September 22, 2026
It is 10:45 a.m. Hello, my readers. I just got home from the Court, and I am in pain. My right leg is hurt. I am going to tell you what happened.
I had Jury Duty reporting at 8:30 a.m. I left home close to 8 a.m., which should have been plenty of time for me to drive around a few times looking for a parking lot.
I was turning into the exact parking building I had used in past years. It was not the second time, but the third time today. At first, I did not remember, but I noticed when I pulled in and put the car in reverse to back out of the building. The court was right in front of me, but I could not park there yet.
I am not familiar with the location at all, so the GPS was what I relied on. I followed it, and this time I stopped on the street and saw the familiar parking lot just across from me. The bright green "OPEN" sign gave me excitement. I would simply drive straight across when the traffic light switched to green. Yes, it was the same parking garage I used the last time I came.
The incident happened here. I was trying to reach my hand out to insert the credit card, and while twisting and reaching, an instant sharp pain ran through my right leg all the way to my toes. It happened very fast, and it hurt badly. I automatically shifted the gear into "P" without even realizing it. I got the ticket and worried that I might not be able to continue driving, but I managed to move the car to an available parking space on the ground level.
I parked on top of the line, but this time I did not have the courage to repark because the moment my right foot touched the ground, it hurt badly, and I could barely stand.
I had to take care of my Jury Duty obligation, so I pulled myself up and walked out of the building.
The area looked familiar. My brain did its job, and so did my legs. I remembered coming here once in the spring. I had walked past Building 600 and down the connecting path toward Building 500, which was my destination. There were peach trees or pear trees along the way. I recognized their white flowers. At that time, the court did not allow us to bring our phones, and I remember thinking that I wished I had a camera to record the beautiful scenery.
This time I walked in the same direction and then had to walk back because a construction fence blocked the path. I had already set up my GPS for walking before leaving the parking garage, but my brain was not focused on the GPS because of the pain. Instead, I was relying on the familiar directions and only a vague memory of where my destination was. (vague /veɪɡ/ = not clear , not specific ,hard to understand exactly)
I decided to walk into Building 600 and ask someone for directions. There was a man at the information desk. He either did not know the building or did not understand me. I was not sure. I kept asking the same question: "I want to go to the Building 500 address. Which way? Here or there?" while pointing with my hand.
Eventually, he understood me and answered. The direction was the same one I had been thinking of. He also warned me to be careful because there was no proper walkway due to the construction trucks and fencing.
The street was narrow, and there were not many cars at the moment, so I looked carefully before crossing to the other side. It was drizzling. I am always prepared, so I had my brimmed hat on. It hurt. I was limping in the drizzle. The distance was short, but it did not feel short with the pain in my foot.
I walked past two men. One looked a little scary, but I told myself, "If that man harms me, the people waiting at the bus stop would help." Haha. Nothing happened.
I crossed the street to Building 500, passed through security, and headed to the reporting room.
I handed my letter and ID to an administrative window. The man said, "The reporting time was 8:30 a.m., and the waiting room is already crowded. I will not let you in. You are good to go and can wait for a new letter."
I asked if I would get into trouble, and he said no.
It was beneficial that I did not have to stay, but it was still a bad morning because I got hurt. I learned my lesson. On the way out, I shifted the car into "P," opened the door, moved my body out far enough to reach the machine, and paid for parking.
I did not feel any pain while driving, but I wanted to get home as soon as possible. The first thing I did was call my husband to let him know that I was already home and would not have to spend long hours in the waiting room. I left a message, and he called back a few minutes later. I told him about my leg pain and said I would explain everything in detail when he got home in the evening.
Let me talk about my Jury Duty journey.
I received my first letter when I was still a green card holder and could not serve. I called and informed them. I never understood how they sent a Jury Duty letter to a green card holder. They should have had that information in their system.
The following year, I received another letter. That time I was actually happy because I wanted the experience, although I did not want to be selected. I am aware of my English ability. I can communicate in daily life, but legal English in a courtroom is another matter.
The big issue for me was the parking lot. I had not been to this city very often, or I could say that I barely came to this area. I had visited it a few times during my early years in the USA, so I was not familiar with the directions, buildings, streets, or anything else. I relied mostly on GPS. I faintly remembered finding an open parking lot on the street behind the 500 building and walking a little. That memory stayed in my head, but I never parked there again because I could not find it. In fact, I barely remembered it. (*faintly=vaguely)
In the years that followed, I kept turning into the same parking garage, only to discover that the machine said "Monthly Parking Only." Then I had to reverse and back out. The first time, I worried that a car would be behind me. Luckily, the cars entered through the other entrances instead. Every time I went there, I turned into that garage because the sign on the street said, "Courthouse Parking." (*In the years that followed = The years after that)
My husband once said to me, "I think we get more Jury Duty letters than other people."
I laughed and replied, "I agree."
Then I thought that maybe other people receive them just as often as we do.
I remember talking to a man in the waiting room one day about how often people receive Jury Duty notices. He told me it was about every seven years. I checked the information myself a long time ago, but I forgot the exact number.
Well, I got U.S. citizenship in 2018, and I have already received six or seven letters. I am not sure because the ones before citizenship do not count. Three times were cancelled, and I showed up three times. Now this is the fourth time, based on the old snapshots in my head. The time before this was in 2025, yes, last year. It was cancelled, and then I got this letter. I do not remember which year, but one time I got there around 9 a.m., and the staff let me into the waiting room. ( pictures in my head = seeing scenes in my mind, old snapshots)
In the beginning, I was excited to report for Jury Duty. However, after receiving so many letters in a row, I no longer want to do it, especially when it requires going into the city and struggling to find parking. I prefer the courthouse in the smaller city where I live because it has an open parking lot.
One thing remains in my memory, although I am not sure whether the number is correct. I believe that people age 75 and older no longer need to serve on Jury Duty.
Main improvements
Grammar
- Corrected verb tenses ("drove" → "drive," "had to taking" → "had to take").
- Fixed article usage and prepositions.
- Corrected sentence fragments and run-on sentences.
Clarity
- Made the sequence of events easier to follow.
- Improved transitions between ideas while keeping your storytelling style.
Tone
- Preserved your personal, conversational blog voice.
- Kept details like the drizzle, the trees, the scary-looking man, and your thoughts about Jury Duty because they make the story feel authentic and personal.