The first quarter of 2010 is about to close and I’m two months away from driving over the road nationally for the company for one year. We all marvel at how fast time flies and this past year is no exception. Someone once said to me “life is like a roll of toilet paper, the closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.” How true.
I’m still adding up the numbers and so far, I’ve logged nearly 100,000 miles in three different trucks. My travels have taken me to 45 states. Regarding those 45 states, I’ve been to almost every state I’ve ever been to at least twice, some as many as 10 times. Of the lower 48, only Montana and the Dakotas are the missing pieces. Someday, my dream is to drive a truck in all 50, even if that means renting a Ryder tractor in Honolulu and taking it around town. The lone exception this year has been Maine. Expediting has just not taken me there. Back in 2001, we took a motor home to Bar Harbor and up the rocky coast to explore seaside villages and enjoy some lobster. Even Louie had some of the crustacean. He looks good in a bib.
I have often bounced back and forth from Canada to the Rio Grande like a bungee cord. These sojourns have divided the country into geometric patterns. To be put on a canvas, some of these runs would appear to be modern art. I ran from Washington State to Orlando Florida and I am hoping for an opportunity that will take me from San Diego to Bangor Maine to complete the “X”. The major north-south routes, I’ve almost completed in their entirety include Interstates 5, 15, 25,35,45,55,65,75,85 and 95. East-West Interstates on the list are 90, 70, and 20. I’ve travelled the entire length of 80 from the George Washington Bridge in New York to San Francisco. Also on the completed list is 40, and 10. I just have the section of 75 north of Flint, Michigan to the Upper Peninsula, the Midland-Odessa stretch on 20, and a piece of 95 in Maine to the Canadian border to add those to the done list. All the Interstates I have driven on would unfurl like tractor paper from a computer printer.
Keeping track of all this has been a most enjoyable part of the job. More than numbers, these roads are paths that lead through America. There are home towns along the way that mean something to someone. Most importantly, The Eisenhower Interstate System connects us and our American ideals and principles. We may seem much divided as a country as of late, but I’ve always felt that this is how our country works. Thomas Jefferson, in his first inaugural address in 1801 proclaimed that“Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have been called by different names, brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to dissolve this Union or to change its republican form, let them stand undisturbed as monuments of the safety with which error of opinion may be tolerated, where reason is left free to combat it” . Our forefathers were brilliant men.
Once again, I over-stayed my home time to complete tax returns and catch up on a few chores at the ranch. After a short run to get my “less than 75”, and move up in dwell time status, my jumping off point out of town would be from the electronics warehouse south of Atlanta to Memphis on Friday. Delivery wasn’t until Monday so I could lolly gag my way across the south a bit. Night number one found me in Birmingham, Alabama at the Flying J. When you start recognizing faces and places along the way, as I do here, it kind of gives a strange air of familiarity. These days, a large portion of America has a “homey” feeling to me. On Saturday afternoon, under brilliant spring skies, I weighed anchor and continued on westward across the top of Alabama and into Mississippi on a smooth and picturesque US 78 in the Magnolia State. The state welcome center in Ole’ Miss was alive in Bradford Pear white and a winter brown Bermuda lawn, a reminder that the last vestiges of the cold season were hanging on. Soon, bare trees would fill out in green and magnificent Magnolias dominate the landscape. I’ve always found solace in an early spring day. In that kind of day, a prize can be found for enduring winter.
Tupelo wasn’t far up the road, and this time, I was determined to visit Elvis Presley’s birthplace. This was my third pass on this route and the King wasn’t going to slip by me again. The Sprint Market across from the Huddle House next to Elvis Presley Lake and Campground seemed like the logical place to put the Fat Cat down for the night. Upon entering the mini market, I was greeted by a chorus of hellos. Seems the lady clerks welcome every customer as they cross the threshold. The jingle bells on the door would clang and hellos and hi’s would follow. I had heard that Tupelo was known for its hospitality and this kind of salutation seemed to fit. As I surveyed the fried deli counter, one of my eyebrows raised as I spied catfish fillets lined up for sale. A three fillet meal with steak fries was $2.39. Another reason I like Mississippi. They don’t try to gouge you at every turn. Fuel prices are usually the lowest in the country too. With a sack of fish, I headed to the truck to settle in and plot my visit the next day at Elvis’s place of humble beginnings.
Sunday opened with a stout cloud cover and cooler temperatures but not to temper my enthusiasm for a visit to the King’s home. I found the Birthplace complex 2 and a half miles down the road and located a good place to park the Cat. Once inside the gift shop, I was greeted by a pleasant woman with silver hair and a big smile I presumed to be in her 70’s. She warned of malfunctioning plumbing in the Men’s room and offered up a program for the tour.
On the grounds, you’ll find a bronze statue of Elvis at 13, dressed in overalls with a guitar in hand. The story wall is situated near a pleasant fountain and has profound quotes from friends and family.
The actual home that Elvis was born in is a tiny two room cottage with a front porch and swing. Inside, it takes about 10 seconds to walk from the front door to the back. It’s been refurbed and decorated down to the finest detail, just as it would have been when Elvis lived there. An old pot belly stove that doubles as the heat and cooking source takes a prominent place in the kitchen with an authentic cast iron skillet. Encompassing the home in concrete are markers denoting each year that Elvis lived there from 1935 to 1948 when the family moved to Memphis for a better life. Next on the tour is a modern looking Chapel built in recent times with beautiful stain glass windows where you can sit in a pew and listen to recordings of Elvis singing gospel.
Last, but not least, is the church where Elvis actually got his singing start. They moved it from up the road in 2008 and restored it to its 1930’s period. Once inside, one of Elvis’s second cousins gives a short talk on the history of the church and then she turns down the lights. Next, three screens drop down from the ceiling and a re-creation film with actors who portray a vintage 1940’s Church of God worship service. The effect is dramatic, you really feel like you’re experiencing an old time gospel service in the old church. Out back, there is an authentic outhouse to complete the feeling of the era. After the presentation, I spoke with the cousin and asked her if she ever got to spend any time with Elvis. She said in fact, yes. She related that he was 9 years older than her and would sometimes bring “dates” around for her older sister. On occasion, she got to tag along with the group.
I thanked the nice woman for a great time and hopped back into the Fat Cat for the next to last leg of the trip to Olive Branch, Mississippi, a suburb of Memphis where I would cue up for an early Monday morning delivery. My ongoing voyage across this great land would continue up western Tennessee through the tail end of Kentucky into the heart of the Bluegrass State to a stop in Lexington. At this point, only my log books know for sure how many times I’ve been in Colonel Sanders Land this year. It’s supposed to be mostly sunny and 70 degrees tomorrow here. I just might want to stay.
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Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
This Ain't My First Rodeo
One of the questions I'm often asked is "how often do you go home?" Not as often as I would like is how I usually answer. In reality, it varies from twenty to thirty days on the road. The longest I've been out was last October to November at a grand total of thirty three days. Since the beginning of the year, I've been through fourty five states and numerous and diverse destinations. The days generally "blur" together as I travel through multiple time zones and climates. I have to keep referring to my watch to keep track of what day it is. The company uses Eastern Time in the twenty four hour military mode exclusively to limit confusion. Thank goodness for that or it would be a real adventure adding and subtracting hours. Personally, I stick with Eastern Time, unless I'm on the west coast for an extended period of time. Then, I ease my personal schedule to Pacific or Mountain Time. Freight pickup and delivery always goes by Eastern Time. One sure-fire method for determining when it's time to go home is my "soap rule". When I begin a trip out, I always start with a new bar of soap. When that bar of soap wears down to a thin wafer, then I know it's definitely time to go home!
After practically living in Ohio for weeks, the Q-comm flashed Texas, and I was happy to oblige. Springtime would surely be springing there! Blinding sunshine, bright blue skies and 70 degree temperatures would most definately greet me in the Lone Star nation. It was time to bust it down to Texas on a series of interstates to the vernal light at the end of the tunnel.
This journey, took me once again, past the Corvette Assembly Plant and Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Someday, I'm actually going to stop there and see all those 'Vettes. It kills me to pass up that place. I have visions of seeing more vintage roadsters than a grown man is supposed to witness without drooling on a hood and ruining a perfectly good McGuire polish. One day, I will go when time isn't my enemy.
The highway droned on passing through Tennessee, around Nashville and Music City was lit up in nighttime magnificence as I made the right hand turn to I-40 then, on to Memphis. The Volunteer State became Arkansas then Little Rock turned into the border wonder of Texarkana and finally to the promised land on the prairie, some one thousand miles at the end of the line.
It felt good to be back in Texas and springtime in all her glory was in session. My first destination would be McKinney, on the north side the Metroplex..Dallas that is. This delivery had three stops, all concrete manufacturing plants. This dispatch would be another challenge because there was no loading dock, just an open area with machinery and a steady stream of mixer trucks pouring in and out of the warm and dusty landscape. I popped out of my cab and surveyed my prospects for the drop losing my hooded sweatshirt in the process. On board, I had three huge containers encased in a metal cage with a chemical needed for the concrete product. The fellows greeted me with an obligatory Texas howdy and assured me there would be no problem removing their goods from my cargo hold. The next thing I see is Jose bounding over in a bucket dozer to cue up behind the Fat Cat. I let out a breath of air and privately hoped these guys knew what they were doing.
Two other hardhats joined us and we plotted the logistical maneuver to take the big square off my truck. After some strategic strapping and jostling we were able to get the goods into the bucket and on the ground without exploding thousands of gallons of who knows what all over. Only two more times of this and I get to go to buffet near the truck stop. After being here three times previously, I know this town. This ain't my first rodeo in Dallas.
Back at the Pilot Truck Stop I always stay at, I met Rick, another driver from my company who calls the Columbus area of Ohio home. He was young at twenty something and displayed exuberance for trucking I love to see. We were both now layed over and had a good time trading stories and exchanging tips about how to work the company. I learned a few new tricks and a couple things I didn't know. Rick has been with them longer and I was appreciative for his knowledge. He also had a little more "dwell" time than me and was awarded the big money New Jersey run over me. That's ok, I'll just stay here and soak up a little more of this nice weather as a consolation prize.
The company has a thing called a "Less Than 75". If you do a short run for them, they will put you way up in front of the line for a load opportunity. I took a short load from Dallas over to Mansfield and became a smiling and shining "Less Than 75" man. Such accomplishments. Being at the front of the line was kind of a bittersweet feeling. It meant that I would probably be blown out of Texas as fast as I blew in. But, I did have three great days in the big one.
Sure enough, the Q-comm rang up a run I couldn't refuse to Romulus, Michigan, right next to the Detroit airport. My prospects now were a return back to winter. This would be my third trip to that exact location. Now it was time to ready up that pile of winter clothes at the end of my bunk. I knew right away from the destination of Romulus that this would be a transfer to another truck headed to Canada. I've got all the papers to go all the way myself, but my fleet owner won't govern the throttle on the truck, which is mandatory for travel in Canada. That's ok, I don't need a slower truck and I'll pass on that bunch of Gestapo’s at the crossing to Ontario I encountered earlier. They told me there was a dungeon there for detaining rule violators. I don't intend on breaking any rules, but they looked like they would try real hard to find something to give themselves something to do.
It would be a voyage back up through Arkansas, a corner of Missouri, over the mighty Mississippi into Illinois, east on I-70 around Indianapolis and up I-69 to Michigan where I saw lots of people skating and fishing out of little holes on a lake just over the state line from Indiana. I was right about the winter part. Constantly passing time zones is one thing, but experiencing slide show seasons is yet more confusion to the body. I'm confident it will be springtime everywhere, eventually. But, eventually, this year might be a long, long time.
After practically living in Ohio for weeks, the Q-comm flashed Texas, and I was happy to oblige. Springtime would surely be springing there! Blinding sunshine, bright blue skies and 70 degree temperatures would most definately greet me in the Lone Star nation. It was time to bust it down to Texas on a series of interstates to the vernal light at the end of the tunnel.
This journey, took me once again, past the Corvette Assembly Plant and Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Someday, I'm actually going to stop there and see all those 'Vettes. It kills me to pass up that place. I have visions of seeing more vintage roadsters than a grown man is supposed to witness without drooling on a hood and ruining a perfectly good McGuire polish. One day, I will go when time isn't my enemy.
The highway droned on passing through Tennessee, around Nashville and Music City was lit up in nighttime magnificence as I made the right hand turn to I-40 then, on to Memphis. The Volunteer State became Arkansas then Little Rock turned into the border wonder of Texarkana and finally to the promised land on the prairie, some one thousand miles at the end of the line.
It felt good to be back in Texas and springtime in all her glory was in session. My first destination would be McKinney, on the north side the Metroplex..Dallas that is. This delivery had three stops, all concrete manufacturing plants. This dispatch would be another challenge because there was no loading dock, just an open area with machinery and a steady stream of mixer trucks pouring in and out of the warm and dusty landscape. I popped out of my cab and surveyed my prospects for the drop losing my hooded sweatshirt in the process. On board, I had three huge containers encased in a metal cage with a chemical needed for the concrete product. The fellows greeted me with an obligatory Texas howdy and assured me there would be no problem removing their goods from my cargo hold. The next thing I see is Jose bounding over in a bucket dozer to cue up behind the Fat Cat. I let out a breath of air and privately hoped these guys knew what they were doing.
Two other hardhats joined us and we plotted the logistical maneuver to take the big square off my truck. After some strategic strapping and jostling we were able to get the goods into the bucket and on the ground without exploding thousands of gallons of who knows what all over. Only two more times of this and I get to go to buffet near the truck stop. After being here three times previously, I know this town. This ain't my first rodeo in Dallas.
Back at the Pilot Truck Stop I always stay at, I met Rick, another driver from my company who calls the Columbus area of Ohio home. He was young at twenty something and displayed exuberance for trucking I love to see. We were both now layed over and had a good time trading stories and exchanging tips about how to work the company. I learned a few new tricks and a couple things I didn't know. Rick has been with them longer and I was appreciative for his knowledge. He also had a little more "dwell" time than me and was awarded the big money New Jersey run over me. That's ok, I'll just stay here and soak up a little more of this nice weather as a consolation prize.
The company has a thing called a "Less Than 75". If you do a short run for them, they will put you way up in front of the line for a load opportunity. I took a short load from Dallas over to Mansfield and became a smiling and shining "Less Than 75" man. Such accomplishments. Being at the front of the line was kind of a bittersweet feeling. It meant that I would probably be blown out of Texas as fast as I blew in. But, I did have three great days in the big one.
Sure enough, the Q-comm rang up a run I couldn't refuse to Romulus, Michigan, right next to the Detroit airport. My prospects now were a return back to winter. This would be my third trip to that exact location. Now it was time to ready up that pile of winter clothes at the end of my bunk. I knew right away from the destination of Romulus that this would be a transfer to another truck headed to Canada. I've got all the papers to go all the way myself, but my fleet owner won't govern the throttle on the truck, which is mandatory for travel in Canada. That's ok, I don't need a slower truck and I'll pass on that bunch of Gestapo’s at the crossing to Ontario I encountered earlier. They told me there was a dungeon there for detaining rule violators. I don't intend on breaking any rules, but they looked like they would try real hard to find something to give themselves something to do.
It would be a voyage back up through Arkansas, a corner of Missouri, over the mighty Mississippi into Illinois, east on I-70 around Indianapolis and up I-69 to Michigan where I saw lots of people skating and fishing out of little holes on a lake just over the state line from Indiana. I was right about the winter part. Constantly passing time zones is one thing, but experiencing slide show seasons is yet more confusion to the body. I'm confident it will be springtime everywhere, eventually. But, eventually, this year might be a long, long time.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Good, The Mad and The Stupid
I’ve almost lost track of how many times I’ve been in Cincinnati on this trip. Just to clarify things, I consider a trip the entire time that I’m on the road away from home. A run is an individual leg of that trip. That is, a pick up from a shipper to be delivered to what they call a “consignee” is a run.
Thursday morning, February 25 found me in Walton, Kentucky at the Pilot, having a breakfast of a bratwurst and cheese link with Sumatra coffee. The bratwurst is actually a good excuse to consume a tube of fat. Healthy choices of food on the road are a challenge when you’re in a hurry. Some days, I end up eating like a billy goat. I know I have to make a more concerted effort to eat well. My favorite healthy dish is a bowl of chopped spinach with just enough liquid for cooking. Not creamed, cheesed or combined with any other flavor enhancers, save some fresh garlic. I don’t know why, but this dish scares the bejeebies out of a lot of folks. I love it. It makes my stomach feel good and it digests well. Maybe it was all those Popeye cartoons when I was a kid to drive me to this phenomenal vegetable. A frozen box of Pic Wik Chopped Spinach at my neighborhood Publix Grocery store is around 90 cents to a dollar. Now, there’s value!
I rubbed the Q-comm as if to induce some good luck in a run and it rang up Paterson, New Jersey, delivering on Monday morning. OK, I’ll go there for the weekend and plant myself in the middle of my original home area. I could spend months there and not see all my old friends. Somebody has got to be around. This will be a good run, provided I get to stay for the weekend.
I pointed the Fat Cat back up I-75 to Cincinnati, again, to the shipper to pick up a hazardous load for a food processing company in New Jersey. Think about that one for a moment. It was an easy navigation over the mighty Ohio River to the Queen City. I don’t know why they call it the Queen City, but I’ll report the news to you when I find out. My Grandmother, Dad’s Mom, lived in Cincinnati as a young girl, and I recall seeing some sort of paperwork describing Cincinnati as the Queen City. So this nickname isn’t new at all.
All loaded and fueled up, I cracked the whip on the Fat Cat and it was on to the Garden State. As I rolled her up I-71, the temperature dropped considerably and snow began to fall as I had Columbus in sight. Here we go again. I think this was snow storm number ten this year. The storm strengthened through Pennsylvania and by the time I was in the middle of the state, I was down to forty five miles per hour. My driver’s side windshield wiper blew out on the top, leaving me only a three inch slot to look out. I adjusted my air ride seat to put my eyes right at the little arc of relative clarity as conditions worsened.
I finally came upon a truck stop and ventured in for a replacement. I approached the parts counter and inquired about such a part. The gruff looking man there, seated comfortably on a stool, grumbled to me that I had to go into the other part of the store. When I found myself on the other end of the building, a young fellow behind the counter retorted in an annoying nasally voice that the wipers were somewhere along the back wall. Well, there were no wipers along the back wall and I kindly asked again and received a rather rude reply of “you got to look, they’re there someplace.” I did find some on the end of an aisle and thought, the hell with this, I’ll just go further down the road looking out a sliver of clear windshield. I’m not going to reward this crappy behavior with my business. I put my drink that I was going to get back in the cooler and left.
I found another truck stop of better people about twenty miles down the road and located the perfect replacement. Now that I could see clearly through the windshield, the snowstorm was beginning to subside approaching eastern Pennsylvania. Figures.
Before long, it was over the Delaware River and back home. Sort of. I was tired from driving in the storm and dropped the Cat down in the TA at Bloomsbury at Exit 7 in familiar territory. I'd been here several times before and the TA has a good restaurant.
Every time I come into New Jersey, I’ve been in a fairly good position to visit old friends in relation to my location. Time can be tight and sometimes I get called right back out when I think I’m going to have a little visitation furlough. This time, I would get to visit with some good old friends. It was great to see our old friend Lori Dobson in Clinton. We laughed so hard telling old stories over Pizza, I could have had mozzarella cheese come out of my nose. I’ve known her and her sisters and brother since the Seventies. We talked about Bob Swensen’s annual delivery of “S” and “O” cookies at Christmastime. We knew what the “S” was for, but the “O” ones have remained a complete mystery all these years. I worked at the A & P with her Mother, Ma Dobson in the store butcher shop. The meat room stories that came from that era at that grocery store is a War and Peace sized book in itself. Top comic writers couldn’t come up with the stuff that went on there. There are lots of people even today to attest to that collection of characters who worked, and I use that term very loosely, at the Pluckemin, New Jersey A & P. We had a lot of fun in those days. Someday, I will tell those stories when I can come up with enough fake names to protect the innocent.
Sunday arrived and I met up with my long lost pal, Jeff Crosby for lunch at Cracker Barrel. Jeff lived in my neighborhood and we went all the way though grade and high school together. It was good to see him and re-live some old memories and talk about where we’d been and hope to be since our last visit. Jeff reminded me of the last time I saw him and his better half, Bonnie. It was when I worked at Magic 98 in Central New Jersey in the 80’s. They came in during my evening show there for a tour and nice visit. Too much time has gone by since that time.
Early Monday landed with a thud and way too quickly as I awoke to the Waltons Theme on my phone alarm. It was time to head up I-287 and 80 to Patterson for a 7:30 am delivery. The early morning commute was surprisingly smooth and I made good time getting there. As I’m driving around downtown Patterson, I’m continually amazed at the stupidity or boldness of people here walking right in front of my moving truck as I drove nearer to my destination. Were these people brain dead? Or perhaps trying to be knocked down so they could sue me and get some money? Personally, I’m not walking in front of any moving truck, I don’t care if you’re going to hand me a million bucks. As I continued, a guy on one of those motorized scooters that people who can’t walk use, drives right off a perfectly good sidewalk right into the middle of the road right in front of me! He’s not riding near the side of the road, or next to the curb, but right next to the yellow line in the middle of traffic! Does this man have a death wish for himself? Is he deaf or even blind? Maybe this man is just plain stupid. All these thoughts ran across my mind in an instant. My favorite funny man, Ron White, put it best in one of his routines once. “You can fix bad eyesight, you can fix bad hearing, but you CANNOT fix stupid.” Then again, maybe there were Superfund Toxic Waste Sites here that polluted the environment so badly, that people are missing key brain functions from ingesting that stuff in one way or another.
I was glad to get out of a town where everyone was trying to kill themselves . I scurried back to the relative safety of the Hampton stop off I-78.
After a short rest, my Q-comm offered a run to Dayton, Ohio from Collegeville, Pennsylvania. Now, it would be back to the Buckeye State and another visit to Dayton. From Dayton, I would travel back down to Cincinnati for another pick up. I’ve got to get a clicker counter to gauge the number of visits there. Then from Cinci, I would get to travel back down south again to the Lonestar Nation. Time to rummage about and come up with the appropriate hat. I like Texas. A lot.
Thursday morning, February 25 found me in Walton, Kentucky at the Pilot, having a breakfast of a bratwurst and cheese link with Sumatra coffee. The bratwurst is actually a good excuse to consume a tube of fat. Healthy choices of food on the road are a challenge when you’re in a hurry. Some days, I end up eating like a billy goat. I know I have to make a more concerted effort to eat well. My favorite healthy dish is a bowl of chopped spinach with just enough liquid for cooking. Not creamed, cheesed or combined with any other flavor enhancers, save some fresh garlic. I don’t know why, but this dish scares the bejeebies out of a lot of folks. I love it. It makes my stomach feel good and it digests well. Maybe it was all those Popeye cartoons when I was a kid to drive me to this phenomenal vegetable. A frozen box of Pic Wik Chopped Spinach at my neighborhood Publix Grocery store is around 90 cents to a dollar. Now, there’s value!
I rubbed the Q-comm as if to induce some good luck in a run and it rang up Paterson, New Jersey, delivering on Monday morning. OK, I’ll go there for the weekend and plant myself in the middle of my original home area. I could spend months there and not see all my old friends. Somebody has got to be around. This will be a good run, provided I get to stay for the weekend.
I pointed the Fat Cat back up I-75 to Cincinnati, again, to the shipper to pick up a hazardous load for a food processing company in New Jersey. Think about that one for a moment. It was an easy navigation over the mighty Ohio River to the Queen City. I don’t know why they call it the Queen City, but I’ll report the news to you when I find out. My Grandmother, Dad’s Mom, lived in Cincinnati as a young girl, and I recall seeing some sort of paperwork describing Cincinnati as the Queen City. So this nickname isn’t new at all.
All loaded and fueled up, I cracked the whip on the Fat Cat and it was on to the Garden State. As I rolled her up I-71, the temperature dropped considerably and snow began to fall as I had Columbus in sight. Here we go again. I think this was snow storm number ten this year. The storm strengthened through Pennsylvania and by the time I was in the middle of the state, I was down to forty five miles per hour. My driver’s side windshield wiper blew out on the top, leaving me only a three inch slot to look out. I adjusted my air ride seat to put my eyes right at the little arc of relative clarity as conditions worsened.
I finally came upon a truck stop and ventured in for a replacement. I approached the parts counter and inquired about such a part. The gruff looking man there, seated comfortably on a stool, grumbled to me that I had to go into the other part of the store. When I found myself on the other end of the building, a young fellow behind the counter retorted in an annoying nasally voice that the wipers were somewhere along the back wall. Well, there were no wipers along the back wall and I kindly asked again and received a rather rude reply of “you got to look, they’re there someplace.” I did find some on the end of an aisle and thought, the hell with this, I’ll just go further down the road looking out a sliver of clear windshield. I’m not going to reward this crappy behavior with my business. I put my drink that I was going to get back in the cooler and left.
I found another truck stop of better people about twenty miles down the road and located the perfect replacement. Now that I could see clearly through the windshield, the snowstorm was beginning to subside approaching eastern Pennsylvania. Figures.
Before long, it was over the Delaware River and back home. Sort of. I was tired from driving in the storm and dropped the Cat down in the TA at Bloomsbury at Exit 7 in familiar territory. I'd been here several times before and the TA has a good restaurant.
Every time I come into New Jersey, I’ve been in a fairly good position to visit old friends in relation to my location. Time can be tight and sometimes I get called right back out when I think I’m going to have a little visitation furlough. This time, I would get to visit with some good old friends. It was great to see our old friend Lori Dobson in Clinton. We laughed so hard telling old stories over Pizza, I could have had mozzarella cheese come out of my nose. I’ve known her and her sisters and brother since the Seventies. We talked about Bob Swensen’s annual delivery of “S” and “O” cookies at Christmastime. We knew what the “S” was for, but the “O” ones have remained a complete mystery all these years. I worked at the A & P with her Mother, Ma Dobson in the store butcher shop. The meat room stories that came from that era at that grocery store is a War and Peace sized book in itself. Top comic writers couldn’t come up with the stuff that went on there. There are lots of people even today to attest to that collection of characters who worked, and I use that term very loosely, at the Pluckemin, New Jersey A & P. We had a lot of fun in those days. Someday, I will tell those stories when I can come up with enough fake names to protect the innocent.
Sunday arrived and I met up with my long lost pal, Jeff Crosby for lunch at Cracker Barrel. Jeff lived in my neighborhood and we went all the way though grade and high school together. It was good to see him and re-live some old memories and talk about where we’d been and hope to be since our last visit. Jeff reminded me of the last time I saw him and his better half, Bonnie. It was when I worked at Magic 98 in Central New Jersey in the 80’s. They came in during my evening show there for a tour and nice visit. Too much time has gone by since that time.
Early Monday landed with a thud and way too quickly as I awoke to the Waltons Theme on my phone alarm. It was time to head up I-287 and 80 to Patterson for a 7:30 am delivery. The early morning commute was surprisingly smooth and I made good time getting there. As I’m driving around downtown Patterson, I’m continually amazed at the stupidity or boldness of people here walking right in front of my moving truck as I drove nearer to my destination. Were these people brain dead? Or perhaps trying to be knocked down so they could sue me and get some money? Personally, I’m not walking in front of any moving truck, I don’t care if you’re going to hand me a million bucks. As I continued, a guy on one of those motorized scooters that people who can’t walk use, drives right off a perfectly good sidewalk right into the middle of the road right in front of me! He’s not riding near the side of the road, or next to the curb, but right next to the yellow line in the middle of traffic! Does this man have a death wish for himself? Is he deaf or even blind? Maybe this man is just plain stupid. All these thoughts ran across my mind in an instant. My favorite funny man, Ron White, put it best in one of his routines once. “You can fix bad eyesight, you can fix bad hearing, but you CANNOT fix stupid.” Then again, maybe there were Superfund Toxic Waste Sites here that polluted the environment so badly, that people are missing key brain functions from ingesting that stuff in one way or another.
I was glad to get out of a town where everyone was trying to kill themselves . I scurried back to the relative safety of the Hampton stop off I-78.
After a short rest, my Q-comm offered a run to Dayton, Ohio from Collegeville, Pennsylvania. Now, it would be back to the Buckeye State and another visit to Dayton. From Dayton, I would travel back down to Cincinnati for another pick up. I’ve got to get a clicker counter to gauge the number of visits there. Then from Cinci, I would get to travel back down south again to the Lonestar Nation. Time to rummage about and come up with the appropriate hat. I like Texas. A lot.
She Knows Where She's Going
Once again, in this business of mine, there is no predictability. Some of my friends produce a puzzled look on their faces and ask “you mean you don’t know where you’ll be?” The answer is quite simple. No, I have absolutely no idea. There are certain areas where I’m pretty sure I’ll be passing through again, based on past trends. The metropolitan New York area is one of these areas. I think I’m one of the last idiots left who will agree to navigate New York City. However, I won’t go there cheaply. It’s a hard place to drive a truck when you consider all the road restrictions, challenging traffic configurations and high cost of tolls. Go over the Outer Bridge Crossing, Whitestone and George Washington Bridges and you’ll pay 25 to 30 bucks a pop. The Verrazano Narrows will burn a hole right through your pocket going both ways. Long Island is perennially congested and people drive like their hair is on fire. But, this old place has an air of home, having spent more than half my life living on the New Jersey side of this mess. I know these roads. In all, there are no definite lanes of back and forth dedicated familiarity with my company. It’s the life of a gypsy. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. Go, go, and go. Hurry up and wait. When it’s time to go, my onboard computer flashes the message in all cap letters “IT’S CRITICAL CHECK OUT TIME!” We ain't talkin' about a fancy hotel here.
The preceding couple of weeks have been an exercise in back and forth. I’ve felt like I have been running up and down a basketball court. I picked up a load in Seneca Falls, New York, in the heart of the Finger Lakes region in Upstate. For those of you who are history buffs, Seneca Falls was ground zero for the Women’s Rights Movement led by the likes of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony in the mid 1800’s. It's a beautiful and bucolic area situated between two of the big Finger Lakes. My load was an enormous pump, headed to an oil refinery in Plaquemine, Louisiana. This run took me back down the New York Thruway, around Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus and Cincinnati before heading due south on Interstate 75 through Kentucky and past the famous “Florence Ya’ll” sign on the water tower and then over to and around Louisville. The route then led me to where I make a right hand turn at Nashville to Memphis and then down I-55 through Mississippi to my drop, outside of Baton Rouge at Plaquemine. For those of you who remember Pluckemin, New Jersey, it kind of sounds like that.
When I got to Louisiana, it was full blown springtime going on. Blinding sunshine and mild spring fever producing temperatures were now replacing the frigid Upstate New York variety. I felt like just walking around with a grin and asking everyone “how ya’ll?” But, I didn’t. All these hardhats would have thought me nuts. At the refinery, there was no loading dock. Here I am, scratching my wooden head, wondering how they’re planning to take this contraption off my truck, when this pre-historic sized back loader comes romping up with the longest forklift forks I’ve ever seen. The operator simply slid those forks into the cargo hold of the Fat Cat and pulled out the pump on the pallet. I forget how many thousand s of pounds it was. Well, ok then. Thank you very much, we appreciate the business very much. Now, it was on to the truck stop and some recuperation time.
As I approached the truck stop in Denham Springs, Louisiana, I passed the largest Bass Pro Shop known to man. It had a huge lake around it, with a restaurant and more square footage than you could possibly wander around in your lifetime. There were interesting Cajun establishments surrounding the stop itself. This wasn’t a truck stop, but a paradise! Those who know me well know that Cajun food makes me crazy. All that rich sauce based French cooking causes me to resemble a hungry wolf. My nose grows long and the tongue kind of flaps out one side. Henry's Louisiana Grill in Acworth, Georgia back home is my absolute favorite restaurant. The Atlanta Constitution-Journal rated his "Ooooh La La" dish one of the ten best in Atlanta worth driving fifty miles for. When I entered the building and made my way back to the driver’s lounge, all the truckers were smiling and heaping praise on what this little corner of the world had to offer and plotting where they would visit first. This atmosphere was a whole lot different than the usual grousing that goes on. One driver turned off his phone and stated “I don’t want my company to know where I am...” I am now invisable, he proudly announced.
I got myself cleaned up and partook in a little snack and was dreaming about the Cajun cuisine scene, when my phone went off with Kim from the company on the other end. Kim is the regional fleet director over a long list of dispatchers and it usually means business when she calls. She wanted to know if I got the opportunity going to Cincinnati and what I would do it for. Ooops, I had forgotten to switch the onboard computer over to my phone when I left the truck. Kim described the opportunity and I responded with a figure higher than the stated rate. Kim countered with a figure higher than mine! At this point, she had me a little confused, but I just kind of went with it. We’re not talking pennies higher, but a substantial dollar more. THAT has never happened before! Maybe all those voodoo pins I had imagined when I pulled into town were actually good luck charms. I don’t know, life is kind of quirky at times. I just agreed and said “I’ll take it!” Now, there would be no Bass Pro Shop, Cajunfest Feast on a long groaning board or prolonged exposure to Vernal Equinox sunshine. This mule team is heading right back up the same road I came down. Before this week would be completed, I would feel like an Etch-A- Sketch being run back and forth by a first grader. Now, I really think the object of this whole trip out has changed to “how many times can we run through Cincinnati?” I think I had enough practice a long time ago on a Friday night with the fellas trying to see how many times we could go around the Somerville Traffic Circle in my youthful home area. But, I don’t think there’s a Mr. Bee’s in Cinci or a circle. If there was, I'd probably be going around it. Put the map away and turn the GPS off, the Fat Cat knows where she’s going.
The preceding couple of weeks have been an exercise in back and forth. I’ve felt like I have been running up and down a basketball court. I picked up a load in Seneca Falls, New York, in the heart of the Finger Lakes region in Upstate. For those of you who are history buffs, Seneca Falls was ground zero for the Women’s Rights Movement led by the likes of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony in the mid 1800’s. It's a beautiful and bucolic area situated between two of the big Finger Lakes. My load was an enormous pump, headed to an oil refinery in Plaquemine, Louisiana. This run took me back down the New York Thruway, around Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus and Cincinnati before heading due south on Interstate 75 through Kentucky and past the famous “Florence Ya’ll” sign on the water tower and then over to and around Louisville. The route then led me to where I make a right hand turn at Nashville to Memphis and then down I-55 through Mississippi to my drop, outside of Baton Rouge at Plaquemine. For those of you who remember Pluckemin, New Jersey, it kind of sounds like that.
When I got to Louisiana, it was full blown springtime going on. Blinding sunshine and mild spring fever producing temperatures were now replacing the frigid Upstate New York variety. I felt like just walking around with a grin and asking everyone “how ya’ll?” But, I didn’t. All these hardhats would have thought me nuts. At the refinery, there was no loading dock. Here I am, scratching my wooden head, wondering how they’re planning to take this contraption off my truck, when this pre-historic sized back loader comes romping up with the longest forklift forks I’ve ever seen. The operator simply slid those forks into the cargo hold of the Fat Cat and pulled out the pump on the pallet. I forget how many thousand s of pounds it was. Well, ok then. Thank you very much, we appreciate the business very much. Now, it was on to the truck stop and some recuperation time.
As I approached the truck stop in Denham Springs, Louisiana, I passed the largest Bass Pro Shop known to man. It had a huge lake around it, with a restaurant and more square footage than you could possibly wander around in your lifetime. There were interesting Cajun establishments surrounding the stop itself. This wasn’t a truck stop, but a paradise! Those who know me well know that Cajun food makes me crazy. All that rich sauce based French cooking causes me to resemble a hungry wolf. My nose grows long and the tongue kind of flaps out one side. Henry's Louisiana Grill in Acworth, Georgia back home is my absolute favorite restaurant. The Atlanta Constitution-Journal rated his "Ooooh La La" dish one of the ten best in Atlanta worth driving fifty miles for. When I entered the building and made my way back to the driver’s lounge, all the truckers were smiling and heaping praise on what this little corner of the world had to offer and plotting where they would visit first. This atmosphere was a whole lot different than the usual grousing that goes on. One driver turned off his phone and stated “I don’t want my company to know where I am...” I am now invisable, he proudly announced.
I got myself cleaned up and partook in a little snack and was dreaming about the Cajun cuisine scene, when my phone went off with Kim from the company on the other end. Kim is the regional fleet director over a long list of dispatchers and it usually means business when she calls. She wanted to know if I got the opportunity going to Cincinnati and what I would do it for. Ooops, I had forgotten to switch the onboard computer over to my phone when I left the truck. Kim described the opportunity and I responded with a figure higher than the stated rate. Kim countered with a figure higher than mine! At this point, she had me a little confused, but I just kind of went with it. We’re not talking pennies higher, but a substantial dollar more. THAT has never happened before! Maybe all those voodoo pins I had imagined when I pulled into town were actually good luck charms. I don’t know, life is kind of quirky at times. I just agreed and said “I’ll take it!” Now, there would be no Bass Pro Shop, Cajunfest Feast on a long groaning board or prolonged exposure to Vernal Equinox sunshine. This mule team is heading right back up the same road I came down. Before this week would be completed, I would feel like an Etch-A- Sketch being run back and forth by a first grader. Now, I really think the object of this whole trip out has changed to “how many times can we run through Cincinnati?” I think I had enough practice a long time ago on a Friday night with the fellas trying to see how many times we could go around the Somerville Traffic Circle in my youthful home area. But, I don’t think there’s a Mr. Bee’s in Cinci or a circle. If there was, I'd probably be going around it. Put the map away and turn the GPS off, the Fat Cat knows where she’s going.
A Celebrity, A Monkey and A Rock Star
Now that I had made it back to Georgia, from my extended west coast swing and 2800 plus mile run from Washington State to Florida, I decided to pause from long haul routes just to do some regional running around after a weekend at home. Once again, I looked forward to seeing the girls and all my four legged children. After I walked in the door, Mr. JJ, my big amiable, Maine Coon cat, jumped up on the table, waiting for me to pay attention to him. His big patient eyes looked for a good long pet from his two legged Dad. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed and feel real heat from a furnace. As the weekend progressed, the mild air ramped up and February became the month I recognize around here. Typically, temps reach mid 50’s during the day and 30’s at night in the first couple of weeks of the short month in North Georgia. For you Northerners, the sun shines at a more direct angle at this latitude and the days feel warmer in the sunlight and often contradict the actual temperature in favor of warmth. My biggest complaint about living up north was my aversion to the weather in terms of direct sunlight in the first quarter of the year. I find myself moping around a lot less and not longing for the arrival of spring as much. In some years, the Bradford Pear trees start blooming in their white, dogwood-like blossoms during the final week of February here.
As the weekend ended, I accepted an opportunity to Huntsville, Alabama that would lead me on a big circle arcing in west Tennessee in Jackson not far from Memphis. The travels took me through a part of the Volunteer State that I didn't know existed. Lawrenceburg seemed like it was a long way from civilization. No national chain drug stores or grocery stores hung shingles here. It is also the hometown of actor and politician Fred Thompson. I give him a lot of credit. It had to have been a long steep climb out of here to where he ended up.
I wound my way through little hamlets on a four lane highway, reduced to a two laner because of construction. On up to Nashville and then to Chattanooga was where this odyssey was taking me. My delivery was to a key United States Postal Service facility there. I backed the truck to the loading dock and headed inside with my paperwork to the shipping and receiving department. A nice lady looked over my big metal box clipboard and proceeded to call someone in another department. After she hung the phone up, she looked up at me and announced that "Monkey" will come down here to meet you. I said Monkey? She said yes, her name is Monkey. I said, oh, you mean her last name is Monkey? Like organ grinder Monkey, Miss Monkey? She replied "no, her first name is Monkey." Oh, ok. So I waited for "Monkey". "Monkey" arrived and said "I'm Monkey, what do you have for me?" Monkey was a slender woman with reddish blond shoulder length hair and wisdom denoting crows feet lines around her eyes. Without thinking, I just blurted out "I was born in the year of the Monkey" (the Chinese Zodiac calendar that is split into 12 animals) She quickly returned "I was born in the year of the Monkey too. Were you born in 1956?" I said well yes, indeed, I was. Monkey probed further and said "don't tell me September of 1956." Again, I sort of squinted and said slowly, yes, September of '56. Monkey sang me too with an exclamation point, her voice getting a little higher. She pressed on and stated that she was born on the 19th. I smiled and said, ahh, my birthday is on the 29th, but, my mother told me I was due on the 19th, but didn't arrive until the 29th, just takin' my time..kind of the story of my life. Oh, and by the way, my mom's birthday was on the 29th too. Monkey laughed and amped up her inquisition with where were you born? I replied, in New Jersey. She said where?! I wrinkled my forehead with an answer of Morristown. Monkey just about shouted out "I was born in New Jersey too!” She continued that she was an Army brat born in New Egypt, New Jersey near Fort Dix, the famous Garden state Army base. She promptly added that this exchange was getting a little weird, and I had to agree. But, Monkey was very helpful and quickly put together a team to take a complicated load of furniture off my truck to be delivered to the new Chattanooga Postmaster. Monkey signed my "bill of lading" shipping paper and at that point I got the spelling to her name correct...it was M-O-N-K-E-E. Like Davy Jones and Peter Tork the Monkees. There wasn't really a connection there though, because the Monkees became popular in 1966 and she...errr...we...were born in 1956. I should have asked how she got her name, but I was afraid she would have replied that she was named after her Great Grandfather from Scotland, like me.
Once I delivered in the train town, I hopped down to the Dalton, Georgia, the Carpet Capital of The World for a rest at a Pilot before accepting a load that picked up in Social Circle, Georgia. Yes there is a town with that name. This one was going to Belton, South Carolina. I took it and ended up searching for the recipient in a place that didn't exist, at least on GPS. Frustrated with the written directions on the Q-comm and lack of street signs, I stopped at a convenience store to plead with the clerk for direction. The quick stop cashier was friendly and ready to help and replied to my request with "I know exactly where that place is, they done run me off from there last summer, follow me and I'll show you where it is." For a moment, I thought he was going to leave the store and hop in his car have me trail him there. So I followed him outside and he stood on the sidewalk and pointed down the road as if I was able to see two miles off this finger and said go this way and turn that way. OK, thanks pal, you're a life saver. After finding this place in a very dark and extremely remote boondock, I presented my goods to waiting hands. Next, it was a short ten mile ride down to a Pilot Travel Center I had been to back in November. A warm sleeping bag and a good slumber on a not so cold night would be my reward.
The following day, just when I was getting comfortable in 60 degree sunshine in Piedmont, South Carolina and examining the prospects of laying over for the weekend, the Q-comm beeped off an opportunity picking up 64 miles away in Arden, North Carolina, then going to Rochester, New York. Whoa, this run proposed to be a nice weekend jaunt up north. I knew I was going to have to trade the sunny southern weather I had been craving for so long for a Siberian-like forecast, but, the longer the run, the better in this business. Ashley, from dispatch was agreeable to working out the details on this 848 mile run. After catching up on my obligatory driver’s logbook and bills of lading paperwork for the load, it was time to roll.
In the northern corner of South Carolina near Travelers Rest, the mountain tops were snow covered and the terrain a familiar hilly ride as I prepared to cross into North Carolina to the Asheville area for pick up. I know these roads well from my days in Johnson City, Tennessee as it was my preferred route down to Atlanta for weekend visits with friends and Braves baseball. By the time I got to Flatwood, West Virginia, the air was decidedly chilly where I could see my breath and the mountainsides on Interstate 79 were dominated in snow cover from an earlier fall. This must have been a sizeable accumulation because in a lot of places on the highway, the shoulders had disappeared completely with mounds of plowed snow.
As my mind wandered and XM 27, The Bridge played the soundtrack to my tour up a winding and wandering interstate, weaving around the mountain grades and short valleys. Before long, in the abundance of sunshine, the Pennsylvania, State of Independence sign appeared and the run up through Pittsburgh and then to Erie on the lake was on. Pittsburgh is a family city for Cheryl and me. My aunt and two of my cousins live there. It's always a treat to see Carol and Mary Joan. Always on the "to see" list is my Aunt Win, an extraordinary woman and icon to me at nearly 95 years old. Cheryl’s aunt and her cousins live there as well. It’s definately a city of aunts and cousins. Cheryl was born in nearby McKeesport and I always enjoy accompanying her to a visit her Aunt Delores’ in old Tenth Ward there. When we visit town, it’s kind of like a fork in the road for us. She visits with her family there and I visit with my family. Then, we’ll meet and visit either family together. Cheryl’s cousin Edie has a quirky and fun tradition of "The Birthday Ride". She has a shopping cart and when it’s someone’s birthday, they get in the basket and are treated to a ride up and down the street. Grown people ride too. Haven’t you always wanted the spectacle of a ride in a Giant Eagle cart? I do. It’s just never my birthday when I’m there.
Louie always gets to come along and some occasions we have stayed in a nice hotel near downtown that caters to pets. I’ve never seen an animal make himself as comfortable as he does in these places. He’ll begin by giving the place a good sniff down and then, jumps up on the bed, paws the bedspread down to find a good pillow. His routine continues by doing a little “circle walk” on the bag of head comfort before plopping down sideways for a nap from a day of travel. This dog loves to travel. He’s been everywhere from Georgia to Maine. Mr. Explorer has been RVing with us and has slept in a tent with me on the rocky coast. Even watched a Moose trot by us near Old Orchard Beach. He delights in meeting new people and attracts attention everywhere he goes, like a little celebrity dog. I’m merely his assistant.
I made the right hand turn on to Interstate 90 and into New York at Ripley. Almost on cue, as I pulled away from the first toll booth on the Thruway, Billy Joel’s stalwart “New York State of Mind” just happened to play on the radio. This is getting a little spooky for me! Whew. In addition, the sun was still shining and I almost wanted to pinch myself. There hadn’t been this much of that big orange ball in the sky on any trip I’ve been on in almost a month. The temperatures felt pretty good to me as well. This was a scenario almost too good to be true!
My destination of Rochester was in sight and I wanted to ride by the drop off point at Kodak to see where it was before “holing up” for the weekend at the Flying J in Pembroke, about 30 minutes down the road. My delivery appointment was not until Monday morning, so I would have plenty of time to stretch out and catch up on domestic things, like a big canvas sack of laundry and pay some attention to the buffet. On the way back to the truck stop, I passed a few small quaint villages including Genesee. The winter temperatures never crossed my mind. Upstate New York never seems to lose its charm.
The next morning, I made my way to the Trucker’s Lounge at the J where I found a nice booth to enjoy a breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Coffee. There, I met Bill, a fellow Expediter from Michigan who had parked near me and we stuck up a good conversation. Bill appeared to be in his late 50’s with curly hair and a big handle bar moustache. He wore a rumpled leather range hat with an “IBEW” pin on it, the Internationl Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. We conversed about trucks, electric, the expediting business and trout fishing in Michigan. Nearby, in the lounge, I spied a Hispanic looking man with two young girls with him, maybe 10 and 6 years old. The younger one was drinking a can of Rock Star Energy drink. These drinks are packed with enough sugar, caffeine and who knows what else to make a mule kick. A can gives me the heebee jeebees. I felt an overwhelming urge to speak up, so I interrupted my conversation with Bill and called over to the man “is there anything in that can of Rock Star that she’s drinking? The man casually responded “oh, she really likes that stuff, so I just give it to her whenever she wants it.” I had to know. About a half an hour later, this kid is running around banging into doors and shrieking with joy. Then she falls down and is screaming like a Banshee. I would have put money on that bet. And I thought this lounge was just for professional drivers. Occasionally, there’s entertainment. Gee whiz. Some people should be licensed to be parents. Even money says I’m heading for New York and New Jersey from here. It’s Just a hunch.
As the weekend ended, I accepted an opportunity to Huntsville, Alabama that would lead me on a big circle arcing in west Tennessee in Jackson not far from Memphis. The travels took me through a part of the Volunteer State that I didn't know existed. Lawrenceburg seemed like it was a long way from civilization. No national chain drug stores or grocery stores hung shingles here. It is also the hometown of actor and politician Fred Thompson. I give him a lot of credit. It had to have been a long steep climb out of here to where he ended up.
I wound my way through little hamlets on a four lane highway, reduced to a two laner because of construction. On up to Nashville and then to Chattanooga was where this odyssey was taking me. My delivery was to a key United States Postal Service facility there. I backed the truck to the loading dock and headed inside with my paperwork to the shipping and receiving department. A nice lady looked over my big metal box clipboard and proceeded to call someone in another department. After she hung the phone up, she looked up at me and announced that "Monkey" will come down here to meet you. I said Monkey? She said yes, her name is Monkey. I said, oh, you mean her last name is Monkey? Like organ grinder Monkey, Miss Monkey? She replied "no, her first name is Monkey." Oh, ok. So I waited for "Monkey". "Monkey" arrived and said "I'm Monkey, what do you have for me?" Monkey was a slender woman with reddish blond shoulder length hair and wisdom denoting crows feet lines around her eyes. Without thinking, I just blurted out "I was born in the year of the Monkey" (the Chinese Zodiac calendar that is split into 12 animals) She quickly returned "I was born in the year of the Monkey too. Were you born in 1956?" I said well yes, indeed, I was. Monkey probed further and said "don't tell me September of 1956." Again, I sort of squinted and said slowly, yes, September of '56. Monkey sang me too with an exclamation point, her voice getting a little higher. She pressed on and stated that she was born on the 19th. I smiled and said, ahh, my birthday is on the 29th, but, my mother told me I was due on the 19th, but didn't arrive until the 29th, just takin' my time..kind of the story of my life. Oh, and by the way, my mom's birthday was on the 29th too. Monkey laughed and amped up her inquisition with where were you born? I replied, in New Jersey. She said where?! I wrinkled my forehead with an answer of Morristown. Monkey just about shouted out "I was born in New Jersey too!” She continued that she was an Army brat born in New Egypt, New Jersey near Fort Dix, the famous Garden state Army base. She promptly added that this exchange was getting a little weird, and I had to agree. But, Monkey was very helpful and quickly put together a team to take a complicated load of furniture off my truck to be delivered to the new Chattanooga Postmaster. Monkey signed my "bill of lading" shipping paper and at that point I got the spelling to her name correct...it was M-O-N-K-E-E. Like Davy Jones and Peter Tork the Monkees. There wasn't really a connection there though, because the Monkees became popular in 1966 and she...errr...we...were born in 1956. I should have asked how she got her name, but I was afraid she would have replied that she was named after her Great Grandfather from Scotland, like me.
Once I delivered in the train town, I hopped down to the Dalton, Georgia, the Carpet Capital of The World for a rest at a Pilot before accepting a load that picked up in Social Circle, Georgia. Yes there is a town with that name. This one was going to Belton, South Carolina. I took it and ended up searching for the recipient in a place that didn't exist, at least on GPS. Frustrated with the written directions on the Q-comm and lack of street signs, I stopped at a convenience store to plead with the clerk for direction. The quick stop cashier was friendly and ready to help and replied to my request with "I know exactly where that place is, they done run me off from there last summer, follow me and I'll show you where it is." For a moment, I thought he was going to leave the store and hop in his car have me trail him there. So I followed him outside and he stood on the sidewalk and pointed down the road as if I was able to see two miles off this finger and said go this way and turn that way. OK, thanks pal, you're a life saver. After finding this place in a very dark and extremely remote boondock, I presented my goods to waiting hands. Next, it was a short ten mile ride down to a Pilot Travel Center I had been to back in November. A warm sleeping bag and a good slumber on a not so cold night would be my reward.
The following day, just when I was getting comfortable in 60 degree sunshine in Piedmont, South Carolina and examining the prospects of laying over for the weekend, the Q-comm beeped off an opportunity picking up 64 miles away in Arden, North Carolina, then going to Rochester, New York. Whoa, this run proposed to be a nice weekend jaunt up north. I knew I was going to have to trade the sunny southern weather I had been craving for so long for a Siberian-like forecast, but, the longer the run, the better in this business. Ashley, from dispatch was agreeable to working out the details on this 848 mile run. After catching up on my obligatory driver’s logbook and bills of lading paperwork for the load, it was time to roll.
In the northern corner of South Carolina near Travelers Rest, the mountain tops were snow covered and the terrain a familiar hilly ride as I prepared to cross into North Carolina to the Asheville area for pick up. I know these roads well from my days in Johnson City, Tennessee as it was my preferred route down to Atlanta for weekend visits with friends and Braves baseball. By the time I got to Flatwood, West Virginia, the air was decidedly chilly where I could see my breath and the mountainsides on Interstate 79 were dominated in snow cover from an earlier fall. This must have been a sizeable accumulation because in a lot of places on the highway, the shoulders had disappeared completely with mounds of plowed snow.
As my mind wandered and XM 27, The Bridge played the soundtrack to my tour up a winding and wandering interstate, weaving around the mountain grades and short valleys. Before long, in the abundance of sunshine, the Pennsylvania, State of Independence sign appeared and the run up through Pittsburgh and then to Erie on the lake was on. Pittsburgh is a family city for Cheryl and me. My aunt and two of my cousins live there. It's always a treat to see Carol and Mary Joan. Always on the "to see" list is my Aunt Win, an extraordinary woman and icon to me at nearly 95 years old. Cheryl’s aunt and her cousins live there as well. It’s definately a city of aunts and cousins. Cheryl was born in nearby McKeesport and I always enjoy accompanying her to a visit her Aunt Delores’ in old Tenth Ward there. When we visit town, it’s kind of like a fork in the road for us. She visits with her family there and I visit with my family. Then, we’ll meet and visit either family together. Cheryl’s cousin Edie has a quirky and fun tradition of "The Birthday Ride". She has a shopping cart and when it’s someone’s birthday, they get in the basket and are treated to a ride up and down the street. Grown people ride too. Haven’t you always wanted the spectacle of a ride in a Giant Eagle cart? I do. It’s just never my birthday when I’m there.
Louie always gets to come along and some occasions we have stayed in a nice hotel near downtown that caters to pets. I’ve never seen an animal make himself as comfortable as he does in these places. He’ll begin by giving the place a good sniff down and then, jumps up on the bed, paws the bedspread down to find a good pillow. His routine continues by doing a little “circle walk” on the bag of head comfort before plopping down sideways for a nap from a day of travel. This dog loves to travel. He’s been everywhere from Georgia to Maine. Mr. Explorer has been RVing with us and has slept in a tent with me on the rocky coast. Even watched a Moose trot by us near Old Orchard Beach. He delights in meeting new people and attracts attention everywhere he goes, like a little celebrity dog. I’m merely his assistant.
I made the right hand turn on to Interstate 90 and into New York at Ripley. Almost on cue, as I pulled away from the first toll booth on the Thruway, Billy Joel’s stalwart “New York State of Mind” just happened to play on the radio. This is getting a little spooky for me! Whew. In addition, the sun was still shining and I almost wanted to pinch myself. There hadn’t been this much of that big orange ball in the sky on any trip I’ve been on in almost a month. The temperatures felt pretty good to me as well. This was a scenario almost too good to be true!
My destination of Rochester was in sight and I wanted to ride by the drop off point at Kodak to see where it was before “holing up” for the weekend at the Flying J in Pembroke, about 30 minutes down the road. My delivery appointment was not until Monday morning, so I would have plenty of time to stretch out and catch up on domestic things, like a big canvas sack of laundry and pay some attention to the buffet. On the way back to the truck stop, I passed a few small quaint villages including Genesee. The winter temperatures never crossed my mind. Upstate New York never seems to lose its charm.
The next morning, I made my way to the Trucker’s Lounge at the J where I found a nice booth to enjoy a breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Coffee. There, I met Bill, a fellow Expediter from Michigan who had parked near me and we stuck up a good conversation. Bill appeared to be in his late 50’s with curly hair and a big handle bar moustache. He wore a rumpled leather range hat with an “IBEW” pin on it, the Internationl Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. We conversed about trucks, electric, the expediting business and trout fishing in Michigan. Nearby, in the lounge, I spied a Hispanic looking man with two young girls with him, maybe 10 and 6 years old. The younger one was drinking a can of Rock Star Energy drink. These drinks are packed with enough sugar, caffeine and who knows what else to make a mule kick. A can gives me the heebee jeebees. I felt an overwhelming urge to speak up, so I interrupted my conversation with Bill and called over to the man “is there anything in that can of Rock Star that she’s drinking? The man casually responded “oh, she really likes that stuff, so I just give it to her whenever she wants it.” I had to know. About a half an hour later, this kid is running around banging into doors and shrieking with joy. Then she falls down and is screaming like a Banshee. I would have put money on that bet. And I thought this lounge was just for professional drivers. Occasionally, there’s entertainment. Gee whiz. Some people should be licensed to be parents. Even money says I’m heading for New York and New Jersey from here. It’s Just a hunch.
My Version of Why I Love Her
A long time ago, John Wayne recorded a recitation called "Why I Love Her". It was a poinant narritive penned by John Mitchum to the tune of "America The Beautiful". The best part of my profession is travelling throughout the United States and seeing first-hand on a daily basis what make up this land. This experience has given me an overwhelming feeling of gratitude to be an American. No where on earth is there a country so diverse in its people, its land, its beauty and its faith. In a world of dispair, poverty, war and strife, it is America who strives to make the world a better place. Following, is a renditon of my version of that classic piece voiced by the Duke.
You ask me why I love her, give me time and I’ll explain. Have you ever seen the sun set on Georgia’s Island coast at St. Simon’s pier? Would you delight in being the first in America to see the sun rise at Cadillac Mountain in Maine? Can you imagine the cool clean waters and tall northern evergreens way up north in the land of ten thousand lakes that makes Minnesota the paradise that it is? Do the pristine palm trees way down south along the Rio Grande in McAllen, Texas make you warm on a cold winter’s day? Can Rhode Island’s massive ocean frontage cause you to gaze for hours at the choppy white capped sea?
Did you leave your heart along the California coast somewhere from San Diego to San Francisco travelling the miles of winding and awe inspiring Pacific Coast Highway overlooking the Ocean? Do mountain sides of golden aspens in early autumn in the heart of Colorado fill your eyes with wonder? Can the Rocky Mountains in Northern Utah be blanketed in winter with the “Greatest Snow on Earth?” Does the rich, black soil of Idaho make you feel blessed for our natural resources?
Have you ever floated with a big old truck inner tube on a summer’s day down the Itchetucknee River in Central Florida where cool and crystal clear water flows from a natural spring? Can the smell of spicy Cajun food make your mouth water with hunger along Highway 49 in the heart of Mississippi where Spanish Moss hangs from live oak trees? Do the expansive prairie plains of Nebraska inspire you to reach for the horizon?
Have you ever been to Washington Crossing State Park beside the Delaware River in New Jersey where General Washington and his men gave up their Christmas holiday to fight for our freedom? Does the Arch at St. Louis make you think of fearless settlers who raced west in a hostile land with not much more than a dream and a prayer? When you see cactus and dusty mountains at Tombstone, Arizona, does it give life to a righteous lawman who tamed a wild west? Have you ever tasted a “ramp” harvested in spring from the mountains in North Eastern Tennessee? Does the mighty Ohio River with the skyline of Cincinnati as a backdrop viewed from Devou Park on the Kentucky side delight you with picturesque wonder?
When you see the unmistakable Mount Rainer in Washington State, do you marvel in astonishment? On Mt. Washington across from the three rivers where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers converge to form the Ohio, do you admire the city of Pittsburgh at its famous scenic “point” and pay homage to workers who laid the foundation for our country's historic buildings and industry in her steel mills? Have you witnessed the expanse of Lake Michigan from Chicago’s shoreline? Do you offer a tribute to our ancestors when you see the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor? Does Oklahoma’s Native American heritage remind you of a people who came before us?
From Puget Sound in the Great Northwest to Islamorada in the Florida Keys, from Chula Vista along the Baja California border to Bar Harbor, Maine, from The Mackinaw Straits of Michigan to South Padre Island, Texas on the Gulf, from amber waves of grain in the heartland to the Carolina pines, from the gigantic Sequoias in the Golden State to the bright red maples of Vermont in fall, my heart beats with pride and emotion for my beautiful America. You ask why I love her. There are a million reasons why. God shed thy grace on thee and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.
Thank you for letting me describe my beautiful America.
You ask me why I love her, give me time and I’ll explain. Have you ever seen the sun set on Georgia’s Island coast at St. Simon’s pier? Would you delight in being the first in America to see the sun rise at Cadillac Mountain in Maine? Can you imagine the cool clean waters and tall northern evergreens way up north in the land of ten thousand lakes that makes Minnesota the paradise that it is? Do the pristine palm trees way down south along the Rio Grande in McAllen, Texas make you warm on a cold winter’s day? Can Rhode Island’s massive ocean frontage cause you to gaze for hours at the choppy white capped sea?
Did you leave your heart along the California coast somewhere from San Diego to San Francisco travelling the miles of winding and awe inspiring Pacific Coast Highway overlooking the Ocean? Do mountain sides of golden aspens in early autumn in the heart of Colorado fill your eyes with wonder? Can the Rocky Mountains in Northern Utah be blanketed in winter with the “Greatest Snow on Earth?” Does the rich, black soil of Idaho make you feel blessed for our natural resources?
Have you ever floated with a big old truck inner tube on a summer’s day down the Itchetucknee River in Central Florida where cool and crystal clear water flows from a natural spring? Can the smell of spicy Cajun food make your mouth water with hunger along Highway 49 in the heart of Mississippi where Spanish Moss hangs from live oak trees? Do the expansive prairie plains of Nebraska inspire you to reach for the horizon?
Have you ever been to Washington Crossing State Park beside the Delaware River in New Jersey where General Washington and his men gave up their Christmas holiday to fight for our freedom? Does the Arch at St. Louis make you think of fearless settlers who raced west in a hostile land with not much more than a dream and a prayer? When you see cactus and dusty mountains at Tombstone, Arizona, does it give life to a righteous lawman who tamed a wild west? Have you ever tasted a “ramp” harvested in spring from the mountains in North Eastern Tennessee? Does the mighty Ohio River with the skyline of Cincinnati as a backdrop viewed from Devou Park on the Kentucky side delight you with picturesque wonder?
When you see the unmistakable Mount Rainer in Washington State, do you marvel in astonishment? On Mt. Washington across from the three rivers where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers converge to form the Ohio, do you admire the city of Pittsburgh at its famous scenic “point” and pay homage to workers who laid the foundation for our country's historic buildings and industry in her steel mills? Have you witnessed the expanse of Lake Michigan from Chicago’s shoreline? Do you offer a tribute to our ancestors when you see the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor? Does Oklahoma’s Native American heritage remind you of a people who came before us?
From Puget Sound in the Great Northwest to Islamorada in the Florida Keys, from Chula Vista along the Baja California border to Bar Harbor, Maine, from The Mackinaw Straits of Michigan to South Padre Island, Texas on the Gulf, from amber waves of grain in the heartland to the Carolina pines, from the gigantic Sequoias in the Golden State to the bright red maples of Vermont in fall, my heart beats with pride and emotion for my beautiful America. You ask why I love her. There are a million reasons why. God shed thy grace on thee and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.
Thank you for letting me describe my beautiful America.
A Nice Thought While It Lasted
Tuesday arrived and it was time to make the scenic drive back down the state of Washington on I-90 past the Cascades and the unmistakable Mount Rainer to Ellensburg where the highway splits, forming the southern entrance to I-82 which runs magnificently through apple country in Yakima to the Tri Cities of Richland, Pasco and Kennewick, Washington. This is where the legendary Snake and Columbia Rivers intersect and become one mighty Columbia. The waterway at that point, makes up the border a short paddle down river between Washington and Oregon and flows west beyond Portland with a prodigious current to the sea.
I found Kennewick, the terminus for my load to the Toyota Exposition Center, to be a tidy and pleasant town filled with interesting places of business along with the usual national franchises. With the goods dropped, I continued on to layover across the Columbia at Stanfield, Oregon. The drive there produced unusual grassy hills without a tree in sight. It reminded me of one of the famous wallpaper photos to the MS Windows system.
My plan was to make my case to the company to move me to Los Angeles, where I was certain there would be ample load opportunities and perhaps a run back east. The last two times I have been in LA, the Q-Comm beeped continuously with opportunities of every description. New York and Chicago are similar in nature. At this point, it had been weeks since I was in the Eastern Time Zone.
The following morning after a good night’s rest, I spoke with Kelly and attempted to “nice” her into finding me a way south to the City of Angels. She said that I should wait for a load opportunity and that I could end up going east. I could see her “winking” through the phone. After literally ending the call, the phone rang with my little automated friend announcing a run from Mountain Home, Idaho to Orlando, Florida. I felt like I hit three cherries on this one and the coins were clinking non-stop from the machine. In an effort to secure the load, I almost punched the number three accept key right through my phone. Success! Three thousand miles paved in green. Pick up was to be at Mountain Home Air Force Base in Mountain Home, Idaho, an empty run of about two hundred miles away. Any of my faithful readers will automatically know how I feel about Famous Potatoland. Based on that fact, I was looking at win-win cards.
Mountain Home is just east of the state capital city of Boise and a charmer of a town. Friendly people propagate this place and good will abounds. There’s a certain laid back atmosphere here and the expansive range landscape is encased by mountains and the Columbia Plateau. Riding around the area, you get the feeling that this is a “close knit” community dominated by the United States Air Force. After loading up, my young 40 something retired Air Force civilian representative presented me with a pen and pencil set commemorating my part in supporting the Eagle F-15 program. I’m proud to be involved in anything for the good of this country. I consider it a privilege to do so.
The ride through the remaider of Idaho, Utah and Wyoming produced breathtaking scenery until darkness blanketed the land. It doesn't matter how many times I travel through the Rockies, the view never gets old. The welcome sign to Wyoming says it all, "Welcome to Wyoming, Forever West".
This assignment was actually split into two parts, with the first part of the load dropping off in Saint Louis, Missouri and a final stop in Orlando. I love driving though the Gateway to the West with its imposing Arch and premier American river, the Mississippi, flowing powerfully to the Gulf of Mexico. One day, I would very much like to have enough time to revisit a city I enjoyed at an earlier time. You can find big steaks, good baseball in the hometown Cardinals and an interesting museum beneath the Arch itself. Riverboat restaurants stand moored along the riverfront and complete the ambiance that this Show Me state scenario has to offer. Like the Terminator said, “I’ll be bock.”
The highway wound down southward in a series of Interstates, all of which I had been on before. Georgia disappeared into Florida and I found myself stopping in my old domicile of Lake City for about the fourth time in recent months. When I stepped out at the beehive of an intersection at I-75 and 10, I suddenly felt over dressed in winter wear. The old man season suddenly turned into spring and the air felt warm and humid. It had a certain feel of being surreal as I had endured yet another snow storm outside of Denver through Kansas on this run. Travelling through so many climates and time zones has confused my body. It was akin to channel surfing on cable TV at fast clip with images flashing by and not really knowing where to land. Snapping back to reality, I grabbed a Java Monster Mean Bean at the convenience store and wheeled the Fat Cat back on the highway to Mickey Mouse Land.
Now at the aerospace company in the big O, I found myself jockeying with security to get my load into the company. No one on the contact list was available to receive the shipment. No answer, not in the building. I was on time, all my paperwork was correct. After a half an hour at the gate, the guard tells me “if there is no one to receive the load, I can’t let you in. You’ll have to come back on Monday.” I countered with “not a problem sir, let’s see, today is Friday...I get a pretty good hourly figure for detention pay. Hmmmm, Monday is roughly 72 hours from now, so I’ll be more than happy to come back. What time would you like me to arrive?” This man started pulling out papers and phone lists from everywhere in a mad attempt to find someone to escort me into the plant. I was hoping he wouldn’t have any success, but he finally came up with someone. About an hour later I was in the plant unloading. If I hadn’t said anything, dispatch would have confirmed my delay with him, so keeping my mouth shut wouldn’t have helped. 72 hours of detention pay, a nice though while it lasted. Ok, time to do an about face and head back to the house for the weekend and catch something heading out of the Atlanta Express Center.
I found Kennewick, the terminus for my load to the Toyota Exposition Center, to be a tidy and pleasant town filled with interesting places of business along with the usual national franchises. With the goods dropped, I continued on to layover across the Columbia at Stanfield, Oregon. The drive there produced unusual grassy hills without a tree in sight. It reminded me of one of the famous wallpaper photos to the MS Windows system.
My plan was to make my case to the company to move me to Los Angeles, where I was certain there would be ample load opportunities and perhaps a run back east. The last two times I have been in LA, the Q-Comm beeped continuously with opportunities of every description. New York and Chicago are similar in nature. At this point, it had been weeks since I was in the Eastern Time Zone.
The following morning after a good night’s rest, I spoke with Kelly and attempted to “nice” her into finding me a way south to the City of Angels. She said that I should wait for a load opportunity and that I could end up going east. I could see her “winking” through the phone. After literally ending the call, the phone rang with my little automated friend announcing a run from Mountain Home, Idaho to Orlando, Florida. I felt like I hit three cherries on this one and the coins were clinking non-stop from the machine. In an effort to secure the load, I almost punched the number three accept key right through my phone. Success! Three thousand miles paved in green. Pick up was to be at Mountain Home Air Force Base in Mountain Home, Idaho, an empty run of about two hundred miles away. Any of my faithful readers will automatically know how I feel about Famous Potatoland. Based on that fact, I was looking at win-win cards.
Mountain Home is just east of the state capital city of Boise and a charmer of a town. Friendly people propagate this place and good will abounds. There’s a certain laid back atmosphere here and the expansive range landscape is encased by mountains and the Columbia Plateau. Riding around the area, you get the feeling that this is a “close knit” community dominated by the United States Air Force. After loading up, my young 40 something retired Air Force civilian representative presented me with a pen and pencil set commemorating my part in supporting the Eagle F-15 program. I’m proud to be involved in anything for the good of this country. I consider it a privilege to do so.
The ride through the remaider of Idaho, Utah and Wyoming produced breathtaking scenery until darkness blanketed the land. It doesn't matter how many times I travel through the Rockies, the view never gets old. The welcome sign to Wyoming says it all, "Welcome to Wyoming, Forever West".
This assignment was actually split into two parts, with the first part of the load dropping off in Saint Louis, Missouri and a final stop in Orlando. I love driving though the Gateway to the West with its imposing Arch and premier American river, the Mississippi, flowing powerfully to the Gulf of Mexico. One day, I would very much like to have enough time to revisit a city I enjoyed at an earlier time. You can find big steaks, good baseball in the hometown Cardinals and an interesting museum beneath the Arch itself. Riverboat restaurants stand moored along the riverfront and complete the ambiance that this Show Me state scenario has to offer. Like the Terminator said, “I’ll be bock.”
The highway wound down southward in a series of Interstates, all of which I had been on before. Georgia disappeared into Florida and I found myself stopping in my old domicile of Lake City for about the fourth time in recent months. When I stepped out at the beehive of an intersection at I-75 and 10, I suddenly felt over dressed in winter wear. The old man season suddenly turned into spring and the air felt warm and humid. It had a certain feel of being surreal as I had endured yet another snow storm outside of Denver through Kansas on this run. Travelling through so many climates and time zones has confused my body. It was akin to channel surfing on cable TV at fast clip with images flashing by and not really knowing where to land. Snapping back to reality, I grabbed a Java Monster Mean Bean at the convenience store and wheeled the Fat Cat back on the highway to Mickey Mouse Land.
Now at the aerospace company in the big O, I found myself jockeying with security to get my load into the company. No one on the contact list was available to receive the shipment. No answer, not in the building. I was on time, all my paperwork was correct. After a half an hour at the gate, the guard tells me “if there is no one to receive the load, I can’t let you in. You’ll have to come back on Monday.” I countered with “not a problem sir, let’s see, today is Friday...I get a pretty good hourly figure for detention pay. Hmmmm, Monday is roughly 72 hours from now, so I’ll be more than happy to come back. What time would you like me to arrive?” This man started pulling out papers and phone lists from everywhere in a mad attempt to find someone to escort me into the plant. I was hoping he wouldn’t have any success, but he finally came up with someone. About an hour later I was in the plant unloading. If I hadn’t said anything, dispatch would have confirmed my delay with him, so keeping my mouth shut wouldn’t have helped. 72 hours of detention pay, a nice though while it lasted. Ok, time to do an about face and head back to the house for the weekend and catch something heading out of the Atlanta Express Center.
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