The Turkey Initiative

For any house, the kitchen on Walters Road was especially large.  The counter and cabinet space expanded for days—pots, pans and food could hide practically anywhere.  Even in the breakfast nook, a small pantry stood to the right of the large radiator offering more potential space for all of the wanted food.

Like many families in the south, we depended on food stamps to fill our bellies.  Food came and went quickly, and as time went on, food seemed to make less and less of an appearance. By the time I was sixteen, I was the only member in my immediate family with a drivers license and a job. I would often come home from work and find something like the refrigerator door open (our dog could open the door),  and/or a brown drawer or cabinet door missing. The brown linoleum floor was almost always covered with layers of dirt and food.  And, if there was food in the kitchen, it was almost always hidden from sight. Climbing on the counters in search for food was a common event amongst my siblings and I.  The ritual repeated itself everyday: climb on counter, open cabinet, search through cabinet, shut cabinet, climb down, climb on counter, open the next cabinet and repeat.  It was always a great day when Little Debbie Snacks found their way into our hands (oatmeal pies were particularly popular among the family). Some days, those snacks were the only things I ate.  I would eat two or three mini pies of sugary goodness (this always seemed to cause more dissatisfaction than benefit).

On one particular occasion, I stood in the kitchen studying the massive pile of dirty dishes. Bits of old food scattering the counter. It was one of those classic moments—you approach a mess from far away, ready with your fingers bared and realized you’ve bit off more than you can chew. Flies swooped and drooped in a timely motion flying through rotten smell as if to celebrate all of their potential, upcoming meals. My bare feet brushed over the brown, flowered linoleum, as I approached the breakfast nook. I can’t exactly remember why I was standing there. Maybe, I was wondering where I could find food, or maybe I was waiting for my Mom or Stepdad to wander home. 

Time passed just as quickly as any other moment, but the next fifteen minutes rapidly slowed to etch its way into my memory. A dark minivan swayed to-and-fro rolling down our driveway upon the uneven gravel. The ground crunched under the solid weight of the tire pressure--only to be silenced when the van settled into its designated spot. A taller woman with short, blonde hair stepped out of the van. I looked closer—I knew her. It was one of the moms from Pikeville's varsity tennis team.  I practiced with her daughter almost every day during the fall season. But, why in the world was she knocking on the door? What could she possibly want?

I met Jessica’s mom at the door. We did the typical “hello, how are you?” conversation, and somehow she nonchalantly slipped in that she was there to deliver Thanksgiving dinner. I was absolutely speechless. Thoughts flooded my consciousness—I’m not sure I even thanked her properly. I'm not even sure how I reacted. How did she find out? Who told her? She retreated down the concrete stairs, and I followed her to the van.  The van door slid open only to reveal a blinding amount of shopping bags.  Our kitchen table was covered with food—food for not only Thanksgiving but for many weeks to come.  Jessica’s mom left me alone in the kitchen shortly following her delivery. I was left to finish the final stage of unpacking our food. Many people helped to contribute to our family that day, and it was there and then that I vowed I would one day do the same for someone else.

Today, with the help of friends and family, I was able to donate 10 turkeys and 20 boxes of stuffing to the California Homemaker’s Association. My relationship with Thanksgiving and my undeniable love for turkey, of course, contributes to my drive for the ultimate Turkey success. My hope is that those turkeys could put a smile on someones face erasing moments of uneasiness and tiredness. This cause will forever be called “The Turkey initiative,” and I hope to see more for many more years to come.  My goal: to pass on the hope that was once given to me through the gift of a Thanksgiving meal.  I will forever call this idea the Turkey Law. So, with each year brings on “The Turkey Initiative” with the ultimate goal of spreading the Turkey law. 

The Churro Man

Outside AT&T park--The first pitch is about to happen!

The biggest regret of my night: I bought a churro from a man covered in sweat for $4.75. I couldn’t resist the temptation. The churro was a massive 18-20 inches in length, and the sugar glowed, bounding and reflecting off of the stadium lights perched just beyond my peripheral vision. The Churro Man wore a duffle bag—presumably full of churros—across his chest. Sweat dripped down his forehead in a string of pearly beads. His expression never faltered, although it was obviously that he was outwardly tired. The Churro Man wore a slightly dangerous and deranged look upon his face—I guess he really needed to sell those churros. Waving the sugary treat violently above his head, he presented it to AT&T Park as if it was an award to be won, and I desperately wanted to win it.

What more could I have asked for? Crazy, yelling man with food? Check. Giants playing ball in the background? Check. Friends to my left and to my right? Check. And you know what I asked for? A damn churro. I wanted that churro so badly, I even had to borrow money from Kevin. $1.75 to be exact. The beer and mound of garlic covered fries that I bought right before the first pitch burned a whole in my pocket. The overly priced ballpark food didn’t have a chance—I felt the loss of my hard-earned money before I felt the hungry void disappear. So, as the Churro Man quickly approached, I responded to his fast, loud pace with an even faster loud pace. He was only two steps away when I yelled, "Hey! How much?"

1,000's squish to witness the last Tuesday
Night Game of the 2011 season.

I wrapped the long sugary concoction between my fingers. Oh how I admired the glow and sparkle of my new purchase. Layers upon layers of sugar coated the fried dough like a winter coat. I shook the churro, and the churro shook all over me. I then shook the churro closer to the ground, and then brushed the sugary coat off my lap. I silently thanked the churro for finding me during the last Tuesday night Giants game in San Francisco. 

It was about that time that I heard someone behind me say, "is there a nurse or doctor around?" The voice repeated the question again, “is there a nurse or doctor around?” Naturally curious, I looked around for the problem.  A few seats down and a little over to my left, there was an elderly gentleman having a seizure. Of course, after the announcement was made, doctors and nurses seemingly mass-produced. By any means, the man was not alone, but not much can be done to help someone when seizing. All you can do is stand by their side and make sure they don’t hurt anyone—or more importantly, hurt themselves.  Many stood and kneeled around him until he was ready to be helped.

The elderly man, didn’t seemed to be panicked or worried, and I was pleased to see that people stood by him in his time of need. Regardless, however, I was disturbed by the situation. I was disturbed by how unmoved the crowd was. Someone’s life was being changed, altered, and people were cheering about a ball being tossed around.  Of course, it would be impractical for thousands of people to rush to this man’s side—that would have looked ridiculous—but more consideration and compassion could have gone a long way.

Could it be possible that the baseball game was more important than the health and well being of this man?  I even admit—I was no better than my surrounding counterparts.  I had my churro. I had my friends. I had my game. Consciously or unconsciously—I chose to pay more attention to the field that a man in desperate need of assistance.  I would glance down momentarily every now and again, but just like the people gathered tightly around me, the baseball game would eventually become my focus again. To further my point, the mild interest of the man’s illness didn't travel much farther than 5-10 seats. That evening, all of our lives intersected in one location—AT&T Stadium. Everyone sat tightly together adding to the spirit and fervor of the crowd. When someone couldn’t participate, however, they were unintentionally separated from the event that drove everyone to the same intersection.

The 3 Replacements sitting in seats below:
Yellow cap man in the center.

I felt selfish. I felt selfish for having my churro, and I felt selfish for having my health. I felt selfish for not needing to be helplessly walked out of the stadium. I felt selfish that my biggest regret for that evening was questioning the health status of my sugary churro.  As the churro, not mere minutes later, dwelled in the pit of my stomach, I wondered if the uneasy feeling in my gut was the result of the sugar or the selfishness I felt.

Eventually, a paramedic/emt and a few friends escorted the elderly man out of the stadium.  His face appeared worn and tired, and walking seemed to be no easy task. The man swayed on his feet as if he was just learning how to walk. With each slow, shaky step, he leaned on the paramedic/emt with his remaining strength. And just like that he was gone. The man passed by me, and walked out of my life. Who would have guessed, though, that mere moments later, a new crowd would swoop in quickly to take his place.

Making the Most of Your Commute: A Simple Guide to Becoming A Road Warrior.

It’s inevitable: if you live in America, and you have a car, you will fall prey to traffic at some point in your life. There are no if’s and’s or but’s about it, traffic is a beastly monster that crawls under the hood of every car, releasing poisonous fumes into circulating vents, thus causing a major delay in your brain. Hence, traffic is born—a  new monster created everyday capable of taking out even the most harmless of creatures. Overcoming the monotonous, terrifying beast is vital for your survival. And, I assume you want to survive your commute, so taking this advice may be your only hope. 

Terms for Survival:

A commuter—one who drives a distance longer than 30minutes between 3-5 days a week for work and/or school.  Common characteristics of a commuter may include: tunnel vision, reading, swerving in a dazed stupor, and expressing road rage through a series of gestures and words.

A road warrior—one who has surpassed the dullness of a commuter with god-like qualities. They can often be compared to Jeff Gordon, dragons and Yoda alike. Using their creative whit and brute strength, these individuals always manage to put the entertainment of others before there own needs. Laughing in the face of danger is always a must.

For your transformation from normal commuter to road warrior, here is what you need to know:

Honk your horn frequently and often. This will insure that you get the attention of everyone, including yourself. You want to be awake and present for anything. After all, you are a warrior, and warriors don’t let people idly pass—you want attention! Popularity is an important quality that road warriors crave. And, if you honk, heads will be naturally inclined to turn in your direction.  So, honk that horn. Honk at cops, honk at old drivers, honk at pedestrians—but make sure you choose wisely the tone of each honk because each one is an extension of your personality.

Drive it like you stole it (and when I say “it” I mean your car, of course).  To ensure maximum use of the on-ramp, slam your foot on the petal and turn your wheel sharply (in the direction of the freeway, of course) to insure you get the most squealing potential.  “Where your eyes go, your car goes” (The Art of Racing in the Rain, Garth Stein)—it’s open road and it’s yours for the taking. People will get out of your way (and if they don’t, you both have an immediate problem on your hands). The friction of rubber against pavement will either light the underbelly of your car on fire or send the people behind you into a smoke induced coma. To be honest, you will probably find the latter to be more common, but that doesn’t mean putting your car into an induced blaze of glory isn’t possible—dragons can do it, so road warriors must fall into this greatness pool as well.

Weave in and out of the carpool lane during rush hour.  This will provide you with entertainment typically between the hours of 6am-9am. If it is no longer the allotted carpool time during your commute and you are preceding to continue this advice, stop. You are no longer a warrior; you are a fool. The damage will be irreparable.  However, swerving in and out of the carpool lane during traffic is the way of the warrior. It is cool. People will look at you with admonishment and adoration. Many will think, “Cool! I wish I could do that!” and others will furrow their brows and communicate awful words that cannot be repeated on this page. Both qualities are required for the mightiest of warriors. At this point, you may be thinking: what about the cops? Well, what about them? They are drones of the commute too. Becoming a warrior creates an impenetrable force field of awesomeness—cops and morons alike will bounce off your shield like a hockey puck reverberating off of a wall.

Like the carpool lane, you can also use the shoulder at will. Besides that little white line creating an invisible barrier, you have NOTHING blocking your way to instant gratification.  So, be gratified. Spread your wings; honk your horn, and swerve from the carpool lane into the shoulder. After all, America is all about instant gratification, and your wish, as a warrior, is to be gratified.

You are a warrior—paralleled to the great Yoda himself— so if you truly wish, you too can BE traffic. Slam on your breaks, frequently and often.  Swerve into the onramps at massive and uncontrollable speeds; blindside those who wish to be a warrior but undeniably remain a commuter. What you decided is the inevitable; nobody can escape the glory that is you.

Simply: If you don’t become a road warrior during your morning drive, you will not survive. The vicious fumes of the traffic monster (which you could have had the choice to create) will eat at your soul giving you little ambition to continue on the path set before you.

So, what will you chose to be? Road Warrior? Or Commuter?


PS. As a road warrior, I must heed this warning-- if for some reason, you do find yourself in flames or rundown by the cops, it's because you weren't reading between the lines. So please, be careful with the weapon that is you. 

A Picture Perfect Day

By the time I was in 1^st grade, I had attended a number of primary schools across Delaware and North Carolina (I believe it was 4 or 5, which would mean that I attended one or more schools every year until our family moved to Kentucky). I was six—truthfully wishing to be seven—but I am positive I was six. Endless summer days in the North Carolina sun bleached my short, boyish-like hair and freckles splashed the brims of my cheeks. My attire consisted of shorts (or overalls), a pair of roughed-up tennis shoes and a t-shirt ready for a beating from Mother Nature. A daily invitation from the sun beckoned me to come and play (and, willing, I never let the sun down).  I would run and run and run. And if Ali, my sister, was outside (which was always very likely) we would run and run and run. Like every summer, time was always deceitful. Rolling around in the dirt, making mud pies and selling or eating the mud pies always had to stop sooner or later. And when the production line had to stop, it was a sign: school was on the horizon, and picture day was soon to follow.

Like all of my 20-30 classmates, I was going to experience picture day.  I am sure my mother probably mentally prepared me the night before, but all I could remember was the sheer terror I felt when my feet landed on the pavement and the blue car door shut behind me.

I was wearing a dress. The dress was painted with pastel green and pink flowers. The sleeves held an 80’s puff complimenting a simple, white lace accent, and a light pink sash tied around my waist to complete the grand statement: I was coming to school with style.

I began to wander toward my classroom door. It was then my pace began to slow. I came to a stop, and wiggled in my dress. I was uncomfortable. That was when my conscious was flooded with consistent and awful thoughts: What if today wasn’t really picture day? What if I am dressed up and no one else is? What if my friends don’t like my dress? My stomach began to ache and my throat quickly dried out. I was tempted to turn around to find someone (or run), but the hallway was empty. The idea of being alone terrorized me further; I was stuck in the spot where I stood. The slight glow from the classroom remained in my focus giving me little comfort. Seconds turned into minutes; it wasn’t until a parent rounded the corner with her son dressed in the height of fashion that I could will myself to move.

My lovely desk...

 Fast-forward 17 years. It is the night before my first “official” day of work, and I can’t help but relive the terror that visited me years before. I am no longer in college (hooray! I am a college graduate!), and I no longer can say I am “hunting for a job.” I guess that would put me into the category of “big girl.”

To preoccupy my fears, I packed my lunch, laid out my navy dress, organized my paperwork and started to watch a movie. The rumbling in my stomach and clenching of my throat put me on my feet again.  I began to wander around my room. I was forgetting something, but what? And then it hit me: I was missing the documents I needed to prove my citizenship. Unfortunately, my desk became the victim of a mini tornado. Destruction laid in my wake as I tore apart file after file.  Even my phone conversation with Ryan was disparaging—I needed to take my frustration out on something or someone. So I did both. After the mini storm, It took me 30minutes or so to reconnect with myself and harness my chi, but I did it!  And I eventually fell asleep. Like my first grade photo shoot, I really had nothing to fear about my first day of work. It was wonderful (minus the traffic I had to wait in).  Hopefully, day two will be even better.

Girls. Night. Out.

My girls: Marcie, Kellie and Amanda

Faces Nightclub in Sacramento is definitely a place where you can go and let your hair down. You can be you. Nobody cares what you look like, and nobody cares who your with. Men dance with men. Women dance with women. People dance alone. People wear costumes, funny hats, funny purses, funny goggles, etc. You can be ANY age (over 21 of course)--acting and/or truthfully. This, of course, made for an entertaining and perfect GIRLS NIGHT OUT. After Amanda and I were rescued by Kellie (the Light Rail blog pertains to these series of events), we went to gather Marcie from her apartment (another friend of Kellie’s). Our small group of eager girls walked into the heart of Sacramento’s nightlife.

 

Faces was over the top. There were dancers inside, there were dancers outside, there were dancers on the bar(s), and most importantly, there were bars in every room (there were even bars in the hallways). The club consisted of three main dance areas—all of which stepped to a different beat.  Kellie, Amanda, Marcie and I ordered our first round of drinks and travelled from room to room.  We didn’t want to leave our drinks, so we sipped them quietly (because you can’t hear over the music), and bounced to the beat of a country song. That didn’t last long. After a song or two, we resolved to find yet another room playing hip-hop and our empty glasses were abandoned.

A bride-to-be and her possy took center stage—so, of course, we went and danced right next to them. The bride-to-be held a glowing lightsaber in her hand, and her headpiece consisted of a veil with horns. At one point, the bride detached herself from her bridesmaids and became the center of our group. That’s when I knew it was going to be a great night. Not only was I creating new memories with friends, I was creating new memories with people I’ve never met. Everyone was there to have a good time, which added tremendously to our experience (regardless if we had drinks in our system or not).

Badlands

After a short wait, another group of Kellie’s friends arrived. It seemed to be around the same time when crowds of people slowly began to trickle into the club. By midnight, it was packed. The stainless steel floors vibrated violently with the beat, and your calves had no choice but to move with each vibration and pulse. Techno, wicked remixes, Lil-Wayne, Ke$ha, Neyo and Pitbull were contants. At times, the dance floor was so packed there was only enough room to sway your shoulders to the beat.

Amanda and Me

The ever-growing crowd persuaded us to visit Badlands across the street. We found the result to be the same. There. Were. People. Everywhere!  Kellie and a crowd of her friends took shelter on the cool, opened back deck while Amanda and I went to dance. We danced, and we danced, and we danced. We didn’t care that we were sweating, and we didn’t care that we were shoved into a tight space. We didn’t care about the crazy and reckless behavior that surrounded us. Feeling carefree was AMAZING.


All of us eventually returned to finish our night at Faces. Everything happened so quickly: mid-song, the DJ stopped the beat, turned on the lights and everyone was ushered out the nearest door. It took us little time to realize how deaf we were and how much money was spent.  The crowd dispersed disappearing in all directions. Taxi’s sat in the busy intersection, and waves of people continued to exit the club. Marcie, Kellie, Amanda and I returned down the path we began earlier that night. We said our goodbyes to Marcie, climbed into Kellie’s car (thanks Kellie!) and made our way back to where our evening began—Amanda’s house.

The Possy

Our Journey to FACES: The Light Rail Train

Amanda and I didn’t want to run the risk of crashing our cars (or even worse, contracting a DUI), so we decided to ride the Light Rail train into the heart of Sacramento. The plan: get on the train, survive the train ride, walk 8 blocks to the night club, FACES, and dance the night away with Kellie Edson and friends. 

Our plan of attack was sound. We were to get to-and-from downtown Sac by using public transportation.  Amanda’s mom, Jan, drove us to the Light Rail where we waited in her car. The empty parking lot was dimly lit, and small trees wrestled with the wind. Only one passenger sat outside under the glow of florescent light bulbs. The anticipation of the train’s arrival shook my stomach. Every few seconds, I would look over my shoulder (and we sat there for ten minutes—I probably looked nuts). The idea of public transportation really excited me (in my opinion, America needs to get their butt in gear to make public transportation work).

Light Rail’s core inhabited faded, soft blue cushions. With the exception of one elderly gentleman wearing lime green, tie-dyed socks, Amanda and I had the cabin to ourselves (at least for the beginning of our trip).  The train shook violently—similarly to the Matterhorn in Disneyland—and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see out the window. So instead, I stared at my reflection.

I took the opportunity to document my experience by taking photos. Who knew that blue cushions could excite me so? By our third or fourth stop, people began to fill the cabin.  Soon enough, a middle-aged gentleman sat in the seats across from us. He really wanted to sell us bus tickets and magnets. He then began to ask why we were so “dolled up” and where we were going. His questioning proceeded to become more and more personal—almost to the point of harassment. That is when our HERO made eye contact with Amanda.

A security guard had just made his way onto the bus when Amanda used her telepathy. The expression on Amanda’s face didn’t lie. We. Needed. Help. The last thing we wanted was for the guy to follow us off the bus (because he was indicating that’s exactly what he was going to do).  

Even after the man was told to leave us alone he continued to bother us—he even attempted to coax the security guard into flirting with us.  This prompted a fast conversation with Kellie on the phone, and an even faster departure from the train. The guard stepped away from our seat to let us pass, and the door closed behind us with our nightmare calling after us. Luckily, Kellie was around the corner in her car. No chance for stalking tonight. No. Way.

I Found my Childhood Yesterday

The house we were evicted from

Yesterday I went to a family friend in Kentucky who was always a constant means of support in times of need (which was almost everyday). After getting evicted from our house on Walters Road all of the family ended up scattered. Ben (my stepdad) and Mom asked for the family's extremely part-time housekeeper to pack their things. They only took THEIR things. None of the 5 kids were considered in the chaotic moving process and almost everything that wasn't snatched was abandoned. That included any connection to my past—or so I thought.

It wasn't until halfway through my visit that my friend had an epiphany. Mid sentence, Sherry caught her breath, pointed to her daughter, Carlee, and said, “I have two boxes of miss Karlee’s. Go upstairs and behind the pony you will find one of her boxes.”  I didn’t want to get my hopes up; after all, there were 5 children and 2 adults living together in that house—what she had in that box could have been anything.  After locating the first box behind oodles and oodles of other boxes, I sat down on the kitchen floor and tore the box apart (not literally). On top of the box sat two containers of hot hair curlers (which were missing most of the pieces), a dirty, old Santa cookie tray, a few minor paintings and a flag that hung outside our house.  Besides my mild amusement with the flag’s ironic statement, "Welcome to the Nut House," there was nothing in the box that I wanted to connect to my past.

Disappointment didn’t sink beneath my skin; it stayed on the surface—I wasn’t about to relieve those unfortunate moments of my childhood. So, if the other box wasn’t recovered, I would be ok with that.  We continued our conversation in the Kitchen for about 20minutes before Sherry said, “Lets go get that other box.”

Following her lead, we walked out their backdoor to the two car garage. Behind the first door sat boxes of tools, boxes of shoes, boxes of books—I didn’t believe she could find my box.  Regardless, I followed Sherry. We had to climb over boxes and push through piles and piles of personal belongings. In the back corner, behind the malformed plywood, school projects and the baby swing, she wiggled out a water-damaged box. Years and years of sitting brought a damp, unfriendly smell to our noses.

It was filled with thousands of pictures. Pictures.

After the eviction, Sherry felt so bad for our situation that she hunted for anything that may of had value to me. It turns out, that she had my whole childhood stashed in her cluttered garage. But it wasn’t just my childhood. It was Ali’s childhood. It was Mac’s childhood. It was Kenton’s childhood. It was Walker’s childhood. It was the connection to our past that could never be separated from our souls—it’s who we are.

Over the course of my stay in Kentucky, I sat in my grandmother’s living room and sorted through pictures. Many of the photos were irreparably damaged; luckily, most of them were not.  Many tears and buried stories surfaced with each of us. The emotional reprocutions from a simple box of pictures was outstanding.

 Thank you, Sherry, from the bottom of my heart. My siblings and I now have a photo album instead of a box.

Kentucky? Or, not Kentucky? That is the Question

Thanks to Ryan's dad, Scott for purchasing my ticket so I could make it to Kentucky today. Needless to say, Yesterday was a relentlessly tiresome roller coaster. After being turned away from the Sonoma County Airport with the response of "there is nothing we can do," I continued my crying spree for hours. My eyes were swollen, my head hurt, and my stomach continued to twist in knots.

Ryan eventually got me connected with an Alaskan Air

Representative (by this point I had already sent my letter to KTVU). Not surprisingly, I was told, "mam, this isn't our fault."

My response to her was less than kind, "So, you are telling me, that it's my fault that someone isn't behind the counter to help?" I paused fighting tears. She was telling me that I wouldn't get compensated.

I then asked, "so, why is it that your machines can take money from me but not give me the plane ticket I just checked in for?" She had no response.

After being places on hold, the representative returned to tell me that I was being put on request for compensation (I'll have to check my confirmation soon to see where I'm at).

 

At 3:30am the next morning, I set out for San Francisco to, hopefully, get onto a 6:00am departure for Chicago. I arrived—wow—only 35minutes before my departure.  Not only could I check in on time, I was able to buy a coffee and a more-than-delicious croissant. Riddle me that one…

When I landed in Chicago I spent hours wandering around, looking at  people and finding food. Eventually, I found my gate—it was shoved into the recesses of terminal G. I even had time to watch Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" (I know what you're thinking, and—yes—I am a total nerd).

But, even between those moments of knowing I had my destination in reach (and flying through the city of Oprah), I was still traumatized by my poor experience the day before.

It was like clockwork: ten minutes before we were scheduled to board the plane a flight attendant interrupts the passengers over her tiny and powerful speaking device to say, "I need 3 volunteers to give up their seats. If I don’t get 3 volunteers, I will start calling people."

Breath discontinued to enter my body...

I had an awful feeling my name was going to be called—so instead of panicking, I got in front of the line and rushed onto that mini plane.

The Airport security didn’t hunt me down and the plane didn’t crash, so I'm back in Kentucky! It will be a wonderful week; thank you everyone for all of your kind and supportive words. I'm extremely grateful for everything. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

I just hope my trip back to Santa Rosa goes smoothly next Monday…

Today, I sent a letter to KTVU--the local news station

Dear KTVU,

Nearly a month ago, I purchased a plane ticket to visit my family and friends in Kentucky. Because I am a recent college graduate from SSU, it was difficult for me to even consider purchasing a ticket—especially with the cost of $823.00.  I even had to split the cost between two credit cards—bringing both of them to their limit.

In the 6 years that I’ve lived in California, I have only been able to return once to see my family. So, understandably, I would be excited to visit my mother (who has only become recently sober in the last 2 years), my grandparents, and my brothers who are now beginning to plan what colleges they wish to attend. To top it off, I was planning to attend the wedding of a good friend—the kind of friend that you would never intentionally miss the most important day of her life.  Needless to say, I was looking forward to my trip home. 

I booked the airline ticket to leave from STS (Sonoma County Airport) at 12:30pm on Friday the 22^nd.  Because I only live 10 minutes away, I thought it would be a no-brainer. I arrived to the airport at 1205pm with my flight delayed to 12:40pm. The ticket counter displayed a small sign saying that the desk attendants leave the desk 30minutes before the flights departure. By my calculations, that would mean that an attendant should remain at the desk until 1210pm. Am I right? So, like any logical person, I kept my cool and went over to one of 10 Alaskan Air computers to check in.  I paid 20$ to check my bag in with Alaskan Air flight 2473 and I received my receipt with my baggage information as well as what connections I would be making.

So, I went to the small airport security checkpoint (which is only 2 doors away from my destination) and the gentleman told me that I needed to return to the Kiosk to retrieve my boarding pass—BUT I DIDN’T GET ONE. So, I then asked if he could locate someone to meet me at the counter.  He told me No.  NO? Really? I was the only customer in line. There were 6-7 security Employees there (TO ONE PERSON….MAN, I MUST BE A THREAT). He told me I should go outside to the arrival gate and flag someone down.  So, I turned around and walked through the arrival gate.  It was now 12:15 and I could see the bags being wheeled out to the plane.  I tried yelling…no one heard me. I tried yelling again. No one heard me.

So I turned around and went inside to the counter. Still, no one was there. I had checked my bags and I had checked myself in. But there was NO ONE that could give me the $823.00 ticket. I even started to wander around—by this point I had begun to cry.  I asked a gentleman with an airport tag around his neck if he could contact someone to help me at the desk. His response was “I’m sorry, I can’t leave this door open.” What? You can’t close your door to help me?  What?

I then went back through the small door into the security check-point to ask if one of the 7 employees can help me by contacting someone to go to the desk.  Again, I was turned away—I needed to go outside.

The plane still sat right outside the gate. People were just now filing out of the waiting room to enter the flight.  I yelled. I yelled again. Finally! Someone in a blue shirt came up to me—but he didn’t work with the airline company.  He went and got a guy in an Alaskan airlines shirt. He then said, “I can see what I can do.”

With that hopeful answer, I travelled inside to wait, again, by an empty counter.  At this point, there was another gentleman waiting to get on the same flight with Alaskan Air.

Then, it seemed like—all at once—there were people behind the counter.    Wow.

I was hopeful though. I could see the plane from where I was standing. I had already paid for my bags. The plane hadn’t started yet.  I could make my flight. I could make it.

With out even an effort, the Alaskan employees began the process of trying to find me another flight. They didn't even consider putting me on the flight I was assigned. Why couldn’t I get on the flight I paid for? It was sitting right there.  By that point, it was 12:40pm and the plane still sat in its original spot. By that time, my boyfriend had returned from out apartment in Santa Rosa and stood with me for 9 minutes (plane still intact) while the people in front of me continued to say, on the phone, she missed her flight. But, how can I miss my flight, when it’s sitting right there?

Finally, the Alaskan crew got off the little black reservations phone to inform me that I would have to pay the difference of $1,100.00 to make it to Kentucky. WHAT? $1,100.00? You think I can pay that? And, so much for the convenience too. They then told me I would have to drive to SFO. WOW. 

So, the ticket I purchased was placed on my shoulders because the employees of Alaskan Air couldn’t get me on the plane that sat there for 40minutes (20 minutes past original departure). Congratulations Alaskan AIR—you have earned $843.00 (this includes the baggage fees) from a college graduate that can’t afford to pay her own bills. Thanks.

To top it off—I didn’t get the money back for my luggage…

STS should consider reworking their system--especially, if the computers won’t give me the ticket I purchased.

So, please, KTVU, if you can share my story of frustration I would be grateful. I believe many people could benefit from it.  Flying to and from the Sonoma County Airport should be considered an enjoyable experience (It’s not everyday that you can fly out of wine country). My hope is that one day, STS will be able to cover their bases and make their company known for customer service.  Unfortunately, today wasn’t that day.

Sincerely,

Karlee Tucker

tuckekar@gmail.com

530-414-1941

PS. I want to apologize to all of those flyers that saw me crying. I hope that my poor experience didn’t distress their travels. 

To the Future College Graduate

To the Future College Graduate:

As a recent college graduate, I feel as if it’s my duty to forewarn the large demographic of anxious students that anxieties will remain intact even after graduation. Maybe you are one of the lucky few who have honed in on your “life’s ambition.” Congratulations.  But, if you are anything like me, you are simply confused with your possibilities. Here is an analogy: I’m staring at the massive, 15page menu at the Cheesecake Factory questioning how to satisfy my empty stomach. Do I stick with a yummy menu item I know? Or, do I upset my taste buds with something unexpected? Like the menu items, I question what path to travel. Do I remain comfortable and continue my path in the education system? Or, do I risk of uncertainty and discomfort? I took the path of a smart person, and started to explore other career paths…

Here is a problem I’ve repeatedly come across.  Yes, I did go to College. Yes, I did receive a BA in English and a minor in Linguistics. Yes, I did graduate at the top 10% of my class. And, yes, I would find my degree relevant to many professions—including teaching. But does that mean employers agree? No. More often I find my choice of study questioned—in turn, I question myself.   Time and time again, I am recited these dreadful words: “you are not qualified,” or “you have a degree in English? Are you going to teach?”  What happened to those  “entry-level” jobs that anyone, regardless of their degree, can obtain? News flash: they don’t exist. You either have a raincloud of luck booming overhead, or you know someone that knows someone.

The small coin of luck retrieved from my pocket is testament to this concept.  My newest venture (which is a traveling freelance job) was only obtained because of a close contact. For this small opportunity, I am grateful. After all, if it were not for this freelance work, I wouldn’t have been able to work in Dallas, Texas and Portland, Oregon—all in less than 3 months.  But, now that I’ve been home over a week with no consistent form of work, I find myself spending hours searching for another potential opportunity. 

With 41 applications and 7 interviews behind me-- all I consider is this: what am I doing? I’ve been told not to doubt myself, but my patience wears thin (especially when interviewers tell me that I should go back to school). I set the bar high, convincing myself that I wouldn’t fall into the category of those who end up working a minimum wage job. But, today, I felt a sense of desperation. Thousands of other college graduates work minimum wage jobs wherever they can get hired. So, how am I any better? The correct answer is as follows: I’m not better than anyone. Anyone. Nobody should have that attitude. But, I am different—maybe even unforgettable.

I recently went to celebrate a friend’s birthday; “life goals” became a quick topic.  As I was chatted with Kevin (a mutual friend at the lunch celebration), I shared some of my uncertainties—especially because I was lacking a career.  But, within those uncertainties, I found a moment of brilliance and said, “I truly believe that I am meant for something spectacular”—I just couldn’t put my finger on what that “something” was. It was then, that Kevin turned to me and stated, “Well, why aren’t you doing it?” Such a small statement became a profound moment for me. Why wasn’t I doing “it”—whatever that maybe? 

For those empathetic to my note: create your own path. Take the advice you wish to take, and pass the rest on for someone else. The path less travelled (thank you Robert Frost for the cliché) may be unsettling but rewarding nonetheless. So, if you need to hire an “analytic, creative planner and organizer” I’m your girl. I won’t let you down. But, if you’re trying to find your place in the disoriented American society, be persistent—and patient. Patients is key.

Sincerely,

The College Graduate

The River's Simplicity

I went to the river yesterday with some friends and half of Santa Rosa. Walls of trees, cars and fences greeted us along a small, beaten roadway. The frustration of tiny parking spaces and distance prompted both Ryan (my boyfriend) and AJ to return to the river’s entry point. Carrying all the river toys and a dog was at the bottom of our list, so Amanda, Sarah, Joel, Toby and I were thrown out of the cars as AJ and Ryan went to hunt for open parking spaces.

My right hand gripped a small red cooler and my left hand held the leash of an overly excited dog.  The deflated, yellow rafts that were once comfortable on my shoulder slid down into the crease of my arm as I braced for the ride down the narrow, dirt-covered path.  As the leash tightened, my brown flip flops cut into the tops of my feet, and I began my slow fight with Toby down the hill. Toby’s green and brown polka dotted collar pressed against his throat prompting a symphony of chocking and wheezing; his brown, fluffy muscular body stretched 4 feet in front of me and my feet—incapable of staying still—beat the ground, quickly and inconsistently. It wasn’t until I was halfway down the hill that Amanda grabbed the tight, black leash to help lessen the intensity of what could have been my death (or at least an uncomfortable afternoon).

After locating ourselves at semi-open beach spot, I went and stood in the river with Toby. Toby, never having been to the river, took the opportunity to utilize the space to the best of his ability. He peed; he swam; he greeted people; he swam some more; he got out of the water; he got back into the water; he ultimately attempted to poo in the water—that I wouldn’t let happen. So, instead of pooing in the water, Toby ran up the small, gravelly embankment to park his fluffy butt next to a group of people (that was a fun apology).  When his business was complete, Toby went to tackle the same few activities in a repeated cycle.

The river flowed smoothly splashing against my waist; people floated by on their boats. Small fish snuck past my toes and children made it their business to cover the passerby with water. Turns were taken drifting down the river; Amanda and Sarah disappeared floating aimlessly with the current.  It wasn’t long before the guys followed suite. I stood my ground and watched my friends disappear around the river’s bend, while Toby spent all of his energy swimming upstream.

My friends returned walking against the current with the boats dragging behind them. Warm rays prompted me to join the masses, so I grabbed my yellow boat, passed the dog to Ryan and set down the river with Sarah, Amanda and Joel. Impatience landed me in the water quickly. I anchored my torso on the boat’s side: my legs dragged inconsistently on the river’s bottom as water snuck past my waist filling the space where I sat moments before. To save my boat from a quick death, I jumped in the water and used the access to cover my friends.

All in all, my day was memorable.  I had been invited to revisit summers of my past.  Several remarkable vacations were spent travelling down the Truckee River with my sister and father. Fighting rapids, playing on embankments and watching hoards of people were an immediate must of our yearly adventures. Those moments leading up to sunburns and tired evenings were consistent and unbiased. Even as I grew older, I searched for the simplicity of those days. I searched for the uncomplicated mess and understanding (the type of understanding foreign to many); I searched to share those memories with friends that I care about (of course, Toby counts).

The Russian River has now carved its way into my existence (and, hopefully, my friends will agree).  Before this summer has ended, I’m sure you will find me floating aimlessly—with beer and friends—along the river’s current making new memories to hold closely with the old.

On the Corner of Knox and Cole

Tonight, Di and I witnessed someone get hit by a car.  I guess that’s not completely true: Di watched someone get hit by a car. I was looking across the street at a wedding dress shop. I wouldn’t—for the life of me—be able to recite the boutique’s name; I do remember, however, that the left window was stolen by the simplicity of a white gown. A bright florescent light reflected off the dress and streamed out the glass and off onto the sidewalk. Two magenta bridesmaid dresses, arced in a soft angle in the opposite window making it hard for anyone to take their eyes away.  It was only 10 seconds or so that that I examined the store. That’s when it happened: I heard the car make impact with a pedestrian.  The noise, unfamiliar to me, wasn’t outstanding enough to lift my gaze. It sounded as if a child purposely jumped off a diving board to knock themselves unconscious with a belly flop. Had it not been for Di, I wouldn’t have thought much about the noise. 

My paced had slowed from the minor distraction across the street.  When I looked up, I was staring at the back of Di’s shoulders and head. She had her cell phone pressed tightly to her left ear (she was talking with her husband about the daily events); that gave me enough time to see her whole reaction. Her hair swayed along the base of her back as she stopped to register the event that just occurred.  Her purse slid from her shoulder to the natural angle in her arm causing her body to sway slightly to the left (she didn’t look comfortable; I’m pleased I took the wine from her) That’s when she began to yell into her phone: “Oh my god, Greg! Someone just got hit! I’ll call you back. I’ll I’ll call you back.”

Di began to run towards the corner of Knox and Cole. My pace quickened to match hers, but it hadn’t registered to me what really had happened (the two paragraphs of description and scenario doesn’t do it justice).  It wasn’t until Di stopped to call 911 that I saw the lady sitting in the street.  Cars were parked, unmoving at the intersection. There was a gold expedition parked diagonally shortly after the crosswalk; the driver’s door was ajar.  Instead of creating a mess via hit-and-run, the driver reacted to the situation faster than anyone (I guess you would hope that she would). Feeling guilty and upset, the driver did the only natural thing she could think of doing: hugging, coddling and petting the pedestrian’s head.

The pedestrian appeared to be in her late 40’s or early 50’s. She reminded me of a child with her appearance. Her right shoe remained intact while the other sat on the sidewalk behind me. Her hair gathered in clumps across her face, and you could tell she didn’t know how to react to the situation. Should I be hurt? Should I cry? What just happened?

 The lady braced herself with her left arm, resisting the temptation to lay on the ground. It was obvious I couldn’t do much to help. In a way, it felt as if I was back at the YMCA telling children not to touch their friends after they have had a hard fall from the monkey bars.  The lady’s appearance strongly resembled that look. You could see evidence of her injury (luckily she wasn’t bleeding) Her right elbow received most of the impact, but her left ankle was visibly swollen from the power of the car turning her body.

We approached the two women.  Di was ending her conversation with 911, and I began to communicate to the driver that touching an injured person isn’t a smart idea. At that moment, I knew there was a language barrier.  The driver knew very little English. She tried to talk to me, she tried to talk to the person beside me—she simply wanted to communicate her woes to anyone who could understand.

Within moments of Di taking over the care of the pedestrian, the driver was on her cellphone. I watched this short, brunette pace around as she explained to someone the events that occurred.  Phone call after phone call she would close her phone, defeated. In a strange way, I found these moments to be breathtaking. The driver’s sorrow gripping tightly around her conscience weighed heavy on my heart.  It didn’t matter that we came from different backgrounds, and it didn’t matter that we couldn’t verbally understand each other. I understood her emotions and what she was trying to convey.  The driver came and stood beside me, hopeless, lightly shaking her head.

 In a moment of impulse, I placed my right hand on her back. I really wanted to hug her—but for the good of everyone, I restrained my emotional self.  She looked up searching for help, searching for answers. I could my small touch went a long way for the both of us. In the jumbled mess of confusion she sought comfort in the simple touch of my hand—and that truly meant a lot to me.

At that point, Di was trying to make the pedestrian feel comfortable. She offered her water; she offered her small, leather purse as support; she even helped to contact the family.  Even after the victim’s family arrived (they were there faster than the ambulance), Di sat with her, concerned.  It was really important for her to make sure she was provided for (after all, she was one of few that actually witnessed the impact).

By that time, the corner of Knox and Cole had gathered a plethora of looky-loos. I stood with my back to Chilli’s examining the crowd “window shopping” across the street. In waves, a downpour of mist would whisk over those close to the sidewalk. The intersection lights turned from green to yellow to red. Some drivers were able to sneak by; others were caught in the drama of the accident.  I watched many drivers attempt to stare holes through their car windows.

Shortly after the ambulance began its trip to the hospital, Di and I were able to sneak away—that, of course, was after all the questioning. What angle where you standing at when you saw this? Was the light green?  Was the driver looking? Can I get your information?

Needless to say, the evening was interesting. Our get-away car was even parked at the scene of the accident.  The corner of Knox and Cole had been a noteworthy destination that evening; one that many won’t forget.

One Who Constructs a Box Can Do Anything

I spent most of yesterday morning constructing a box. And, yes—I am going to blog about that box.  I suppose this small cardboard structure was no different than any other box (I speak about the box in past tense because it no longer resides in the Designer Showhouse Sale). Nothing was particularly special about the structure of my creation. The box was light brown holding minimal markings (with the exception of shipping instructions). So, now, you may be asking yourself—what is so special about this box? After all, this is the topic I chose to write about…

No, my box did not have the capability to become a transformer. No, my box did not sit in the hands of the queen or be sung to by the best-trained opera singers. My box wasn’t anything special. As a matter-o-fact, it rubbed itself on the floor accumulating dry-wall debris and dirt—a lot of dirt. I think most of the dirt ended up all over my hands and knees making me wish I wasn’t in a dress. 

My box was constructed of four pieces of cardboard and a stupid amount of tape. I spent a great deal of time matching the cardboard pieces together like a puzzle or a complex piece of artwork.  After I fit each piece together I began the mighty and difficult taping process.  I got tape on my clothes; I got tape on my shoe; I even got tape in my hair.  The frustration would drive me to stop, stand up awkwardly and wipe the sweat from my brow. 

Look Closely: You can see
where my tape ran out.

The box came to be my friend that morning. My closeness to the box over the hours was soon a disappointment as I attempted to seal paintings inside. The last bit of tape I used ended with the sound of cardboard ripping.  I didn’t have enough tape to finish my creation: so you know what I did?  I went to UPS and borrowed their tape gun (which was also painfully close to running out). In a spring dress, I got down on my knees in the middle of the UPS store.  After sealing the remainder of the box (which may be at that point been a transformer), I stood to find the UPS guy looking at me with disgust. WHAT? Do you not like my dress?

The box was now out of my hands and on its way to Truckee, California.   I couldn’t do anything else but hope that it didn’t fall apart on its journey (I wonder how often that happens). I then thought: why did this box mean so much to me? How does such a complicated process become a simple object to house other objects of importance?

Here is the solution I conjured:

A box, as you may very well know, can be the home of an astronaut, a sheriff, or your favorite secret hiding place. Your dolls, toys, books and movies have a home—one that they can return to everyday. A child can be assured that their favorite doll is waiting for them after they return home from school.  Cardboard boxes hold very precious memories—memories that hold significance in your life.

A box may as well be the equivalent of a child playing with wrapping paper instead of their gift (the fact being that their gift may never have been touched). So, where does this value on objects derive from? Who decided that a BMW is better than having a 1987 Chevy pickup?

My box is simply a box. I don’t want the taught meaning of “objects” to rule my existence; for I, yes, I created a box. The determination to create this box created context and meaning for me. So, simply put, I am proud of my box.