7. You know that’s why I got shot, right? I was whipping someone’s ass in a bar because he changed the channel on the TV.” I said, “Uncle, I thought you had a heart attack?” He paused, raised his eyebrows again and laughed. “Oh, yeah, well, after I whipped his behind, I had a heart attack.” Though he didn’t drink, he hung out on the street corners of south Los Angeles along with a variety of colorful characters: winos, gamblers and the neighborhood postman, giving them all a taste of his philosophy on life: “Do what you want to do – and do what makes you happy.” At 82 years old, I could pick up the phone, call him in the middle of the night and we would talk for hours. If I drove out for a visit, we’d go to the cemetery and visit the graves of our ancestors, and I’d really be in for a treat then, because he always had a new story to tell me about one of them, something he had never told me before or something he made up. Last summer one of my best friends and I drove to L.A. for the day and decided to stop by his house and say hi. He immediately began to fuss at us, saying we were too pretty to be running the streets of Los Angeles alone. “Where are your men?” He said. “Do they know you are out here by yourselves?” A humorous Mack Daddy, he called me several times and left messages on my voice mail to tell my girlfriend ‘She Sho Was Pretty – Tell Her I said Hey.” I guess it was the way he said it that makes me smile to this day – a tinge of a southern accent, a soulful drawl, sexy but not creepy. I think it’s so cool to remember someone this way. Uncle passed away in his sleep on February 3, 2014. I had my initial cry, but I also thought about the awesome times we had and the stories he told. I don’t even care whether or not they were true or fictitious. I think I just love the fact that he took the time to make them up, just to make me smile. Good night Uncle Willie Gant. I’ll see you in the morning.

Girls Night Out

Girls night out has escalated in its popularity in recent years, with many industries gleefully capitalizing on the very subject. SUV and mini-van commercials display girlfriends and wives taking the keys from their significant others and piling up the family vehicle amid laughter and music. Cards and invitations can be found in the greeting card section of one's favorite boutique, bookstore or drugstore; clubs beckon, and retail stores sell t-shirts, purses and jewelry all promoting the healthy declaration that every woman periodically requires a night out with her girlfriends. I'd engaged in a few. My crowd enjoys the discounted drinks and huge TV screens strategically placed in the bars, but the Carioke nights were starting to wear thin. I remembered a time when you had to be really drunk to get your nerve up enough to stand in front of others and follow the words on the screen, but lately it seemed as though everyone who got up to sing thought they were auditioning for American Idol, the Voice or prepping for the national anthem at a baseball game. It was getting way too serious. So when one of my ski club road dogs suggested that we plan a girls' night out to celebrate our birthdays, I sort of half-laughed when they suggested we celebrate 'girls night out' in Jamaica. A week later, I received a three-way call on my cell phone. Four women were interested and serious. With credit cards in hands, we called the airlines. At first, I was hesitant. A week with four women on a Caribbean island sounded a little too adventurous for my blood. However, it took only a few minutes of friendly persuasion to convince me that we, the girls, needed a week to ourselves to 'play catch-up' with our lives, and to treat ourselves to some much needed rest and relaxation. When the date rolled around, armed with stuffed suitcases, straw hats, unread books and freshly braided hair, I was on a direct, red-eye flight to Montego Bay. Nine hours later we checked into the Ritz Carlton where we shared two adjoining suites. This was luxurious, but also important on a vacation such as this one. We were going to be sharing bathroom space for seven days and nights. Three bathrooms were absolutely necessary. Our first night there we attended the annual Sum Fest, a Reggae music festival that goes on all night long. About three in the morning, as we were headed back to our hotel, a thief snatched my purse. Along with feeling violated, I began to have regrets about the trip. When we returned to the hotel, I had no desire to leave the sanctuary of the resort, but my girlfriends were there for me. They reminded me that I had not been injured, I still had my passport, and that I should refuse to allow one thug to ruin my trip. They were right. He got away with a few dollars, my credit cards and a nice leather clutch, but I had my health, no broken bones and my girlfriends. A couple of days later, I once again ventured out, got some shopping in and cheerfully returned with a great piece of art, a few sarongs and of course coffee and rum. We scheduled our spa appointments, went sailing, visited a couple of the requisite tourist spots (Dunns River Falls and Margueritaville) and went ATV riding. Some nights after dinner we listened to jazz in the hotel lounge. We discussed love, the challenges of being single (or married),our parents and our children. We asked each other for advice. We got a little nosy and discussed sex habits. We cried a little, but we laughed and giggled more. The biggest concern we encountered each day was what we would wear and where we would eat. We changed clothes three or more times a day and complemented each other on our outfits, shoes and accessories sincerely and without an ounce of envy. Seven days with girlfriends and no tiffs or catty words. We met a couple on the same floor of our hotel who were on vacation from Chicago - he was a barbershop owner and his girlfriend owned a beauty shop. We were sitting in the lounge chatting one evening when he asked, "Okay, so what's really up with you ladies? I mean, are you here to catch? Are you looking for a husband? What's really going on - five beautiful women from California on a mission, right?" We looked at each other and took turns answering him one by one, kindly though, as we were now mellowed by a combination of the mood, the ambiance of the island and the Jamaican sun. One of the ladies summed it up best when she replied, "We are all hard-working professionals. Some of us have children, businesses, spouses, and at home everything is about everyone else. We hardly allow time for ourselves. On the weekends, we are driving our kids to little league or dance classes, cleaning up and committing to volunteer. On Sundays, we go to church. There is no ulterior motive; no desire for an island romance. We're here to relax and be a little selfish." Though I believe at first hesitant to think our hearts were sincere, the couple smiled and nodded, then continued to hang out with us through the remainder of the week. I believe our week was finally summed up best by how we felt when we sat out on the beach late one afternoon. The sun was going down, and the temperature had been about 85 degrees, but with the Caribbean sea breeze teasing our bodies and our hair, it felt like a California Spring. One of my friends brought a portable CD player and we began to listen to some rap music. I think we were all missing home, so we turned it up and began to dance on the beach, each of us in our style and world. And then the tourists began to come. People walking on the beach came to our little circle and began to dance as well. Words did not have to be spoken; I think they simply saw the smiles on our faces, felt the freedom we evoked in our dancing and they joined us. Some didn't even speak English; but I truly believe they saw what we saw - not just the beauty of a Caribbean sunset or crest of the sea dancing against the sand, but the opportunity to be free, to enjoy life, to smile, laugh and giggle and not be judged.

October Book Signings 2013

Book Signings - October 2013. Please Join me on Saturday, October 12th, From 12pm - 2pm. At The Hourglass Art and Wine Gallery 8200 Haven Ave. #103, Rancho Cucamonga, Ca As I celebrate the release of my third novel, Masumi Records. Humorous, candid and inspiring, Masumi Records Weaves a tale of obsession, dedication and sincere Love for the universal language we call music.

Music is the Universal Language; or The German Pianist

About 12 years ago I was on a cruise ship in Europe. My cousin and I were hanging out at a little piano bar and the German pianist asked us what we would like to hear. I requested this song, but he'd never heard of it. I sang a few bars for him and told him it was an American treasure. A couple of days go by, and we went back to the bar. When the pianist saw me, he waved me over and started playing this song. He told me that after I described it to him, he had the sheet music faxed over when we had stopped at the last port. He told me he fell in love with the song and was adding it to his repertoire. Music is truly the universal language. Happy Birthday Nat King Cole.

A Senior Moment

A Senior Moment I believe that everyone on the face of the planet has heard the term, ‘Senior Moment’. Akin to forgetfulness, it is classified as a momentary lapse of memory; an episode in which a distraction, either physical, or mental, wafts through the brain and temporarily erases the immediate subject of which is being concentrated on; in the midst of a discussion, destination or task. Linking this lapse with old age, blogs and studies have been dedicated to it, society has elected to highlight the humor in it; and it has been blazoned across t-shirts, post cards and coffee cups. Now an acceptable adage, both the young and old alike embrace it, joke about it and wear it like a badge on a Girl Scout sash. Love this! Several years ago, I had the privilege of working in an administrative capacity at a lovely senior residential community. A beautiful landscape of walkways and rose gardens and nearly 500 trees, the twenty-acre property was reminiscent of a lovely park without the runners or roller skaters. The seniors who lived there came from all walks of life: doctors, homemakers, war veterans, accountants, seamstresses and former trophy wives. They all had amazing stories to tell, and they would share them weekly in a coffee-and-chat environment set up by our social services director. Though I had many tasks to fulfill on a daily basis, I’d often find an excuse to walk through and listen to some of the stories they shared. I noticed a similar pattern with most of the residents: they were pretty long-winded when discussing their history, and often times would be interrupted by a co-resident who had a question. In answering, inadvertently the question would throw them off and they would struggle to remember what they were talking about. Sometimes another resident would help them along, and other times the conversation would simply take another direction, with the speaker failing to finish the initial story. At that point they would touch their foreheads and say, ‘Sorry, I forgot what I was going to say. I just had a senior moment.’ Being in my forties at the time, and like many of my younger co-workers, we thought nothing of using this, although in jest, to each other when the occasion called for it, until one manager suggested that we refrain from using the term, simply out of respect to the resident, and so that it didn’t appear we were mocking anyone. Though difficult to abstain from, especially in that environment, we respected her point and changed our comments. I thought I was doing well until I met a senior who I will call Dora Bernstein. Dora Bernstein was a resident, recently transplanted from another community. She was the resident speaker one day when I happened to walk through the game room where they held their coffee and conversation. I hung around for a while and listened as she shared some humorous stories of her past as a former school teacher and a WAC who served in World War II. I was walking through the game room one afternoon when I saw her sitting at a card table alone. I stop and spoke, and asked her if she needed assistance, or whether she was expecting someone. She replied that her scrabble partner had died a few weeks before. I took a seat and listened as she expressed her passion for word games, and she explained that she still came to the game room weekly in the hopes that someone would come through and show interest in starting a game. I looked at the grandfather clock across the room. I hadn’t taken my lunch break, and it was going on three o’clock. I usually ate lunch at my desk, so I thought to myself, ‘This would be a great way to spend a lunch break.’ I sat down in front of her and said, “I’ve got thirty minutes. Let’s play.” Delighted, the 86-year-old, Betty White look-a-like mother of five with an oxygen tube attached to her nostrils smiled sweetly at me. She plopped a worn scrabble dictionary onto the table and went over the rules. Then she spoke these chilling words: “I’ll give you a one-hundred point handicap to start. And I’ll still beat you.” I raised my eyebrows, looked at the clock again, and replied, “I don’t want your little handicap. And you can play first.” Like a lightning rod, Dora threw down six letters and immediately scored forty points. I pretended I dropped something and looked under the table to see if she had some extra scrabble squares sitting in her lap. An hour later, I was losing, 250 to 120. When I got up to go, Dora reverted back to the sweet little old lady I’d sat down with just an hour before, and asked me, “Do you want to save this game for another time?” I suggested that we start a new one, and I would meet her, at the same time, same place in a week. From that point, it was on. I checked my calendar and made sure I had no meetings scheduled on Monday afternoons at three o’clock. Faithful to the cause, Dora was there, always on time, and at each meeting, she offered to give me a one-hundred-point handicap. Each time I would adamantly refuse, telling myself that this was the game in which I would win. Each session, Dora beat the pants off of me. When I’d leave, she would make cracks like, ‘You should have taken my handicap,’ or ‘what’d they teach you in high school?’ and ‘Give me the name of your English teacher, so I can slap him.’ And so began our animated rivalry. One day I was working on a project and a reminder popped up on my Outlook calendar for our recurring game. As I shuffled some papers on my desk and jumped up, ready to go smack down some letters with my senior nemesis, there was a knock on the door. It was Dora in a wheelchair, being pushed by a tall, handsome man about my age. “I have to cancel our game for today,” she explained. “I have a date.” She continued by making introductions. “This is my grandson Sean. He’s a doctor, you know,” she added proudly. To him, she said, “This is our Human Resources Director. This is the young whippersnapper I beat every Monday at Scrabble.” I smiled up at him politely and glared at her behind her back as he steered her out of the office. The next week I broke down. As we started our game, she asked the usual polite question: ‘Would you like a one-hundred point handicap?’ Looking around to make sure no one else saw me; I raised my eyebrows, looked her straight in the eyes and nodded slowly. I watched her mark the numbers at the top of the scorecard, and as we grabbed our squares to start the game, I swore I heard the theme song from Clint Eastwood’s ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’ playing in the background. That day I was determined to win. I challenged every word she used that I’d never heard before, and each time I ended up losing a turn. I glanced at the score. She was gaining on me with phenomenal speed. Those six-to-ten point words were quickly adding up. I started getting desperate, so I decided on a cheap tactic to throw her off. “Dora,” I asked, “What was your most memorable time during the war?” Dora smiled and the blue eyes behind the bifocals became dreamy. “Probably when I met my husband,” she replied, and she launched into the story of how they met. While she was talking, her scrabble words were getting smaller and smaller and she was only scoring four to ten points a word. I kept nodding and egging her on. I scored a thirty-something pointer and she looked at me with her eyebrows raised. Now I was the sweet one. “Do you want to challenge me?” I asked, laughing like Vincent Price. She looked down at her letters, and then at the board. The only letters left were the ones in front of us. “No,” she replied, “I was trying to remember something.” “Oh?” I goaded, basking in the glow of my conquest. “Having a senior moment?” “No, young lady. I’m finishing the game.” With that she picked up all seven of her letters, cross-connected them to my thirty-pointer and said smugly, “Humph! Scrabble!” I stared back at her, my mouth hanging open. The word she spelled was, ‘Equinox ’. I looked at the score card. Dora had won by 100 points. When I took on her initial invitation, I’d had no idea how proficient she was in Scrabble. Walking back to my office, I thought about how much I enjoyed playing, and even losing, if not for the exercise, for the simple pleasure of her company, and our light-hearted repartee. For the next two weeks I was out on vacation. Before I left, I called and left a message on her answering machine that I wouldn’t see her in the game room for the next two Mondays, but I’d be ready for her when I returned. Though I was absorbed in traveling during those two weeks, I picked up a scrabble dictionary and studied it on the plane, smiling to myself at some of the words I’d plan to place on the board, words Dora didn’t expect I knew. When I returned to work, I had notes tacked to my door, and dozens of emails to catch up on and respond to. Shuffling through them, I saw that one of the notes was from Dora. ‘She probably wants to gloat about that last win,’ I thought, as I placed it aside and jumped onto my computer. The resident chaplain would send out emails when a resident went to the hospital or passed away, so when one with the subject heading with Dora Bernstein’s name popped up, my heart dropped. When I read that she’d died in her sleep, I was immediately overcome with sadness. There were hundreds of seniors at the community. Each time an individual passed away, it was difficult, but it was the business we were in. We were aware and trained that in a retirement community, for many of the residents, this was their last stop. I thought for weeks about the feisty little senior with the oxygen tank and my eyes would get moist. I had to remind myself that she’d had nearly 87 years on this earth and had lived a full and fruitful life. From time to time I would pick up the note, usually on Mondays around three o’clock and re-read it. It was handwritten, and it was obviously from Dora. The handwriting was wobbly, but written in perfect English. She said she’d forgotten that I was on vacation and had come to the game room waiting for me. ‘I had a senior moment,’ she wrote, and then she went on to write that out of all of her scrabble partners, she’d enjoyed beating me the most. I’d smile, wipe my tears and tuck the note away.

Crossing Paths: The Wallet

One of life's true joys is a random act of kindness. I'd rather be on the giving end, allowing God to bless others and simply using me as an instrument, although throughout my life people, both friends and strangers, have blessed me with acts of kindness in the form of words and deeds without a single expectation of reciprocation, except for a heartfelt thank you. In December of last year, I rented a car and before I turned it in, I found a wallet in the glove compartment. It was bright pink and flowery, and obviously not my brother's wallet, with whom I'd shared the car. We looked through it for identification, and guessed with the contents that it belonged to a child or a teenager. Since it was around the holidays, I told him, 'I'm going to mail it to its owner. If we return it to the rental place, she'll never get it back.' It also had gift cards, so for a teen, I knew it was a loss. The only identifying information we could find was an email address (which is actually good for the teen) so I sent her an email letting her know I found her wallet, and if she'd like, I would simply mail it to her school. She didn't know me, so I thought that would be the safest alternative for its return. I wrapped the wallet in pink tissue paper, stuck it in an overnight envelope, and waited to hear from its owner. I check my email daily, so after a couple of weeks, I was surprised that I hadn't received a response. A month passed by, and still no response. I looked through it once more, hoping to find another email or an address, but there was nothing. I knew at this point I could have returned it to the car rental company, but I'd had some losses myself, including a camera, a CD holder full of CDs, two car chargers and a small shopping bag (that had slid under the seat) of brand new cosmetics. With each incident (and mind you, these were all separate and over a period of dozens of years) I'd called, returned to the counter, and my property had either not been turned in, or they hadn't seen it. I think the camera was probably my biggest loss. I'd placed it in the glove compartment, headed to the airport on the shuttle, and then realizing I'd left it, I rode the shuttle back to the car rental company. They were cleaning out the car and the camera was gone. I quizzed each employee who had come into contact with the car, and they all said they hadn't seen it. I checked the counter and the lost and found, and of course, no one had turned it in. This certainly isn't an attack on car rental employees, but they have an advantage. If there is an item they find and wish to keep, they can keep it because there is a clause on our rental agreement that says they are not liable for lost property. Okay, now I'm rambling. Still thinking about my Nikon. Now back to my story. Remember Tom Hanks in the movie Castaway? Where he was marooned on an island after a plane crash? He named the ball Wilson and used a bunch of products from other packages to survive, but there was one package he kept in tact. He was stranded for four years, and after he was saved, he delivered the package. Okay, that was a stretch, but I wanted to return the wallet for the sheer satisfaction of ensuring that its owner got it back, intact. Last week I received an email from its owner. She wrote that she hardly ever checked that particular email address, but she was hoping I still had her wallet. I wrote that I did, sent her my phone number, and she and her mother agreed to meet me at a nearby mall. Two days later and nearly five months after I sent the email we connected, and it was one of the most pleasant encounters I'd ever had with strangers. Her mother, a schoolteacher,was one of the nicest people I've ever met, and her daughter, the owner of the wallet, is an aspiring writer. They brought me a box of See's Candy, my favorite (and how could they have known that?) and we stood out in the parking lot and talked as if we had known each other for years. Our conversation was both friendly, pleasant and delightful. We hugged, and when I left, I had such a great sense of fulfillment. I know it sounds silly, but I guess it doesn't take much to make me happy. Happiness is returning a lost wallet to its rightful owner.

April - May - June Book Signings

Sunday, April 22, 2012
I'll be at the Sisters in Crime Booth #373 at the 17th Annual LA Times Festival of Books on Sunday, April 22th, from 12:00-2:00pm. This premier book fest will be held at the USC campus in Los Angeles on Saturday and Sunday, April 21st and April 22nd. Along with 450 authors, bookstores, there will be celebrity authors and events geared for children. If you and your friends and family plan to attend this phenomenal event, please stop by the booth and say hello! www.latfob.com
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Palm Springs Writers Guild Day of Works
From 2-4 the PSWG will hold their annual Day of Works event at the Rancho Mirage Library in Rancho Mirage. This event is free and open to the public. Winners of their annual short story contest will be announced.
Saturday, May 12, 2012 Pasadena, CA Central Park
Pasadena LitFest - An all day festival open to the public at Pasadena's Central Park, the Pasadena LitFest will feature crafts, vendors and food. I will be signing books from 10am-4pm along with Pamela Samuels Young, Author of Buying Time.


Saturday, June 30th, 2012 10am-6pm Leimert Park Book Fair - I will be signing copies of my books at this premier book festival in the heart of Los Angeles along with the creme de la creme of west coast African American authors. The event will also include celebrity guests, panels, performances, and activities for children.
www.leimertparkbookfair.com

If you subscribe to my blog and follow me on twitter, send me a tweet on the day of any event you attend. I will have something special for you when you arrive at my booth! Robyn Gant