But he did drive away…

Sometimes it's hard to believe I've had this job for a whole year. It really has turned out to be a great fit for me; I have only one tiny complaint, but I'm sure that situation won't last much longer, so I won't get into it here. (Dude, I know what "Dee-Oh-Oh-See-Eee-Dee" means.)

I move trailers, and I work alone. Not a hundred percent alone; I pick them up and drop them off at staffed locations, and I sometimes encounter folks who want to "be helpers," but mostly, I work alone, and it seems to work quite well for me. I climb into the truck at 7:30 AM, I start a little earlier than the aforementioned staff; so usually at least once a day, I get to pick up my first one before anyone else arrives to start their workday.

As I've grown more experienced, gotten more practice at what I do, I've been less worn-out and grunged-over at the end of the day -- I don't get home dying to get in the shower every day like I did those first few weeks, and it's nice to be able to just take a shower in the morning because I feel better through the day that way. Sometimes on Saturdays, I'm a little less up-tight about that whole morning shower thing. Like I said, I work alone. Heh. Sometimes on Saturdays, I just get out of bed, put my bra, jeans, and shoes back on, and stumble out the door to grab breakfast on the way in; then I work the day thinking about how great it'll be to take a shower and go out to dinner with clean hair…

That's pretty much what I did last weekend; I came home Friday night still looking decent enough to go have dinner. I got up Saturday morning and went back to work with previous-day-hair and clothes, something I certainly wouldn't do if I were working in an office or going anywhere near "out in ordinary public." For what it's worth, I don't usually smell bad at the end of the first day, but at the end of the second, hoo-boy…

Anyway, the incident I can't get out of my mind happened early on a Saturday morning, so I wasn't smelly yet.

I'm almost always alone in my high-ridin' three-quarter-ton pickup, in the morning (or sometimes the night before), I get a list of places that need trailers. I show up with an empty one, find a place to park it, and unhook from it. Then I back the truck up to the full trailer; often I can get it lined up in one or two tries, sometimes I have to move the truck just a little tiny bit more to get the ball under the trailer. Even though this truck sits much higher off the ground than the half-ton I learned with, I can still feel where it needs to go, I can still keep my left foot on the ground and use my right one to work the pedals, right hand on the wheel, left hand securely on the door handle so I don't wipeout and end up on the ground if something slips or goes wrong. Nothing has gone wrong yet, with God's Grace, even though I can't sit my right hip in the seat like I did with the old Ford back in the day. After I hook onto the full trailer, I pull it away from its spot and find a place to park it, unhook, move the truck, hook the empty trailer back on, back it into the spot where the full one was, then unhook, re-hook to the full one, and haul it away.

So, among those trailer parking steps, which are less than important to this story, I was backing the ball of the truck under the hitch of the full trailer when I saw a red Monte Carlo pull into the parking lot across the street. I don't remember exactly what the business is, but it's a big metal building with a gravel lot next to a big power station, probably manufacturing of some sort, and there were not any workers there at seven-something on a Saturday morning. He drove in there at about the moment I had stopped the truck to get out and see if I'd landed in the right spot on the first try, I was in the driver's seat facing that direction with the car off to my right just a little ways, so I watched for a minute, kinda like an "alert neighbor," because the business was not open. The car stopped, the trunk popped, and the driver's door swung open. I'm not entirely sure what year the red Monte Carlo was, but it was the newer bodystyle, the front-wheel-drive variety of the last few years, not the dirt racin' kind. It had pulled straight in, with the taillights facing me, and a guy got out. He was one of those guys who's probably a small or medium, but he's wearing a 3X white T-shirt with basketball shorts and tall white socks and those velcro slides like for taking showers in places where you're scared to put your bare feet. I watched him get out and go to the trunk, he flipped a green bag over, it kinda looked like one of those enviro-friendly reusable grocery bags. He rooted around in the trunk a little more, then closed it.

I thought through a few situations where maybe I should've been a little more suspicious; the boyfriend who "met someone," the friend who asked me for a "payday loan" in spite of making about five times the money I do, the salesman who reached for my hands and arms way too many times… I got out of my truck and dashed back to peek at the ball and hitch, it wasn't quite there yet, so I backed the truck up just a bit. As i put it in park, he was walking toward me. Out of the parking lot, across a four-lane, undivided street, through the gate, down the driveway, and up to my truck. I wondered if maybe I should've stayed inside and locked the doors.

Whups.

I keep a hunting knife between my seat and the console in the Mark VIII. I keep the lugwrench under my seat in the SHO. In the seat of my work truck, eh, I have two phones and that's about it. I can't use my iPhone with my work gloves on, and I'm not gonna let some jerk have a chance at stealing my iPhone anyway. I grabbed my work phone (remember flip phones?) and decide not to punch in 9-1-1 just yet; I figured I'd just be ready to flip it open. My eyes landed on the handle of the rake behind my toolbox, so I tossed the phone to my left hand and made sure my right hand landed on the rake. Not a leaf rake, but a more serious steel rake, like for gravel or heavier stuff like that.

He said the car ran out of gas and asked if I had a gas can.

I have a gas can, filled from the City's pumps, but something just seemed suspicious. I lied. "Nah man, sorry, just the ol' work truck, I don't have anything but the trailer tools." Something about the whole deal just didn't feel right.

In all honesty, I only entertain vivid fantasies of beating wrongdoers to bloody near-death; even when I have weight advantage, I most likely don't have any real skills. I'm probably not worth a shit in a scrap, except that I could most likely really keep that rake moving and spinning fast enough to keep somebody away from the sharp parts and therefore away from me. Where it'd go from there, I really don't know, but there I was, he walked up and found me behind a half-open truck door, phone in one hand, rake handle in the other, yesterday's hair may have been a little wild, and yesterday's jeans probably showed the roughness of shoving trailers that last inch or two with my knees. I am not a small woman, but I hope to think I wear it well, I carry enough weight to grab the tongue of the trailer and lean back and make it scoot over a couple inches to land on the ball. I am not exactly "stacked," I'm more of a "sturdy." I've fought hard for every crumb of self-confidence I've got, I know deep-down that I am really only "cute" to a limited target audience.

I'll never know why he stopped and dug in the trunk or why he walked all that way across that wide street to approach me, but I do know that his car was not out of gas.

After I didn't produce a gas can, he went right back across the street, jogging in those stupid velcro slides. He got in the car, drove away, and was gone.

I have no idea what just happened. Did I foil a robbery attempt? There's no cash handled at any of these worksites, unless the folks who work there are holdin' a little lunch money. There's no cash in the truck except for my own purse, which I left locked in the trunk of my car the first few weeks I had this job. Could he have been looking to see what might be easily stolen, now or later on? Could it have been a rape situation? Am I that visibly female across four lanes of street and through a yard and over to the other side of a truck? Did I maybe "not look that enticing" once he got over there close enough to see me? Did he abandon whichever idea because I am butch enough to kick his ass? Any of those ideas might seem mean-spirited because I don't know why he came over to me, but I do know that he damn sure did not need a gas can, 'cause he drove away as soon as he walked back over there and closed the car door!

I still love my job, but I think I'll start putting that hunting knife in my bag so it stays in the truck with me instead of leaving it in my car.

The one where Debbie recommends a book...

One C and two M's, right? I think that's right; recommends is one of those words that always makes me double-check myself.

Quite a while back, how ever long ago it was that Michael's would let us use their 40% coupons for books, I bought a book about two-at-a-time sock knitting. I didn't get around to trying it, but I did finally get around to trying my hand at sock knitting. After a little group lesson, I made a couple pairs with the double-pointed needles, but I could always tell 'em apart. What I like about the idea of two-at-a-time is that they're more precisely alike because they're made at the same time, instead of making the second one while trying to guess how many rows that was by looking closely at the first one.

I really have come along way though; years ago, the first time I read mention of "double pointed needles," I thought they'd have two points for the business end and a knob at the top like regular needles, ya know, a fork would be like a quadruple-pointed needle. Yeah, that's how my brain worked that out.

So... Along with my grocery bag knitting habit, and after a few pairs of socks; the toddler-size pair from the class, a pair for me, and a pair for my Mom, and a rockin' pair of "Ocean" mittens, I have no problem with the double pointed needles. My Mom's socks are made with real-deal sock yarn in leafy fall colors and she loves 'em. My very first pair of grown-up-size socks are sport-weight acrylic yarn, and the colorway reminds me of strawberry Tootsie Roll pops; but the acrylic yarn is super-duper-hot-hot-hot on my feet. I tried to wear them with regular sneakers and I about burned up; but with these socks, I can wear my Birkenstocks in the cold, so that's how I show 'em off.

Distracted (as I often am), I moved away from knitting socks for a little while. Then, my aunt gave me a copy of Melissa Morgan Oakes' "Toe-Up 2-At-A-Time Socks." It took me way too long to get around to trying it out, partly because the cast-on had me confused. Trying to read and imagine wasn't working for me, but once I got out some needles and yarn so I could read and try it, it was a lot easier than I'd ever thought it would be.

I'm about halfway through the ribbing at the top of my first pair, so the finish line is well in sight. I really like the two-at-a-time part, because knitting a round on one sock and then a round on the other just the same really does make them honestly match; the shaping is the same so the fit is the same for both feet. My two balls of yarn must have been different dye lots though, 'cause my colors don't completely line up. I'm guessing I bought those without checking the dye lot numbers because I figured they'd be close enough since the yarns don't touch each other like they would in a scarf or sweater. Whups. I'm telling myself that's okay though.

My other favorite thing about the two-at-a-time toe-up socks is this: No picking up stitches, and no kitchener stitch! Since they start at the toes, the part that requires Kitchener stitching is already done at the very beginning. And the picking up is eliminated, there are just increases and decreases. My picking up stitches just never has looked right, and my Kitchener stitch was such a mess that every time I tried it, I ended up flipping the socks (and the mittens) inside-out and doing a three needle bind off instead. It works quite well and looks just fine; the only tricky part is the flipping inside-out, because you have to make sure no stitches slip off the needles.

Oh, and that "ugh" feeling of having to start the second sock is gone... For me at the moment, it's been replaced by this overwhelming urge to start another pair with that stunning ball of yarn I got at Mayfest.

_\,,/

Landmark Visit.

Yesterday, I worked in the office downtown to get a few extra hours. I'm not sure if I have the words for how perfect this job has turned out to be for me. I really do like what I'm doing, I love being in the truck, and when they need me in the office, I like being there too. Yip, the new job (See there? The new still hasn't really worn off yet.) is still pretty cool. About the middle of the afternoon, there was mention of grabbing a snack. I'm a bit of a follower that way, and the last time I followed a coworker to lunch, I got to see the tunnels under downtown -- so freakin' awesome! When she mentioned brownies, I grabbed my purse. We walked out across the plaza, a little way down the street, across a courtyard, and into the tallest building visible in the downtown Tulsa skyline.

The plate of brownies in the glass case looked nice enough, but the cupcakes were beautiful, and since I didn't see any Red Velvet, I decided on the chocolate one with the white frosting. My logic was that the frosting might be cream cheese, or maybe white buttercream, either of which would be wonderful with a big glass of milk… When I said "chocolate cupcake with the white frosting," I saw the girl behind the counter reach into the case and quickly close a cardboard to-go box, but the one unique cupcake I'd had my eye on didn't disappear. I'm not one to complain; a cupcake is a cupcake, and who knows, maybe she had a big box of 'em underneath where I couldn't see. I didn't say anything, I just paid and took off to walk back to the office.

Back at my desk, I opened up the box and it did not contain a chocolate cupcake with white frosting. It was yellow cake with chocolate frosting, and even though it wasn't what I'd had my eye on, it was wonderful. The cake was buttery and moist, and the frosting was oh-so-chocolatey, and by about my second bite, I wasn't sitting at a desk in an office building anymore. I was standing in the kitchen of an old rock house way up on a hill in the middle of nowhere, peeling the foil lid off of a tub of frosting for Dave's favorite cake, yellow with chocolate frosting.

Ten years sounds like a long time when you say it out loud, but sometimes it's like yesterday when Dave comes back to pop in on me like that.

Ten years ago yesterday afternoon, we'd argued over the exhaust on my Pure Stock. He'd cut it off way too short the night before, and he was working in the barn when I went to pick up the other set that still had the long pipes on 'em. When I told him I was switching it out 'cause his cuts were too short, he got mad as hell and yelled at me. I'm sure I yelled back, but I did get the manifolds I came for and toss 'em into the truck. I left mad, really lacin' into the ol' sky-blue 7700; "Seven Bridges Road" was on the radio, and I gave it hell in every gear, all the way back to the shop so my brother could swap the parts out.

We fought more than I've ever fought with anyone I've ever been with, but that's just the way we were -- high energy, we both put a lot into it.

He came on up to the shop after closing time, and it was just us, all alone. I really felt like we had a breakthrough that night, me leaning on the rollback, him standing in the doorway. "You want it your way, I want it mine, we're not so different, are we? So there's no need to be so nasty about it." I thought I'd really got him to see things from my side, to stop getting so worked up over piddly shit, and just calm down. He asked me to come home with him that night, so I did. I don't remember what we had for dinner, I don't remember what was on TV, but I do remember that he talked to his parents and both of his kids on the phone that night; we sat on the couch together, and I stretched out with my head in his lap for a little while. He took the first shower, and we kissed in the doorway as he was headed out and I was headed in. He was already asleep when I crawled in bed and pressed my back against his.

He woke me up when he was about to leave for work that morning, ten years ago today. He put his knee on the bed beside my hip and leaned down to kiss me, and then I stretched out in the sunshine under the window as I listened to him drive off down the hill. He called back later and caught me just in time, I grabbed his forgotten lunch from the kitchen and took it to Sperry with me so he could send someone over for it when he got to Collinsville; we talked on the phone a little while after lunchtime, and then that afternoon, a secretary from the city office called and told me Dave had collapsed in the park and they'd taken him to Saint Francis. I tried to answer my phone in the car, I grabbed it too quick to get a number to show on the screen and the call dropped before I could hear anything -- I figured he might be trying to call me from the ambulance and maybe the phone just cut out, so I go there as fast as I could. I put my glasses in my purse because I figured I'd be staying put for the night, if he was staying, I wasn't going to let him stay alone. I snuck my car into the employee garage and hurried across to the ER; the receptionist wouldn't tell me anything, she just pointed me toward the cop in the lobby and he took me into a small flowery room and shut the door.

Ten years ago tonight, a cop held me while I cried, held me while everything fell apart around me; and told me it wasn't that I'd been too late, they'd tried, but he was probably already gone before they left the park.

Ten years only sounds like a long time, it doesn't feel like long at all… I still feel him come around every now and then, like when My Mom slips and says "Dave" when she's talking about Clay. I can imagine him sitting with my Grandma somewhere, or holding a squirming irritated ShadowCat, trying so hard to get him to "play dead," even though he never would.

David Paul, 08/27/51 - 05/09/02

"And I have loved you in a tame way, and I have loved you wild…"

The post I've been sitting on for a couple Junes.

I almost talked myself out of writing this, telling this story, then last night I realized just how much space it's occupying in my head, how many moments of inappropriate tears I've fought back. He's not someone who gets to be there rent-free, so I'm getting him out right here, right now.

Last night, I headed into my ever-changing, ever-growing hometown, down the same roads I drove to get to highschool. The car, like all my cars, has a little age on it; I've had this one back on the road since the end of August, and just made the last payment last month. That's part of what I like about the older cars, salvage auction, MasterCard, zero-interest deal, only a year's worth of payments. This is my second Mark VIII, bought gently fender-bendered from the auction in hopes of replacing the one that broke a timing chain the previous Christmas. My first one was sparkly, snowy white with tan leather; this one looked white on the webcam, but it's more of a vanilla color with a little paler shade of leather, different wheels, and the first sunroof I've ever had. I'm taking a while learning to like the vanilla color, but I love that sunroof more than I ever imagined! Life's good when you appreciate the little things…

Just like every time I leave the East side of my neighborhood in either Mark VIII, I eased up to the stop sign and hit the two-button sequence to turn off the traction control just in case I ended up with the chance to shoot for a gap and possibly hang it out sideways in the process. Like every time, I found my gap and even though I took off hard, I didn't take off hard enough to hang it out sideways -- yeah, hi, I'm a grownup. About the time I got moving and headed toward town, I reached for the radio and hit the #1 button.

The radio's memory buttons are a habit that has stayed with me as long as I've been driving. The same stations have been on essentially the same buttons all these years, save for a few changes when stations changed hands or when Tulsa got a classical station. #1 is a station that I don't listen to near as much as I used to, but it's still there. When I hit the button, I figured it wouldn't stay there long 'cause they don't play the old stuff like they used to; usually I just see what's on and if it's some new corporate radio crap, I flip on to the next station. My finger was already touching the surface of the #2 button, then I heard the DJ introducing a song, "The new one from Shinedown, it's called Bully."

Wait, what? Okay, I'll let it play.

"It’s 8 AM, this hell I’m in, Seems I’ve crossed a line again, For being nothing more than who I am."

Shit, here he is again, the FaceBook message, the screen-grab, the blog post I keep putting off, the flashbacks to the anger and the self-loathing; the guy I forgot when I wrote "Bullet List."

And there I was, crying alone in my car again.

I must've blocked a lot of it out, but the message he sent me on FaceBook brought way too much of it right back to the surface, where it's been popping back in on me every once in a while ever since a year ago last June.

He was a year older than me, and we were both in band. He sat near me quite a bit, and he always had something to say about anything and everything; usually involving my clothes or the size of my ass. I think what made him the worst of 'em all was that I really wanted to care, I didn't want to be angry all the time, I wanted to be warm and kind and friendly, not ugly and mean and full of hate all the time. He wasn't just mean like all the others; he'd pull me in and make me think he was going to be nice this time, let me think he'd changed and was all warm and sweet, then he'd say something nasty, even worse than the last time. That led to me not only hating him, but hating myself for letting him trick me into believing he might not be mean anymore. Over and over again, I'd sit through band practice hating myself for letting him trick me again, hating myself because apparently I'm not even good enough to be friends with someone who sits an elbow away from me every damn morning.



I had Jesus in my heart then and might've even offered to share in the warmer moments, but you didn't care at all, you were always mean, always nasty, always finishing with abuse every time. I've carried your words and your meanness around with me way too long, and I'm done now, because I know you never had to fight back tears before you made it to the front of the line at the drive-thru. You may say you're not the person you were back then, but I have too much experience with your words, I don't trust your words and I don't trust you. For the good of humanity, I hope your kids are as "wonderful" as you claim they are, I hope they're not relentlessly harassing anyone who'll end up crying alone in their car twenty years from now. I especially hope you're not just one more jerk hiding behind the supposed goodness of "church people," just lurking in the shadows waiting for one more chance to tear someone else down. Don't worry, The Lord is with me, His Peace is with me, but not because you sent Him to me. He has always been here for me; he kept me from ending up a school shooter, didn't he?

I haven't sent any sort of reply, none at all. I've written it in my head a thousand times, but no matter how eloquent it starts out, it always ends with "and the horse you rode in on."

Yeah, I think that's about it; I've let my thoughts out here because letting them out was what I needed; there's no point in wasting my time on someone who's not worth the hassle of a direct reply. That sums it up best, so I'll just go ahead and say it, "Fuck you, John, and the horse you rode in on."

Notes From A New Job.

So, a while back, I wrote (eh, vaguely) about a big change.

I also covered an old story and a thrilling moment with the trailer.

In the month or so since, I guess you might say another big change took place.

After I'd heard the words "prollyoughta look for a job," way too many times, I put in a couple applications. Prollyoughta, that's one of those Oklahoma words, like "y'uns." Don't look at me like that, this blog and F@ceBook are the only places I actually use those Oklahoma words in type.

I'd applied for a couple jobs that sounded interesting, but I can't say I was being real serious about the hunt. I didn't hear anything back and none of the people I'd given as references heard anything either. Then one day, I got a phone call from this friend of mine… Probably the best friend I've had as an adult, and certainly the closest guy friend I've got who's never seen any part of me nekkid. (Heh, there's another Oklahoma word.) He was the first person to hand me an iPod to play with, he showed me the magic of microwaved peanut butter as a dessert topping, he made me cry with emailed pictures of brand-new babies, and he taught me how to order my dinner at Taco Bueno, as in "say these exact words," so that I get a whole entire box of just what I want, and it's so good, he'd about as well be a Jedi.

Find your people, you need a friend like that!

So, he calls me with this job offer, and first, I panic and say I need to talk it over with my Mom and Clay… As soon as I hang up, I start thinkin' I'll go for it… I was scared shitless, but I decided to go for it. I wouldn't have had the balls to try something like that from a want ad or a CL post, but since my name had already been mentioned as having experience, I went for it.

It involves moving trailers. It's three ten-hour days. It works out to more money than I was making in the ol' salvage biz.

It's only three days a week.

I get a comfy seat with AC and heat, and I pick the radio station. No retail public. No phones.

No more calling tech support then answering questions about the p@rn on the office PC. No more sharing a bathroom with Teh P@rnhunter.

Those first couple days, I was kinda worried; but it's been getting easier and easier as time goes by.

My trailer-backin' skills are gettin' better and better, like within inches. The in-traffic people-watching that comes with a couple hundred miles a day is incredible.

I already got a raise.

It's pretty freakin' schweeet!

_\,,/

Packing Materials and Flashbacks.

I don't think I had a "traditional college experience." I did a little bit of partying, but my well-planned-out weekends were probably nothing; I say "well-planned-out" because I always made sure my car was safely out of the street and I stayed put 'til noon the next day. I only got truly drunk once, all those other times, I still stayed put 'cause I just stayed put. I never showed up at school under the influence, I never skipped classes, I always did my best to not be late…

I still couldn't fit the mold. My Mom still pokes at me about why the hell I didn't get the degree, and I know she'd never understand, so I don't try to explain. I guess they're a tight group that won't let just anybody in; I mean, really, they all loaded up to go to the lake 'cause somebody had a lake house and a sailboat, they all loaded up and went to some bar 'cause somebody played in a band. Nobody wanted to load up and come to the races when I bought my first Outlaw Stock. I just didn't fit the mold. The girl who had the highest grade in the whole program used to have all the parties and mix all the drinks and let us all sleep at her house afterward, she quit, just got sick of it all and quit. The girl who was always falling asleep in classes, she got a degree. The girl who always had gloves on because she was afraid to touch people, she got a degree. I, the girl who brought rollbar padding and zip-ties to a clinical rotation to save a patient's legs from the sharp parts of a power wheelchair, I did not make it outta there with a degree.

I didn't manage to fit the mold. I'm alright with that, except when My Mom brings it up over and over again. I have fun with what I do, I make enough money to pay my bills and I'm not stressed-out all the time, it's good enough for me.

Every now and then, I still think about the professor who "broke the news" to me that I wasn't good enough, because "not good enough" ended up being something I struggled with off and on through my twenties. She had to have a third party present in our meeting that day; the program director couldn't be there supposedly due to having to take her dog to the Vet. She wore a denim vest with worn places under her elbows; the white threads dirty and brown like she didn't realize it needed to be washed every once in a while. She told us about how we needed to "be adult learners," but she almost never made it to any class meeting on-time. One of the people who told me I wasn't good enough didn't even know enough to keep her own clothes clean -- that always helps me remember that good enough for me is good enough; I do have high standards for myself, I am good enough.

I do vividly remember one particular experience with that professor, I had a little flashback to it earlier this week.

After a string of break-in's around here, we ordered a motion-activated camera, which came in the mail. The cardboard box was just big enough to have lots of room, just small enough I could bring it back from the post office on my bike. Inside, the camera and matching memory card were cushioned with those "air pillow" strips of inflated plastic bags, the kind that always remind me of my one shining moment with that professor.



She had unpacked some sort of shipment in the lab office, and reused the box for something else, so she'd stuffed a bunch of those packing pillows into the wastebasket beside the office door. She kept trying to poke them into the half-full waste paper basket, and they kept squishing out because there were so many of them. Their fluffiness made them excellent for protecting things in shipping boxes, but it also made them very difficult to cram into a little trash can. She kept trying though, this supposedly educated silvery-haired adult just couldn't seem to figure out that every time she crammed some in, more spilled over the edge of the container. I watched for a little while, I have no idea how long I sat there and wondered just how much a degree meant, the kind of degree where you get to sign your name with letters after it, just how much could it mean if you have that much trouble with simple problem-solving?

The first pair of scissors my eyes landed on were the kind for cutting bandages, all chrome, thin loop handles, short little blades, with a safety knob on the bottom side. I quietly stepped over toward the trashcan and corresponding pile of packing pillows, and silently snipped a hole in each little pillow, allowing them to deflate and sink into the wastebasket, where they now took up almost no noticeable space.

She looked a little shocked; I'm not sure if it was at the simplicity of the solution to the problem, or the fact that I, a lowly student, had been the one to discover it.

I didn't get a degree, but I learned a lot about how people work.

I don't have nightmares anymore, but I do still remember her every time I unpack a box and find those air pillows.

I don't get to sign my name with letters after it, but I still manage to get things done.

From A Trailer.

Get away from Go0gle Reader and go write something once in a while!"

There's a lot to be said for the experience of owning a trailer… Not the kind you have to run away from when a storm comes; the kind you can hook onto the back of a truck and haul a car with.

As a kid, I lived in the kind you have to run from when a storm comes, and I can't seem to come up with any desire to do it again -- especially not one on top of a big hill, where running for cover involves getting in a 4x4 Toyota with a roll bar (like that would save anybody from tornado debris?) and rushing down the hill in the rain and the wind and the dark and oh God, please no, never again.

I remember when I was in middle school or junior high, well before I had a driver's license, my folks had a big ol' deck boat. I can't really say we were "boat people," I think it was just one of those things Dad got a steal-of-a-deal on and brought home to fix up a bit and sell off later. One of my little "things" with my Dad was that when we headed home from somewhere, if it was just Dad and Me, he'd stop at the same spot on the way into the neighborhood and let me drive home. My Mom was not a fan, she didn't willingly ride in anything with me until well into my twenties, but Dad would pull over and stop at that same corner in whatever he was driving and switch me places, as early as fourth or fifth grade -- his truck, Mom's car, lot cars, the wrecker, and one time, I even got to drive the GMC and pull that enormous boat to the house.

Until I bought my first race car, that was the extent of my trailer experience.

For the first few nights of that first season, David drove the truck and pulled the trailer and parked it in his space so that I could unload the car he'd raced the previous season and sold to me. The first time he had to work late, he would be to the track in time for the actual races, but I can't stand having to rush and hurry and take chances on messing things up -- I need to take my time getting ready and know that I've done everything that needs to be done. So, that night was my first time alone with the truck and the trailer; and I wasn't nearly as worried as My Mom. I still maintain my belief of what I told her that afternoon when I left, "The truck does the hard part." The truck takes care of most of the hard work, but I still had a lot to learn.

I drove to the race track, bought my pit pass, and pulled in to head for my spot. I made a wide circle and eased it into the spot we always used; a truck to my left and a crooked patch of concrete to my right. I was in there smooth and easy, and before I could put the truck in park and take the key out, there was a knock on my window. I put a smile on and reached for the window crank; then I realized, it's that guy who tapes his foot on with ducktape every week. It's possible he could've been attempting to stabilize a weak ankle, but seriously, he would put layer after layer of ducktape over his pants leg and his shoe, not like when the football coach tapes up an ankle, more like if you tried to fix a gate hinge with ducktape instead of bolts. All that tape, when we're three miles from a Walgreen's where you can buy a well-made brace with laces and not have to pick all that glue out of the pants and the shoe! He was also the same guy who watched me back the car off the trailer a few weeks before and asked Dave, "Are you gonna let her drive it forward too?" That guy. Ugh. Oh well, I already smiled, at least I'm a friendly girl.

"You can't park there."

Uhm, what?

"You can't park there, that's Dave's spot, you gotta move."

Dave'll be here in a little bit, c'mon, don't you remember me?

"Back it on out."

I tried everything and he wouldn't' listen to me -- there I was, in the same white Ford truck, with the same black trailer with the same blue-green Camaro with the same white 20 on it, the same girl who always shows up with David every Friday, but noooooo…

Looking back, it's one of those moments I wish I'd stood my ground better -- hey, I'm ten years older now, I'd do it differently if it happened again, but at that moment, I was just trying to get it over with. "Back it on out, I'll help ya," he said. He stood in front of the left headlight of my truck and pointed at me, or at the area behind the truck, whichever. I started it up and let the park brake go, and put the ol' white Ford in reverse. As I let my foot off the brake, the truck started to roll backward and the trailer pushed sideways, headed for this guy's car that he'd unloaded behind his trailer. He put his other hand up and made a circular motion, apparently like the steering wheel of the truck; if you're familiar with Sign Language and/or the Manual Alphabet, you can picture that hand like the letter "e" with the thumb sticking out instead of folded near the fingertips.

I knew that backing the trailer was not an easy task, and I knew that I had noooo experience with such task. I'd left work that afternoon with every intention of carefully planning where I left the truck and trailer so that I would not have to back up, but there I was with him pointing and yelling and angrily circling that "e" at me. It was not working, it was just not working, probably partly because he was facing me and making the motions, probably mostly because the longer it wore on, the more frustrated he got and the more stressed-out I got. I lost count of how many times I pulled forward and backed up and pulled forward and backed up, trailer twisting as it pleased, but somewhere along in there, the frustration got the best of me and I put the truck in park and put my arm out the window. I signed for the guy with the taped-on foot to come closer. When he got to the driver's door of the truck, I pulled the handle and popped the door open. Without breaking eye contact, I slid my ass over into the middle of the truck seat -- "Here," I said, patting the seat beside me, "This whole arm-motion business is NOT working, so you just climb right in here and YOU put this truck wherever you want it to be."

He sighed an exasperated sigh I'll never forget, his shoulders dropped, and he waved a hand across in front of him, making the internationally recognized sign for "Oh, screw it!" as he turned to walk away, back toward his own truck. I put the ol' six-cylinder Ford into drive and pulled forward, back to almost exactly the same spot where I'd put it in park the first time I pulled in. I got my ramps out and unloaded my Camaro, got the tools out and ready, and was calmly waiting to go race when Dave got there. Mister Ducktape never made eye contact with me again after that -- I'm sure he has no idea that I'm thinkin' about him almost every time I end up having to back a trailer. Heh. Thinkin' about mowin' him down. Muwaahaahaa, just kidding.

Since then, that ol' trailer been hitched to several different trucks and has hauled several different race cars, auction cars, breakdowns, horse traders, and furniture. The first time I saw Colorado was with that trailer, loaded down with both four-wheelers and a freezer, in hopes of bringing home a dead elk. The first time I hitched it onto my nearly-new black & silver big block Ford, I'd backed the ball right under the tongue perfectly on the first try and I was so proud; in my excitement, I forgot to latch the hitch, and when we pulled the Camaro up the ramps, the tailgate caught the full brunt of the launch just before the safety chains ran out of slack. The first time I fell asleep at a race track, I was sitting on the side of that trailer, feet square on the ground in front of me, hands in my lap, and fully asleep with a Modified B-Feature on the track -- it was past one AM then, it was well past 2:30 when I finally made it to the track in my Pure Stock. The second weekend after David died, I came down to the barn by myself to load up my stuff and go back to the races, I climbed up onto this trailer and sat down, cross-legged, right in the middle of the wood, just to think about how things had been and wonder how things were going to be from here on out.

Over the years of racing, I figured out a thing or two about myself and trailers; like if I can't look in the mirrors and back the ball under the tongue in one try, I can get out and go look at it, then figure out where I need to put my foot to get it right. If I have a truck that doesn't sit too high and doesn't have a manual transmission, I can put myself halfway in the seat with one foot on the ground and back the truck to where it needs to be. The professor who covered "Proprioception" didn't really appreciate that little bit of information, but I still use it anyway.

Even with that skill under my belt, I still struggled a lot with that whole backing the trailer thing. My Dad can put a 20-foot trailer into a ninety degree parking place between two cars just like at Wal-Mart. One night I watched him back it into a garage door, race car, ATV, tools, tire rack and all, through a garage door with less than two fingers worth of spare space on either side. I ain't even tryin' that. One of my girls on (Coffeyville's only) "All-Girl Pit Crew" had experience with fishing tournaments and could get the trailer anywhere backwards and lightning-freakin'-fast from having to outrun "those other guys" and get the trailer into the water to get the boat out quick. From my spot in the shotgun seat, with or without anybody in the middle, she was so fast and made it look so damn easy, it was like a magic trick and I didn't stand a chance of figuring it out by watching 'cause it happened so quick.

Seems like nobody really teaches that whole "how to back a trailer" thing, no matter how valuable of a skill it can be.

Through several little moments; in the pits of race tracks, on city streets, in driveways, in parking lots, in the back yard (or the front yard), I took on the task of figuring it out myself. I'm not ashamed to admit, it took me a while. Every now and then, I'd strike it real lucky and manage to back it right into the driveway; then there'd be other nights that I'd spend an hour out there, barely miss the neighbors' mailbox, and end up turned completely around just trying to get it out of the street. Just like that night with Mr. Ducktape, I knew that if I tried to rush it, I was screwed. I always end up with better luck if I have the time to stop, sit still, and look things over -- look around and think it through, look in the mirrors, look at what's close by that couldn't take a hit from a trailer (or a truck), and forget about whether or not anybody can see me. The stop sign at 106th & Peoria barely survived a hit from a trailer (my apologies to the county highway department), I'm still pretty sure it's all 'cause some dip crowded me off the bridge, and I was trying to hurry so he wouldn't hit the front of my truck.

It takes a minute or two to look at where I want to get the trailer to go, and then think about how to go about it. Turning the wheel to the right makes the front of the truck ease to the left, which pushes the back of the truck to the right, which pushes the front of the trailer to the right, which pushes the back of the trailer to the left. Oh man, that's the first time I've ever typed that all out, and it makes even more sense now! Even when anybody would try to give me tips, like "turning the opposite way," I couldn't get it to make sense in my head. While I was trying to figure out what to do about the button on the E4OD transmission, I found a little bit in the truck's owner's manual about backing the trailer, and it said to "put your hand on the bottom of the steering wheel and push the way you want the trailer to go." That really turned a light on, but I still try my best to process it through my own thick head. When I can take the time, I (mostly) do just fine… I can look in the mirrors and see what the trailer is doing in relation to what my hands and feet are doing, and I can make it go where I want it. I'm still not going to do it real fast, and I'm still going to avoid the really tight spots.

Last night, I backed the ball under the tongue on the first try and hung that trailer on the back of the diesel extended-cab and picked up Clay at his house. I was kinda proud of myself for bein' able to turn around at the end of the block; something I only tried because there were absolutely no cars parked in the street at all. We headed on over to South Tulsa to pick up Clay's newest Camaro at an auction company. An auction company that really doesn't specialize in cars… In the back lot of an auction company that really doesn't specialize in cars. I had to make a left across three lanes of after-work rush-hour traffic, into a parking lot at a near u-turn, then make a right through two gates. I made it through the gates, nervously, past the Camaro like oncoming traffic, to turn around and get the trailer ready to load it, then I saw that the back lot was full-up with trucks and trailers and trailers and trailers -- there was not a big empty patch of gravel to make a big circle like on Go0gle Maps.

It was an undeniable "oh shit" moment.

I tried to look around and see what I was getting into, and I went through the two gates as straight as I possibly could just in case I ended up in a full-on panic and calling for help to let someone else get it back outta there.

The thought process may or may not have involved something like "Sweet lil eight-pound Baby Jesus, please just pick this truck up and point it back toward the street for me."

I went on in, past a semi trailer and made a right. I pulled straight forward 'til the trailer was straight, then I backed it very slightly around to the right and up to the fence. I turned right again, into a space between two semi trailers and up toward the loading dock until the trailer was straight. I backed out from between the trailers and up close to a truck so that I could pull out past the Camaro, pointing the same direction so I could back up to the front of the car to load it.

Each time I pulled up and backed up, I did it in one try, and I was stunned. So stunned, I barely noticed the guy on the loading dock who had been carrying boxes but stopped for a second to see what was going on. When I put the truck in park to get out and put the ramps down, he said I was awesome.

I would so love to be able to make it that awesome every time…

Like everything else, it is what you make of it -- so, along with my own trailer experience, I salute Miss Britt and the fantastic journey she's leaving on, click on over and follow her as she takes her family to see the whole country!

One more thing -- since Dave made an appearance or two in this post, I'll also mention that if we'd had that wedding, today would've been our ninth anniversary… Happy Anniversary, David Paul, you wouldn't believe the crazy things that have happened around here!

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