Long Beach, some of y’all found me watching that storm roll through. You came for the water, the weather, and whatever the Pacific was getting up to. Glad you stayed.
I’m your Unc Adept. And I’ve got an invitation for you.
When you see me on the balcony, wave. That’s it. Throw your hand up. I’ll throw mine back.
My father’s people came from Alabama. My mother’s from Georgia. In our families, sitting outside at the end of the day meant you acknowledged the people passing by. A wave to a car. A hello to somebody walking. Sometimes they stopped. Sometimes they kept right on going.
Either way, we’d seen each other.
Back in 2015, I carried that habit to the end of my Altadena driveway. Took my observing chair, Stargazer, and started waving.
That chair had already helped me explore the universe. I had a ten-inch telescope, binoculars, and an observing diary. Then I turned my attention toward another universe: the neighbors.
I wondered whether Los Angeles would wave back. Well, people circled their cars around. Children wanted their parents to drive past. Bus drivers and passengers joined in. Amy the jogger became a friend.
Within a week, I’d made at least ten new friends. Somebody even asked about bringing a second chair.
Now that’s when you know you’ve got something. Somebody wants to sit beside you and join the welcome.
The Eaton Fire destroyed our home. Stargazer burned on the porch. My telescope equipment, observing diary, and years of records were among the losses.
I miss what we lost. The chair burned. The invitation didn’t.
Sweetie and I traveled across North America, and eventually found our new home here in Long Beach. We call it the Node.
It terraces toward the beach, with balconies looking out over the Strand and the Pacific. People walk, jog, cycle, and carry on with their day right in front of us.
I’ve got my chair, my beverage, and my music. A Southern porch on the Pacific. And this view can wave back.
One Fourth of July, I went outside thinking about a car parked by a tow-away sign. Met a father and son who’d come for the fireworks.
That could have been a very short conversation about parking. Instead, it turned into pizza, Sweetie’s charcuterie, fresh figs, and fireworks over the water.
Y’all come through. Sometimes a little room for somebody changes the whole evening.
Then there’s Jordan. I met her selling her rolls from a wagon on a Long Beach sidewalk. Showing up, setting up, and betting on herself.
So I bought. Jordan runs 4C Rolls N Sweets, and she’s also a caregiver. Taking care of people in more ways than one.
And that sweet potato roll? That wasn’t dessert. That was ancestral technology.
Communities get stronger when we support people who are building something of their own. Sometimes connection looks like a wave. Sometimes it tastes like cinnamon.
I remember names. Ask about somebody’s world. Say hello to the dog, too. I go out with my grabber and pick up litter around our frontage. We share this place. Might as well take care of it, and each other.
When I taught, a high-five with Mr. Johnson meant we’d shared a purpose. Students could come back years later and throw that hand up again.
Membership never expires.
That’s the spirit of the Festival of Continuous Funk. No schedule. No registration. No ticket. Just an invitation that’s there when the opportunity presents itself.
You don’t have to know me. You don’t have to stop. You don’t have to agree with a thing I say. And you certainly don’t have to like whatever I’m playing.
Just throw your hand up. I’ll throw mine back.
Maybe next time we’ll know each other’s names. Maybe something wonderful will happen that neither of us planned.
Admission is free. Membership never expires.
Long Beach—wave that Funk at Unc!
Go show Jordan some love at 4C Rolls N Sweets. Follow her and DM to order: 4C Rolls N Sweets on Instagram
I first wrote about this porch habit in 2015. The welcome is still open.
From the archive: Southern Habits LA Loves and A Waving at the Neighbors Update.
No comments:
Post a Comment