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.

Small Successes and Falling Failures

I would place my day into two simple categories: Successes and Failures

I woke up close to 8am this morning to wish Deb (my boyfriend’s aunt) happy travels on her journey back to the land of friendly people—Canada.  Standing in a sleepy daze, I gave Deb a hug goodbye and watched the door close behind her and her black leather luggage. My hair was a mess and my breath smelled (failure #1). I really wanted to brush my teeth, but instead I walked into the kitchen and dreamt about going back to sleep—I even climbed back into my blowup mattress (which held anyone’s focus entering or leaving the condo). Regardless of how much I wanted to lie on a plushy bed, I knew I had to start my day because Di (my boyfriend’s mom) was going to return to retrieve my ass for work.

Conscious of time, I rushed to get ready; I was sweating shortly after my shower (man Dallas can be hot). I took a shower, dried my hair, ate breakfast, cleaned up some of my belongings, washed a dish or two, and looked at my phone. I had 5 minutes (Success #1). So what was I to do? Laundry. I started laundry.  I pulled the knob and the water began pouring into the drum of the machine.  I stuffed a handful the sheets inside. My mind began to wander about the water, the laundry detergent, the goals of my day. I guess you can say multitasking isn't always my best quality. Finally, when I looked up towards the door, Di was standing in its frame. I screamed. I screamed loud enough to scare Di and she jumped from my reaction.  I would have jumped on top of the sink if I could (Success for Di/Failure for me).

The afternoon passed by slowly with few people entering the store.   As I sat by the door, I patiently waited for the next person I would have the privilege to follow around. I guess I really wanted to follow someone around…

When I realized I was going to spend more time with my phone than people, I glanced out the window to double check my assumption. Of course, I was correct: nobody was waiting for me to help them. Not one person. But, something massive caught my eye. There was a monster pile of bird doo on Di’s car (failure #3). The bird had aimed for the black coat of a 2010 Infinity (which had only had a bath a few days ago). The bird poop was impressive: it splashed and spread itself on the most of the windshield.

What kind of bird would bestow us with such a gift? An eagle? A dinosaur? I guess getting the car cleaned was a lost cause. I called Di over to examine the bird doo with me; she too thought it was impressive, but it was clear she wanted it gone.  A minute passed and Di returned with Windex and paper towels. Success! I snapped a picture of Di with her doo (I was forbidden to post it).

I suppose that the bird’s gift was a good luck charm because customers began to filter in the store more frequently—two of which were serious customers (success #3). Even after we closed the store for the night, dinner was an easy grab. Di found a front row parking space. Mind you, we had to follow a painfully slow driver into the parking lot.  They drove so slow that it was possible to learn another language: instead I used all of my energy to glare.

As we drove back towards the Turtle Creek turtles, Di pointed to the “shit smear” rubbed across her driver side window.  Who knows, maybe this falling failure was more of a success. I guess we’ll see in the days to come.

The scale of doo is bigger than the photo reveals.

The Dinosaur Doo: Look at the Wind Sheild

The Turtle Creek Turtles

So, long story short, I’ve come to Dallas TX to assist my boyfriend’s mother (say that 10 times fast) with her pop-up store on Dragon Street (www.designershowhousesale.com).  For months, the plans continued to change around what was to be done with the show house furniture. Was it all destined to remain in San Francisco?  So, when it was finally decided that Dallas would be the location for her sale, of course, I was on top of the list to come and help (that and I was excited to return to Dallas).

It is now June 18, 2011—the first official day of the sale—and my 11^th day on Turtle Creek. I’ve been to this particular location once before when Ryan (my boyfriend), Toby (our dog), and I drove from Rohnert Park, California to Turtle Creek in Dallas Texas to feed an empty house with furniture.  This particular trip is another story in itself—maybe one of which I will divulge on a different occasion.

As the opening day of the sale approached, I was assigned moving, cleaning and befriending all of our furniture.  Some would argue that I rather became frenemies with all of this outstanding furniture.  Morning after morning, I found myself waking up with bruises and various parts of my body plagued with soreness (I bet this was the case for many others working there as well).  The furniture always found a way to have the last word.  I guess I should have restarted my endeavors with Tony and the P90x before my trip.

After many hard days of work, I took a day and a half (with permission from the boss) to chill out with my boyfriend’s stepsister, Heather.  Heather, too, stood by my side for much of the befriending process of show-house furniture. She found that steaming curtains weren’t as glorious as she would have hoped—I don’t think dry cleaning will be in her future.

Heather has never been to Texas, so we took the time to explore. In between lunch at Celebrity Bakery and walking around in uber expensive stores that would destroy my bank account, Heather’s dad took us on a tour of all the slick neighborhoods in the Highland Park area.  These impressive lots of land were married to even more impressive houses.  I admit: I found these houses to be stunning: but, but, but, I also found myself wondering what could have been done with all the money poured down the throats of these houses.

The semi-thick air added to the 102degree weather as we found stopping points to go and take pictures.  The first stop was dedicated to turtles, but none were found amongst the fat-ass lily pads. Nonetheless, pictures of lily pads were taken. The Turtle Creek Turtles found it too hot to come and play—but the Teddy Bears didn’t.  Large cement teddy bears sat along the far side of the pond welcoming children (or adults—in my case) to wander onto a stranger’s property.  A small sign sat near these bears sharing their birth year—1995. I had no interest in taking pictures of a Jurassic-sized teddy bear—but I did. I even took more than one. I could only imagine what the turtles were thinking.

 

After returning to the car, bathed in my own sweat, we drove to another location where we could climb into a creek and snap some more memories.  Heather’s dad wandered the path for a few short minutes before he climbed the hill to a bridge.  We discovered a drain connected to this shallow creek that housed burnt coffee cups, towels and Keystone light. Heather and Iboth made brief homes for ourselves—not in the storm drain—but on the small path others have trailed before us.

 I was home. I was comfortable. I felt as if I was back in Pikeville, Kentucky.  The trees, overgrown, shadowed the creek timidly as the heat bounced off the limestone creating the perfect nesting grounds for tadpoles. There was an instant comfort in the insect noise echoing through the brush, and even with the scorching heat, I could have sat there for hours. I remembered chasing minnows and crawfish in our pond and I craved to do the same. Playing in water has always brought a calming presence on my soul; but, the Turtle Creek Turtle can hold it’s breath longer, so the heat can be more bearable.

Heather Taking Photo of Rock

My Photo of Rock

Bridge of Retreat

Tadpoles Baking

Prelude-The Simple Complexity of a New Blogger

After tossing and turning on a blow-up mattress last night—I resolved to construct a blog. The thoughts seemed to jumble in a clump of fur, and all I wished to do was extract them from my brain. I had thought about blogging before (partially because it was one of my assignments my last semester at SSU); however, my motivation to create this tiny monster was the result of reading both Hailey Vincent and Keri Billig’s enticing blogs (which I both find enjoyable and highly entertaining). 

For those who may be wondering about the title of my new blog—I’m not quite sure what it means yet; however, I feel as if it reflects how I am feeling about my life up to this point in time—that and I’ve just graduated college. My blogs may be filled with my thoughts and concerns or just the events that have occurred throughout the course of my day.  In all of its simple glory, I want it to be entertaining for my audience. So, you may find the genre--at times--change from simple stories, pictures of my day, ext.

As a developing writer, fear has continuously snuck into my work. I find that the beast has a way of creating it’s own words. My fingers don’t type what I want them to type and my work turns into mush and fluff. I feel if there is an illusion of safety with the blogging world. I swear to type this blog with the omission of fear to the best of my ability. I am certain, however that I am going to be as accurate with my thoughts, my past and my present accounts as I can possibly be. If you, my reader, have any other questions for me, please, please, please don’t hesitate to ask.