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.