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. 

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.

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…

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