Pride weekend street closures begin, here's what to expect
(FOX40.COM) — As the community prepares to celebrate Pride Month this weekend, the streets of Sacramento are preparing for the large crowds they expect to draw in, according to the City of Sacramento.
Video Above: History of Pride Month
The two-day event, hosted by the Sacramento LGBTQ Community Center, kicks off with a festival on Capitol Mall, running from June 14 to June 15, along with a march at Southside Park on Sunday.
Preparations for street closures began on Wednesday at 5 p.m. as organizers set up fencing and equipment along Capitol Mall, officials said.
Throughout the weekend, until Monday at 8 a.m., the following streets will be closed:
Capitol Mall from 3rd to 7th streets
4th Street from L Street to N Street
5th Street from L Street to N Street
6th Street from L Street to Capitol Mall
Meanwhile, the following streets will be closed on Sunday for the Pride March:
8th Street from W to T streets
T Street from 8th to 10th streets
10th Street from T Street to Capitol Mall
Capitol Mall from 9th to 10th streets
From 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. on Sunday, SacRT is providing free rides on fixed-route buses and light rail.
Those looking for a free ride must provide a physical copy or screenshot of the following flyer to the SacRT driver.
Only one flyer is needed per group, officials said.
Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
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Yahoo
11 hours ago
- Yahoo
My dad was an artist and alcoholic. I didn't understand him until he died.
I wasn't sure I really wanted another box of my dad's things. That's not true. I knew I didn't want them. His friends and family, historically, tend to give me what once belonged to him. His memories. His jokes. His artwork. They think I want these because I'm his son. I've always resented that. I saw it differently – more of a one-way transaction of a burden. 'Take these off my hands,' they seemed to say. 'Let me let this go.' These feelings swelled, like clockwork, the closer I got every year to Father's Day. We all have our dates, our burdens, that land less gently than the others. And Father's Day always landed like a heavy yoke over my shoulders. Opinion: Father's Day and Pride Month merged for me when my dad came out and met a man he loved I carried the grief because I thought I had to. I was his son – so wasn't it my responsibility? I took it on like a debt – though it was one I, myself, had never incurred. He left when I was 8 years old. My only sin was being his son. Somebody had to be there in a way he never had been, right? I started running out of spaces to tuck the plastic containers and cardboard boxes where I couldn't see them. I exhausted verbal sidesteps of comparisons between us. My resentment toward them – the old belongings, the people who gave them to me, my dear old dad – just grew. Tucked into one of those boxes is his coroner's report. It says what I already knew: chronic ethanolism. My dad was an alcoholic. What had long been coming finally came, and suddenly everyone was released from their obligation to hold on to what had once been his. So I waffled between acceptance and resentment. After he exited my life, he spent the better part of a decade homeless on the streets of Phoenix before my own sense of obligation brought me back to him. I should talk to him, I thought, just in case something changed. It didn't. Of course it didn't. Certainly not the stories, at least. When we talked on the phone, those fleeting few times between reconnecting and the death, I listened dutifully to the same repetitive narratives about concerts he'd worked security for. Songs I should check out. Movies I should watch. Things that slipped through the grasp of my memory – or concern – almost the moment he uttered them. Those stories – they were exhausting to listen to, but I entertained them. Perhaps out of the same sense of obligation of everyone else. Or maybe they genuinely cared. The myopia of my resentment precluded me from knowing one way or the other. Opinion: Another person I love has died. I've developed a horrible fear of death. One of the greatest cruelties of caring for someone with addiction is the cycles of grief before they're ever truly gone. I spent days, weeks, months, stuck in the spiral of bargaining. What if I could think of the perfect thing to say to him to pull him from his own pattern, addiction, and bring him back to reality? What if I could accomplish what all his other friends and family couldn't achieve – what if I could be a hero in his story? Who was to blame? What could I do? But those perfect answers, perfect lines of thought, perfect lines of action never came to me. And then he died. There was no closure. There were just questions I had no answers to and the ache of loss – sore and throbbing and made no less cruel by the passage of time. Opinion alerts: Get columns from your favorite columnists + expert analysis on top issues, delivered straight to your device through the USA TODAY app. Don't have the app? Download it for free from your app store. I resigned myself to the unknowing until I got a Facebook message from the owner of the autobody shop my dad frequented. He was closing his shop. He had a box of Dad's things. He wanted to send them to me. It wasn't a question of if I wanted them. Like everything else, of course I'd take them. Maybe they would make sense to me, someday. When the package arrived, I peeled back the packing tape. The note – scrawled all-caps in bold black marker on a manila file folder: 'We all loved Doug – he was my best friend.' Inside: Smeared, nasty pieces of paper stuck together in heaps. Composition notebooks with just the first two pages full. Notes from doctor appointments: no sardines, no bologna, salami or stews. Smoked baby clams and albacore tuna, though, are perfectly OK. Shopping lists, started over and over again like he kept misplacing what he wanted: honey mustard, Snyder's BIG (underlined, three times) sourdough pretzels, and salt and vinegar chips. And the art. One thing about my father: He was an artist of undeniable talent. A nearly photorealistic chalk pastel portrait hangs in a cracked frame on my wall. On another, a pen-and-ink sketch of a skier, crouched low and skis together as if in mid-flight. And even as his disease ate away at his brain, his artistic talents persisted. 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Drew Atkins is an opinion digital producer for USA TODAY and the USA TODAY Network. Reach him at aatkins@ You can read diverse opinions from our USA TODAY columnists and other writers on the Opinion front page, on X, formerly Twitter, @usatodayopinion and in our Opinion newsletter. This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: Father's Day reminds me of addiction, loss and healing | Opinion
USA Today
11 hours ago
- USA Today
My dad was an artist and alcoholic. I didn't understand him until he died.
My dad was an artist and alcoholic. I didn't understand him until he died. | Opinion There was no closure. There were just questions I had no answers to and the ache of loss – sore and throbbing and made no less cruel by the passage of time. Show Caption Hide Caption The surprising origins of Father's Day The very first Father's Day in America was celebrated on June 19, 1910, in the state of Washington. unbranded - Lifestyle I wasn't sure I really wanted another box of my dad's things. That's not true. I knew I didn't want them. His friends and family, historically, tend to give me what once belonged to him. His memories. His jokes. His artwork. They think I want these because I'm his son. I've always resented that. I saw it differently – more of a one-way transaction of a burden. 'Take these off my hands,' they seemed to say. 'Let me let this go.' Father's Day intensifies my grief These feelings swelled, like clockwork, the closer I got every year to Father's Day. We all have our dates, our burdens, that land less gently than the others. And Father's Day always landed like a heavy yoke over my shoulders. Opinion: Father's Day and Pride Month merged for me when my dad came out and met a man he loved I carried the grief because I thought I had to. I was his son – so wasn't it my responsibility? I took it on like a debt – though it was one I, myself, had never incurred. He left when I was 8 years old. My only sin was being his son. Somebody had to be there in a way he never had been, right? I started running out of spaces to tuck the plastic containers and cardboard boxes where I couldn't see them. I exhausted verbal sidesteps of comparisons between us. My resentment toward them – the old belongings, the people who gave them to me, my dear old dad – just grew. Tucked into one of those boxes is his coroner's report. It says what I already knew: chronic ethanolism. My dad was an alcoholic. What had long been coming finally came, and suddenly everyone was released from their obligation to hold on to what had once been his. So I waffled between acceptance and resentment. After he exited my life, he spent the better part of a decade homeless on the streets of Phoenix before my own sense of obligation brought me back to him. I should talk to him, I thought, just in case something changed. It didn't. Of course it didn't. Certainly not the stories, at least. When we talked on the phone, those fleeting few times between reconnecting and the death, I listened dutifully to the same repetitive narratives about concerts he'd worked security for. Songs I should check out. Movies I should watch. Things that slipped through the grasp of my memory – or concern – almost the moment he uttered them. Those stories – they were exhausting to listen to, but I entertained them. Perhaps out of the same sense of obligation of everyone else. Or maybe they genuinely cared. The myopia of my resentment precluded me from knowing one way or the other. Opinion: Another person I love has died. I've developed a horrible fear of death. There is pain in caring for someone in the cycle of addiction One of the greatest cruelties of caring for someone with addiction is the cycles of grief before they're ever truly gone. I spent days, weeks, months, stuck in the spiral of bargaining. What if I could think of the perfect thing to say to him to pull him from his own pattern, addiction, and bring him back to reality? What if I could accomplish what all his other friends and family couldn't achieve – what if I could be a hero in his story? Who was to blame? What could I do? But those perfect answers, perfect lines of thought, perfect lines of action never came to me. And then he died. There was no closure. There were just questions I had no answers to and the ache of loss – sore and throbbing and made no less cruel by the passage of time. I resigned myself to the unknowing until I got a Facebook message from the owner of the autobody shop my dad frequented. He was closing his shop. He had a box of Dad's things. He wanted to send them to me. It wasn't a question of if I wanted them. Like everything else, of course I'd take them. Maybe they would make sense to me, someday. When the package arrived, I peeled back the packing tape. The note – scrawled all-caps in bold black marker on a manila file folder: 'We all loved Doug – he was my best friend.' Inside: Smeared, nasty pieces of paper stuck together in heaps. Composition notebooks with just the first two pages full. Notes from doctor appointments: no sardines, no bologna, salami or stews. Smoked baby clams and albacore tuna, though, are perfectly OK. Shopping lists, started over and over again like he kept misplacing what he wanted: honey mustard, Snyder's BIG (underlined, three times) sourdough pretzels, and salt and vinegar chips. And the art. My father was an artist. These works painted a different picture. One thing about my father: He was an artist of undeniable talent. A nearly photorealistic chalk pastel portrait hangs in a cracked frame on my wall. On another, a pen-and-ink sketch of a skier, crouched low and skis together as if in mid-flight. And even as his disease ate away at his brain, his artistic talents persisted. Colored pencil-clowns, bold marker caricatures of Rambo and mockups of greeting cards he thought he could sell to some of the big-name companies filled this box, so overflowing from their own file folders that fitting them back in proved impossible. And lists. 'For the record: Places I've been to,' one reads. Chicago, Tucson, Pittsburgh, Las Vegas. 'War favs,' reads another: A Bridge Too Far. Apocolypse Now (sic). The Wind Talkers (sic, again). 'In Your Ear DJ Service,' one piece of dirty notebook paper reads. 'Doug's Pix ‒ Dance.' I queued up Frankie Valli and The Clash and Iggy Pop while I sorted through the detritus of a life in decline. I found my dad in what he left behind His drawings, his sketches, his notes and jokes scrawled in his spaced-out, all-caps scribble vary from nonsensical to outright crude. But buried in the piles of dirty, disintegrating papers were the lists of those concerts he worked security for. Songs I should check out. Movies I should watch. I could imagine him writing those out, holding on to those scraps of himself, running his finger down the list and telling his son. I had back what I thought I'd long lost. It is the closest I can ever get to him again. 'Hey buddy,' he used to say. 'Have you ever heard of …' It took the least polished assembly of his work to finally get the full picture of his portfolio. I could understand much better now what everybody else had tried to get me to see with all of his belongings. The full weight of his illness finally sunk in. Here was a person who was trying, in his own, broken way, to make things right – like he used to promise me in the letters he sent when he moved, before they eventually stopped. I had always just been grieving what I had already lost. These people weren't trying to pass on their obligations. They just wanted me to see him with the kindness they did. And really, I couldn't. Not fully. Not until now. Drew Atkins is an opinion digital producer for USA TODAY and the USA TODAY Network. Reach him at aatkins@
Yahoo
17 hours ago
- Yahoo
$1 entry for neighborhood pools, this weekend only
( — This Saturday and Sunday, the City's Department of Youth, Parks and Community Enrichment is inviting the community to take advantage of the $1 neighborhood pool entry, the City of Sacramento said. On June 14 and June 15, admission is only $1 per person at all neighborhood pools. Video Above: The splash pads now takes the place of the old wading pool which closed back in 2018 'We're excited that, with the opening of the newly converted Mama Marks Splash Pad and the reopening of Southside Pool, this will be the first summer since 2018 that all City aquatics facilities will be open,' said Sjon Swanson, YPCE recreation manager. 'We remain committed to ensuring that every community has access to safe and fun aquatic facilities this summer.' Throughout the summer, neighborhood pools will cost $3 for youth and $5 for adults for recreation swim through the summer. Officials said the open hours and days may vary. The neighborhood pools include: Cabrillo Pool at 1648 65th Avenue Clunie Pool at 601 Alhambra Boulevard Doyle Pool at 2827 Mendel Way Glenn Hall Pool at 5201 Carlson Drive George Sim Pool at 6207 Logan Way Johnston Pool at 231 Eleanor Avenue Mangan Pool at 2230 34th Avenue McClatchy Pool at 3500 5th Avenue Oki Pool at 2715 Wissemann Drive Pannell Meadowview Pool at 2450 Meadowview Road Southside Pool at 2107 6th Street Tahoe Pool at 3501 59th Street Officials said YPCE will continue offering many aquatics programs at 12 lifeguarded neighborhood pools at the start of the summer season. The programs include swim lessons, swim team, aquacise, recreational swimming and lap swimming. Four free play/wading pools will be open for children under 7-years-old. Wading pools include: Bertha Henschel Play Pool at 160 45th Street Colonial Play Pool at 5315 19th Avenue Robertson Play Pool at 3525 Norwood Avenue William Land Play Pool at 1300 13th Avenue Meanwhile, the North Natomas Aquatics Complex charges $7 for youth and $9 for adults. Officials said it will be open seven days per week through August. $200,000 grant presented to San Joaquin County schools for learning program Free aquatics programs for youth and families with financial needs are available through the Youth Program Scholarship Fund, officials said. Spray parks and splash pads began operating Memorial Day and will close out their summer on Labor Day. More information about pool hours and resources can be found on the city's website. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
