On the range in New Mexico, I was directed to a remote area about five miles from the entrance gate to unload. All I had was one lonely crate to be taken off the truck. With the mission in the desert complete, it was back to El Paso for a layover to await the next assignment. The weather, at least was co-operating and pleasant sixty degree sunshine dominated the afternoon.
Just when things were looking like I might be able to catch a late afternoon snooze in the breezy Texas sunshine, The Price is Right theme sounded on my phone, telling me the company was calling with a load opportunity. When I answered, it wasn’t the usual automated female voice announcing my prospects, but Nicole, live and in person asking if I had a generator on the truck and if so, what year was it. I replied that I had no “Alternate Power Unit” or APU as they’re called in trucking circles. Why do you ask, I quizzed her. Nicole continued that there was a new law in effect in California banning older model APU’s. I followed that comment with “do you have an opportunity going to California?” She said, well yes, I have one going out from Tucson, Arizona to Sacramento tonight. I pressed her further and inquired about the terms. She responded with favorable numbers and I was quick to commit. Cal-li-forn- I-A here I come! I envisioned continued favorable weather, a plethora of gourmet coffees and a bunch of valley type people ending every sentence with “it’s like, ya know, ya know?”
About the only thing I got right was the coffee selection. I didn’t see any Valley Girls and there wasn’t much sunshine. This has been a rough winter for the Southwest too. Storm after storm has been pounding in off the Pacific with record amounts of precipitation. Mudslides and treacherous freeway driving dominated travel to and around the Golden State. The rain started in earnest around the New Mexico-Arizona border and the winds picked up dramatically, buffeting the truck with force on I-10. I had planned on running through the truck wash before this trip to wash some of the winter off the Fat Cat. The white wheels were black with road soot and salt. When I finally got out at a fuel stop in Tucson, I marveled at how the strong winds and heavy rain had sand blasted them pure white again. Amazing. I have never seen so much rain in this part of the country, but then again, I’ve never seen so much wacky weather in one season. It only figures that this is my first year in trucking.
By the time I made California, the rain had subsided enough to make travel a little less hectic. This run would take me up through the high desert of California and into the central valleys of this beautiful, but much maligned state. I like both of these regions very much. This was my second run on the desert and second up the San Joaquin Valley. The high desert has a certain kind of appeal to me with miles of straight highway, dotted with small roadside cafes and gas stations surrounded by distant mountain ranges. Trailer homes and old boarded up businesses pepper the journey to Bakersfield. And then there’s Boron, California. Two thousand people live here. Lots of towns across America are proud of something. Notwithstanding, Boron’s claim to fame is being the Boron Capital of The World, the home of the largest borax mine in the world. Yes, that’s the stuff they make the cleaning powder Borax with. This city of interest is on the western edge of the Mojave Desert. In the area, you can view both the highest and lowest points in the lower 48 United States. We’re talking about Mount Whitney and Death Valley. If it’s a desert scattered with bleach white bones or a snow capped mountain you like, this would be a great place for you. Also, of interest, if you’re so inclined, is the 20 Mule Team Museum.
The scenery along CA 58 produced signs for Edwards Air Force base and far off mountains that I would soon be travelling through. The air was mild and the skies toggled from overcast to a faint sunshine filtered by a dominant cloud cover. With a cup of Sumatra coffee acquired at a Pilot Fuel Stop at the intersection of CA 395 and 58, I was content to ease on down the road with the Fox News Channel as my company on XM satellite.
Highway 58 took me to the towns of Monolith and Tehachapi; the terrain quickly became mountainous and quite scenic. The winding road led to Bakersfield and the southern end of the renowned San Joaquin Valley. San Joaquin is one of the most fertile growing areas in the world. In places, you can see the rich, black soil plowed and ready for planting. Good portions of the produce we consume, especially in winter, come from this crown jewel of American agriculture. The climate is conducive to year round vegetable and fruit production. I saw miles of orange, grapefruit and lemon groves that made me want to pull over and gather some that had fallen on the ground. I might have done this had there not been an imposing barbed wire fence to dissuade me and others with the same notion. But, hey, they don’t use the ones on the ground, do they?
Next up, it was the towns of Selma and Fresno, where undisputedly, you could literally find yourself in a sea of raisins. They call this area “The Raisin Capital of The World”. Lore tells of the raisin being invented here, but how do claim fame to something that shrivels up and dries out? The Sun Maid lives prominently here. We'll proudly take two scoops in our raisin bran.
The precipitation persisted and the old Albert Hammond song that was popular in 1972, “It Never Rains in Southern California” played in my head. “It never rains in Southern California, but girl, don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours”, the line goes. Modesto popped up and so did the vast expanses of grape vines. Would a good deal on a jug of Gallo wine be at hand? Unfortunately, in this situation, a cheap bottle of wine would not be in the cards for me. Not on duty anyway. If the authorities find any kind of evidence of alcohol in my truck, I’m toast. Drinking or transporting, it doesn’t matter.
Sacramento appeared within sight and the jumping off point for my tour of The San Joaquin Valley. North of town, there is still another full third of this massive and wonderous valley left to ponder. I feel that we are so blessed with natural resources here in this country where the Joaquin plays a vital role in the food basket of America. As I pulled into the 49er Truck stop, dusk enveloped the landscape. The next day I would unload and get ready for another day in Northern California. The strategic location that the capital of California occupies on the Interstate 80 corridor has always intrigued me with sights and places that can be visited easily. You can find Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Reno, Carson City, Virginia City and some excellent ski resorts to the north. Go the other way and you’re in the San Francisco Bay area, one of the most beautiful and diverse cities in America. Tony Bennett wasn't kidding when he sang "I Left My Heart in San Francisco". "Where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars..." This is pretty heady stuff. Oh, and let us not forget the world famous Napa Valley. That place speaks for itself. Talk about wineries. Some of the best wine in the world comes out of there. Also, you’ll find some of the most scenic countryside known to man. They even have a radio station named KVYN here...K-Vine. At certain times of the year, you can bounce back and forth from winter to summer by cruising up and down 80. I especially like Santa Cruz Beach with its barking Sea Lions begging to be fed. They sell fish on the pier for that purpose. “Feel Free to Feed the Sea Lions”, that's what the sign says. That's California. To live here has got to be a weekend trip paradise. This is a great part of the country. I’m happy to be here.
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Friday, January 29, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
1,611 or Bust
I hadn’t planned on my home time stretching out to January 13, but it did. When you drive a truck that has 860,000 miles on the odometer, it needs attention on a regular basis. My fuel lines froze in the very cold weather and there were other repair issues that needed to be attended to which prolonged my stay at the homestead. On the positive side, I don’t think anyone on their deathbed says “I wish I would have worked more and spent less time with my family.”
Towing the truck was a major undertaking and took 2 hours to hook up and drag 5 miles to Pike Diesel Repair in Hiram. The shop owner, Jerry, assured me that he’d get me running as soon as possible. My silver lining was that the breakdown occurred in my home area and not some place like the Bronx, New York. The lot at Pike was jammed full of tractor trucks begging for repair. The cold weather it seemed gave me lots of company.
Finally, The Fat Cat was ready to go and she purred like a kitten at the Petro Stop in Atlanta as I awaited an opportunity of freight. The Qualcomm chirped out a trip from Murphy, North Carolina in the mountainous west part of the state to Urbana, Ohio, just west of Columbus. The downside of the trip would be a winding and hilly ride out of Carolina at night because I-40 is in a long term shut down westbound, caused by a major rock slide. It not only sent large boulders onto the roadway from steep grades, but ended up damaging the highway severely. Tennessee 69 was the alternate for my trip and had me wishing I was driving a sports car, instead of a truck on a roadway with more hair pins than a beauty shop.
Once in Ohio, I bounced to Detroit and then over to Ann Arbor, where I had a nice stay in November. They always say “be careful for what you wish for, for you just might get it.” Well, I got it. I rubbed the “Load Genie Lamp” and was granted a cannon ball run from Coldwater, Michigan to Laredo, Texas. Success! My frozen body would thaw and warm 70 degree sunshine would shine on my face. Fit me in a sombrero and provide me with a taco. With that thought, it was on the road to my reward.
Sixteen hundred and eleven miles of interstate droned and by the time I got to the end of Interstate 35, I was like a man in the desert laid prone on the ground reaching for the oasis. One minute I’m stone throwing distance from Canada, the next, I’m sitting on the southern border at the Rio Grande. This was my third trip to Laredo. Always hot, always kind of quirky regarding some of the people I’ve talked to and always very Mexican, considering its proximity to our neighbor to the south. Mexican works for me because I can speak Spanish, enjoy the food and I would actually wear a poncho like Clint Eastwood.
The nighttime air was 50ish, the coolest I’ve experienced there so far. After enduring plenty of record cold elsewhere, this was indeed a treat! My load delivered on Sunday morning where sunshine and 70 degree weather shined down on me, just like I pictured it.
Not much freight comes out of Laredo. It is primarily a drop off point for goods heading into Mexico. There aren’t many companies that send trucks into Mexico these days. It’s just too dangerous, especially around border cities on the Mexican side. The area is dotted with numerous warehouses where the hand off to Mexican truckers occurs. It is an orderly operation and hundreds of trucks cue up at the truck stops to deliver at their appointed times.
Now that my load was deposited, I pointed the Fat Cat to San Antonio for a new destination. It’s a very straight shot to San Antonio with scrubby looking, desert-like landscape dotted with classic ranch entrances displaying various brands that get stamped into the livestock. I like this drive. There are no hills, congested traffic, ice or snow. Set the cruise control and let the XM play.
Like clockwork as I pulled into Alamo Town, the Qualcomm chirped out a run from the next town up in Austin to White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico. My first thought was landing three cherries on a one armed bandit. I opened the map and it said “Not Open to the Public” at White Sands. Give me restricted places around Roswell, Area 51, Cape Canaveral, Edwards Air Force Base and other places where the security is as tight as the back end of a clam, and I’m there! I live for this stuff. After all, I’m the guy who has a profound interest in the National Institute for Standard Time (NIST). I want to know exactly where the Camak Stone is. What really happed to D.B. Cooper? It sure beats delivering ball bearings to Flint. I knew from the location of my New Mexico destination, I’d be layed over in El Paso, Texas. I like El Paso, so this would be a win-win deal. Maybe California would be next.
Towing the truck was a major undertaking and took 2 hours to hook up and drag 5 miles to Pike Diesel Repair in Hiram. The shop owner, Jerry, assured me that he’d get me running as soon as possible. My silver lining was that the breakdown occurred in my home area and not some place like the Bronx, New York. The lot at Pike was jammed full of tractor trucks begging for repair. The cold weather it seemed gave me lots of company.
Finally, The Fat Cat was ready to go and she purred like a kitten at the Petro Stop in Atlanta as I awaited an opportunity of freight. The Qualcomm chirped out a trip from Murphy, North Carolina in the mountainous west part of the state to Urbana, Ohio, just west of Columbus. The downside of the trip would be a winding and hilly ride out of Carolina at night because I-40 is in a long term shut down westbound, caused by a major rock slide. It not only sent large boulders onto the roadway from steep grades, but ended up damaging the highway severely. Tennessee 69 was the alternate for my trip and had me wishing I was driving a sports car, instead of a truck on a roadway with more hair pins than a beauty shop.
Once in Ohio, I bounced to Detroit and then over to Ann Arbor, where I had a nice stay in November. They always say “be careful for what you wish for, for you just might get it.” Well, I got it. I rubbed the “Load Genie Lamp” and was granted a cannon ball run from Coldwater, Michigan to Laredo, Texas. Success! My frozen body would thaw and warm 70 degree sunshine would shine on my face. Fit me in a sombrero and provide me with a taco. With that thought, it was on the road to my reward.
Sixteen hundred and eleven miles of interstate droned and by the time I got to the end of Interstate 35, I was like a man in the desert laid prone on the ground reaching for the oasis. One minute I’m stone throwing distance from Canada, the next, I’m sitting on the southern border at the Rio Grande. This was my third trip to Laredo. Always hot, always kind of quirky regarding some of the people I’ve talked to and always very Mexican, considering its proximity to our neighbor to the south. Mexican works for me because I can speak Spanish, enjoy the food and I would actually wear a poncho like Clint Eastwood.
The nighttime air was 50ish, the coolest I’ve experienced there so far. After enduring plenty of record cold elsewhere, this was indeed a treat! My load delivered on Sunday morning where sunshine and 70 degree weather shined down on me, just like I pictured it.
Not much freight comes out of Laredo. It is primarily a drop off point for goods heading into Mexico. There aren’t many companies that send trucks into Mexico these days. It’s just too dangerous, especially around border cities on the Mexican side. The area is dotted with numerous warehouses where the hand off to Mexican truckers occurs. It is an orderly operation and hundreds of trucks cue up at the truck stops to deliver at their appointed times.
Now that my load was deposited, I pointed the Fat Cat to San Antonio for a new destination. It’s a very straight shot to San Antonio with scrubby looking, desert-like landscape dotted with classic ranch entrances displaying various brands that get stamped into the livestock. I like this drive. There are no hills, congested traffic, ice or snow. Set the cruise control and let the XM play.
Like clockwork as I pulled into Alamo Town, the Qualcomm chirped out a run from the next town up in Austin to White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico. My first thought was landing three cherries on a one armed bandit. I opened the map and it said “Not Open to the Public” at White Sands. Give me restricted places around Roswell, Area 51, Cape Canaveral, Edwards Air Force Base and other places where the security is as tight as the back end of a clam, and I’m there! I live for this stuff. After all, I’m the guy who has a profound interest in the National Institute for Standard Time (NIST). I want to know exactly where the Camak Stone is. What really happed to D.B. Cooper? It sure beats delivering ball bearings to Flint. I knew from the location of my New Mexico destination, I’d be layed over in El Paso, Texas. I like El Paso, so this would be a win-win deal. Maybe California would be next.
Friday, January 8, 2010
13 Degrees and Getting Colder
What a WINTER this has been thus far. The forecasted high temperature for my hometown which is forty five minutes northwest of Atlanta is 25 degrees today. It's 13 now. I have NEVER seen a high temperature that low for this area...living here or not. Typically in January, depending on the year, it will run from the upper 40's to low 50's for a high. Overnight readings will run in the upper 20's to low 30's. For a normal year, we might see one or two overnight lows in the teens. During some cold snaps, we might see a day or two in the upper 30's for a high temperature, but NEVER in the 20's. Atlanta TV said this is the most prolonged cold stretch since 1985. The coldest I've ever seen it get in the 8 years I've lived here was 12 degrees one year for an overnight low. I think the earth has tilted, or we're seeing a trend not seen for many years. Maybe it's an anomoly.
Early this morning, on my way to Birmingham to pick up a load headed to Connecticut, there was a major accident on an icy Interstate 20 somewhere in the vicinity of the Georgia-Alabama state line. Authorities shut down the highway for 3 hours, preventing me from getting to my destination for pick up. They had to re-dispatch the load to someone else. Even though the highway was re-opened, traffic was grid-locked heading west with the majority of vehicles being overnight trucks heading west out of Atlanta.
Now, my own state of Georgia is on my list of winter buffoons. This interstate roadway was not treated with anything. A midday snow...albeit light in nature the day before, had iced the roadway by the middle of the night. This area is prone to ice, and after scratching my wooden head, I can't figure out why they weren't prepared for this. All I can say is that, the further into the future we travel, the more incompetent road departments have become. Is state government to blame or has the poor economy affected budgets so badly that there is simply NO money to insure the safety of the travelling and commercial public?
I do believe a good deal of the problem lies with ignorant drivers who refuse to slow down when roadways become treacherous. I spoke with a clerk at the Temple, Georgia Pilot Travel Center who related to me that there was a muli-car pileup on I-285 near the airport (probably people trying to escape the cold and ice)on the infamous beltway that encompasses Atlanta. The posted speed limit is 55 miles per hour on the entire stretch of that highway. Most of the time, people travel 70 to 80 miles per hour on the perimeter.
I think they need to install gates on the entrance ramps of interstates and shut the freeways down if they're unwilling to treat the roadways. They have them out west and they use them when conditions prevent safe travel. People also need to learn that they could die or kill someone if they don't slow down in this kind of weather. The forecast is for an even more frigid weekend in Metro Atlanta. Get me to Arizona.
Early this morning, on my way to Birmingham to pick up a load headed to Connecticut, there was a major accident on an icy Interstate 20 somewhere in the vicinity of the Georgia-Alabama state line. Authorities shut down the highway for 3 hours, preventing me from getting to my destination for pick up. They had to re-dispatch the load to someone else. Even though the highway was re-opened, traffic was grid-locked heading west with the majority of vehicles being overnight trucks heading west out of Atlanta.
Now, my own state of Georgia is on my list of winter buffoons. This interstate roadway was not treated with anything. A midday snow...albeit light in nature the day before, had iced the roadway by the middle of the night. This area is prone to ice, and after scratching my wooden head, I can't figure out why they weren't prepared for this. All I can say is that, the further into the future we travel, the more incompetent road departments have become. Is state government to blame or has the poor economy affected budgets so badly that there is simply NO money to insure the safety of the travelling and commercial public?
I do believe a good deal of the problem lies with ignorant drivers who refuse to slow down when roadways become treacherous. I spoke with a clerk at the Temple, Georgia Pilot Travel Center who related to me that there was a muli-car pileup on I-285 near the airport (probably people trying to escape the cold and ice)on the infamous beltway that encompasses Atlanta. The posted speed limit is 55 miles per hour on the entire stretch of that highway. Most of the time, people travel 70 to 80 miles per hour on the perimeter.
I think they need to install gates on the entrance ramps of interstates and shut the freeways down if they're unwilling to treat the roadways. They have them out west and they use them when conditions prevent safe travel. People also need to learn that they could die or kill someone if they don't slow down in this kind of weather. The forecast is for an even more frigid weekend in Metro Atlanta. Get me to Arizona.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Farewell To The Christmas Goose
What a holiday season it's been. Just getting home was an exercise in strategy reserved for the finest of board game players. Somehow, I was able to pull it off, landing an assignment in Raleigh, North Carolina transporting some computer equipment over to Durham for enough moolah to put in the tanks for the run to the ranch in Georgia.
By the time I turned into the winding driveway to my castle on the hill, night had fallen and my mercury vapor barn light was burning in all her glory. As I pulled the Fat Cat up to back her in next to the old red and white edifice out in the yard, I could see bright little feline faces along with one noisy canine son in the kitchen window to greet me with enthusiasm. Upon entering the house with my duffle, I could smell the holiday season in the form of freshly baked cookies. I slid open the pocket door to the cooking room and there he was, in a prominent stance facing the door...the Christmas goose. A venerable wooden fellow he is, about two feet tall with a Santa hat and gold tassel. Candy canes and goodies hang from his neck, draping along his back. Two big webbed wooden feet keep this purveyor of good cheer in place, even from scurrying kitties. This is a proud bird displaying his bill pointing upward. The goose has become a sort of tradition over the years at our house, taking his prominent place beginning at Thanksgiving and making his stand until the New Year. Said quite plainly and simply, when the goose goes up, it's Christmas.
The girls were glad to see me as I was to see them. With Louie and the kitties gathered around, coming home never gets old. I blinked my eyes and it was Christmas Eve. Cheryl and I travelled around town in an effort to finish some last minute shopping. Streisy kept busy with her work schedule at the grocery store. Busy is an understatement for what they do around the holidays. I'm proud that she's in that business. Grocery people are a hard working and genuine people. I know, I knew some from my days at the A & P.
My holiday is not complete until I attend worship services at my little hometown church. The final candle of advent was lit, bread was broken, the cup was raised and meaning restored to why we celebrate the birth of Christ.
Don't misunderstand and believe that my home time is one big vacation. I wish it was. How nice it would be to lay around continually watching The Sound of Music and Miracle on 34th Street. I did, however, get to see an encore of The Nativity Story. Now there's a great story of the birth of Christ.
Household chores and piled up yard work take time away from a good old fashioned slack. Don't get me wrong, working around the house gives me a sort satisfaction and if it didn't, I don't need to be living here. Two acres of yard and grass don't take care of themselves. You have to love mowing grass, and I do. Two days after Christmas, I mowed grass. And I loved it. You can do that here in Georgia this time of the year.
I did get to smoke a Ghorka "Assassin" while incinerating trash in the burn barrel. Now THAT was a stout smoke and it may has well have been a bullet in the noggin right between the eyes. I guess that's why they call it what they call it. If they come out with an "Oswald", I'd have to pass on that one. I like the "shaggys" or the "Black Dragon".
A whole week blew by and all of a sudden, it was New Year's Eve. Hey, wait a minute, aren't we entering a new decade? Wow, I remember when that kind of New Year was exciting...like ten years ago. TEN YEARS AGO? Has it been that long ago already? Dam. The turn of the century. Even ten years ago we were homebodies and didn't do anything special, but it was fun to watch all the big celebrations around the world beginning around noon on the eve. When I was a teenager, I would marvel at the fact that I would be forty three years old on January 1st, 2000. I think Dad helped me figure that out on a slide rule. I recall when 1970 came in, it seemed so modern. Back in those days, I kept track of the fact that the last number one song of the sixties on WABC in New York was Steam's "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". The national charts would have you believe it was "Leavin' On A Jetplane" by Peter, Paul and Mary. For 1980, I remember being at a party in a house trailer in Florida, watching the ball drop on a thirteen inch black and white TV. Now THAT, was a glamorous New Year's. These days, we begin our New Year's Eve at seven and end it at ten.
I stayed up to watch the ball drop in Times Square in sweats at home. It would feel odd to miss that. Dick Clark was still there. After suffering the kind of stroke he did a few years back, I give him a lot of credit for getting up there in front of millions in an effort to preserve tradition. It can't be for the money, lord knows he's got plenty. The bands of today on the broadcast sure weren't KC and The Sunshine Band or Bob Seger. The only one I recall was those Black Eyed Peas.
New Year's Day came and so the decorations went. It was a good holiday season, it's what I hoped for. This Christmas was better than last year's after the bad economy closed the auto dealership I worked at and put me in the bread line. Maybe next year will just as fun, or better. Hope never disappoints. Farewell Mr. Goose, see you next year.
By the time I turned into the winding driveway to my castle on the hill, night had fallen and my mercury vapor barn light was burning in all her glory. As I pulled the Fat Cat up to back her in next to the old red and white edifice out in the yard, I could see bright little feline faces along with one noisy canine son in the kitchen window to greet me with enthusiasm. Upon entering the house with my duffle, I could smell the holiday season in the form of freshly baked cookies. I slid open the pocket door to the cooking room and there he was, in a prominent stance facing the door...the Christmas goose. A venerable wooden fellow he is, about two feet tall with a Santa hat and gold tassel. Candy canes and goodies hang from his neck, draping along his back. Two big webbed wooden feet keep this purveyor of good cheer in place, even from scurrying kitties. This is a proud bird displaying his bill pointing upward. The goose has become a sort of tradition over the years at our house, taking his prominent place beginning at Thanksgiving and making his stand until the New Year. Said quite plainly and simply, when the goose goes up, it's Christmas.
My holiday is not complete until I attend worship services at my little hometown church. The final candle of advent was lit, bread was broken, the cup was raised and meaning restored to why we celebrate the birth of Christ.
Don't misunderstand and believe that my home time is one big vacation. I wish it was. How nice it would be to lay around continually watching The Sound of Music and Miracle on 34th Street. I did, however, get to see an encore of The Nativity Story. Now there's a great story of the birth of Christ.
Household chores and piled up yard work take time away from a good old fashioned slack. Don't get me wrong, working around the house gives me a sort satisfaction and if it didn't, I don't need to be living here. Two acres of yard and grass don't take care of themselves. You have to love mowing grass, and I do. Two days after Christmas, I mowed grass. And I loved it. You can do that here in Georgia this time of the year.
I did get to smoke a Ghorka "Assassin" while incinerating trash in the burn barrel. Now THAT was a stout smoke and it may has well have been a bullet in the noggin right between the eyes. I guess that's why they call it what they call it. If they come out with an "Oswald", I'd have to pass on that one. I like the "shaggys" or the "Black Dragon".
A whole week blew by and all of a sudden, it was New Year's Eve. Hey, wait a minute, aren't we entering a new decade? Wow, I remember when that kind of New Year was exciting...like ten years ago. TEN YEARS AGO? Has it been that long ago already? Dam. The turn of the century. Even ten years ago we were homebodies and didn't do anything special, but it was fun to watch all the big celebrations around the world beginning around noon on the eve. When I was a teenager, I would marvel at the fact that I would be forty three years old on January 1st, 2000. I think Dad helped me figure that out on a slide rule. I recall when 1970 came in, it seemed so modern. Back in those days, I kept track of the fact that the last number one song of the sixties on WABC in New York was Steam's "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". The national charts would have you believe it was "Leavin' On A Jetplane" by Peter, Paul and Mary. For 1980, I remember being at a party in a house trailer in Florida, watching the ball drop on a thirteen inch black and white TV. Now THAT, was a glamorous New Year's. These days, we begin our New Year's Eve at seven and end it at ten.
I stayed up to watch the ball drop in Times Square in sweats at home. It would feel odd to miss that. Dick Clark was still there. After suffering the kind of stroke he did a few years back, I give him a lot of credit for getting up there in front of millions in an effort to preserve tradition. It can't be for the money, lord knows he's got plenty. The bands of today on the broadcast sure weren't KC and The Sunshine Band or Bob Seger. The only one I recall was those Black Eyed Peas.
New Year's Day came and so the decorations went. It was a good holiday season, it's what I hoped for. This Christmas was better than last year's after the bad economy closed the auto dealership I worked at and put me in the bread line. Maybe next year will just as fun, or better. Hope never disappoints. Farewell Mr. Goose, see you next year.
Friday, December 25, 2009
A Three Hour Tour
With Atlanta and the soaking rain behind me, the mission was now to pick up freight in Cleveland, Tennessee and simply transport it to a location outside of Harrisburg, PA. The route would be a straight shot up I-81, an interstate I have travelled more times that I could possibly remember. I know every crack in this road. My travel on this freeway has included all the seasons over many years. Your friendly author here has been on it in every kind of weather event and yes, snow on several occasions.
By the time I arrived in Southwest Virginia, this storm had dropped perhaps 8 inches of winter, making travel slow, but not impossible. The highway was relatively clear, affording me the opportunity to make up a little time lost by slow going in Tennessee early on created by road crews salting and sanding. Christiansburg, Virginia popped up on the GPS prominently pearched on the dash of the Fat Cat signaling to me that Roanoke wasn’t very far up the road. Traffic began to build and then suddenly stopped cold. Trucker chatter on the CB turned to the hold up and before long it was being reported that there was an accident up ahead at mile marker 128. Dam, I’m sitting here looking at mile marker 111. This is going to take a while. Motorists began to pop out of their vehicles and a concerned looking man from a four wheeler (trucker slang for a car) came up to my window and asked if I heard anything on my CB radio. I told him what the truckers were saying and that he should make himself comfortable, this was going be a good wait. He thanked me shaking his head as he walked away. I rummaged in my on board food cupboard for something to eat and came up with a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee over stuffed ravioli to throw in the microwave in a Styrofoam bowl covered with wax paper. From my vantage point in the truck, I watched kids play football catch on the shoulder of the road and folks standing around in conversation circles on the roadway. After lunch, I called my brother Tom who was on his way to New York with his family by car from South Carolina. They decided to take I-95 and avoid this mess. They usually take this route, but changed their plans after seeing the back ups on TV.
Hour number four was approaching and my thoughts turned to who was involved in the accident. It must have been very serious for the highway to be shut down this long. A wave of sadness passed over me with the thought that someone might not make it home for Christmas. This person or persons were on the same course as I was. Now, they might not be. Like Don Henley once sang, life can change in a New York Minute. Always consider the important things in life. That’s what the song says.
Finally, after four hours of listening to truckers grousing on the CB, copious texting on the phone and a pipe full of Kate’s special blend from the cigar lounge back home in Hiram, traffic began to move. As I moved forward, I discovered abandoned and snow covered automobiles littered both sides of the interstate. Some were pointed in unnatural positions. I spotted a U-Haul moving truck with a trailer and a late model Honda Accord on it in a ditch. Now, that had to be a moving experience someone will never forget. Further up the road, I encountered two more stoppages, for additional accidents that weren’t as long as the one in Christiansburg.
As the clock ticked 16:00, evidence of nightfall began to appear. In yet another backup, I passed an intermodal tractor trailer jack-knifed across the highway. An intermodal is a container trailer that comes from a ship or a train and is attached to a trailer assembly with wheels to be pulled by truck. There was just enough room to fit my truck between the back end of the jack knifed trailer and the guard rail. Lucky for that, or that would have been another four hour wait.
Abandoned and snow covered vehicles continued to show up on the sides of the highway. Supposedly, the National Guard rescued countless motorists from those cars and ferried them to shelters. This travelling public wasn't prepared for this challenge getting home for the holidays or finishing up Christmas shopping.
I began to see electronic message boards that spoke ominously about trip fortunes ahead. They displayed the same passage of “Heavy Snow, Avoid Travel, Seek Shelter!” Well, it’s a little late for that message. My trucker friends on the CB complained of jammed truck stops that were running out of food and fuel. Truckers were beginning to line their rigs up on the sides of the roadway and off ramps. Truckers are only allowed to drive a total of eleven hours a day. When your time is up, you have to stop driving and shut down for a ten hour break.
The road surface was now converting from a slushy snow and wet arrangement to ice. The ride became extremely bumpy driving over chunks of ice we affectionately call moguls. Just like the kind you ski over, except bigger. I had racked up a grand total of 79 miles from the point of the four plus hour highway shutdown and was now in Lexington, Virginia. All the trucks and cars had come to another complete stop. Now what? I said out loud. The CB chatter now turned to a foreboding hill up ahead as slippery as a used car salesman on a third rate lot after a flood. In yet another traffic jam, drivers and passengers got out of their vehicles to see what the problem was now. By this time, there were countless motorists searching for a place of personal relief. Truckers offered buckets and empty truck trailers to persons in need. Some auto drivers were beginning to panic for lack of fuel and food. This was turning into an ordeal for some.
The theme from Gilligan's Island popped into my head...."a three hour tour, a three hour tour..." The Virginia DOT was nowhere in sight. No plows, no salt, no nothing. I had never seen it this bad in recent times. Virginia was always fairly good at snow removal. I drove this route by car in the 90’s at the end of a snowstorm similar to this one. This amount of snowl didn’t seem that unmanageable to me. This DOT would be fired in Upstate New York. Virginia is a snow state; they should be prepared for this sort of thing. Sadly, thousands of motorists were left with the short end of this stick.
Word then came on the CB, several truckers and cars attempted the hill and slid into the guardrail in a crunch of metal. 911 was called, but no one came. With no authorities in sight, we truckers took matters into our own hands. Three rigs lined up blocking the highway so no one else could get by and suffer the same misfortune as the ones who attempted the hill. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries from the mishap down the hill.
The truckers gathered and plotted a course of action to get down this steep grade. It was decided that we would send the trucks and cars down, one at a time with instructions to stay in the middle and don’t exceed 1 mile per hour. The middle truck behind me would come out of the three across line and follow me when I descended to the bottom of that roadway disguised as a slab of ice. Me and the Fat Cat were second in line, behind a power company truck. The power truck radioed that it was slushy at the bottom of the hill and to take it very slow. My truck has what they call a “Jake Brake” which is a type of brake that employs engine compression to slow and eventually stop the truck. It works without supplying any stopping force to the wheels. It’s great because I can reserve my air from braking and also avoid skidding by not applying pressure to those wheels. This was one time I was extremely glad I had this kind braking system. Thank you Mr. Jacobs for figuring that one out.
As I watched the power company truck disappear out of sight in front of me, my knuckles grew white gripping the big steering wheel. My thoughts raced with scenarios of doom on this highway as I prepared to descend this mighty grade. Once you start a slide on ice, there’s not much you can do to get out of it. Steering and braking disappear and then it’s up to the man upstairs.
I dropped Miss Fat Cat into the lowest gear possible and let my emergency spring brakes out. I usually start off in a higher gear, but not this time. My heart beat at an elevated rate as I eased her onto the hill. Perspiration rode my brow. Creeping down the decline at maybe 1 mile per hour, I could feel the slippery road surface from the tires right into my hands. If I went any faster, I would surely become another mangled storm statistic. I tried to keep in mind the slush from which I would gain traction at the bottom. I hoped the reports on the CB were correct.
I passed the crashed trucks on the way down, but couldn’t rubberneck it too much for fear of joining them. I caught a glimpse of a white late model Volvo in the mix. I talked the big Cat down the hill the whole way. “Come ‘on girl, I know you can do it.” There was no salt, no sand or cinders of any kind on this decline of treachery. My only way down was a steady hand, a “fully jaked” engine on the Caterpillar 500, a resistance to hitting the brakes and faith in God.
As I sensed the road evening out, I felt the wonderful slush they talked about. Me and the big Lady made it! I wanted to get out and kiss the big slurpee. The highway was still slippery and offered ice chunks to make the ride rough. The Welcome sign to West Virginia couldn’t have come soon enough and signaled better roads all the way into Pennsylvania. The remaining state road departments on the run had the interstate under control. I watched busy plows with salt spreaders clean up Old Man Winter’s gift. I got to my destination in one piece, only nineteen hours late. And yes, Natasha back at dispatch central said they wouldn’t count it against me. This trip took a total of thirty six hours to go 622 at an average of 17 miles per hour. I feel for the families who lost a family member, especially this close to Christmas. Wrecked cars and trucks can be fixed or be replaced. Injuries heal. Effects of some of those injuries can linger for a lifetime. But, lives are lost.
It’s been a crazy and bewildering few weeks of driving up and down the east coast in a variety of climates. This was the third snow storm I’ve been through, combined with a pleasant 82 degree stopover in South Florida. I thought about that as I sat in the truck stop here in Pennsylvania, peeling another seedless naval orange picked just over a week ago.
By the time I arrived in Southwest Virginia, this storm had dropped perhaps 8 inches of winter, making travel slow, but not impossible. The highway was relatively clear, affording me the opportunity to make up a little time lost by slow going in Tennessee early on created by road crews salting and sanding. Christiansburg, Virginia popped up on the GPS prominently pearched on the dash of the Fat Cat signaling to me that Roanoke wasn’t very far up the road. Traffic began to build and then suddenly stopped cold. Trucker chatter on the CB turned to the hold up and before long it was being reported that there was an accident up ahead at mile marker 128. Dam, I’m sitting here looking at mile marker 111. This is going to take a while. Motorists began to pop out of their vehicles and a concerned looking man from a four wheeler (trucker slang for a car) came up to my window and asked if I heard anything on my CB radio. I told him what the truckers were saying and that he should make himself comfortable, this was going be a good wait. He thanked me shaking his head as he walked away. I rummaged in my on board food cupboard for something to eat and came up with a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee over stuffed ravioli to throw in the microwave in a Styrofoam bowl covered with wax paper. From my vantage point in the truck, I watched kids play football catch on the shoulder of the road and folks standing around in conversation circles on the roadway. After lunch, I called my brother Tom who was on his way to New York with his family by car from South Carolina. They decided to take I-95 and avoid this mess. They usually take this route, but changed their plans after seeing the back ups on TV.
Hour number four was approaching and my thoughts turned to who was involved in the accident. It must have been very serious for the highway to be shut down this long. A wave of sadness passed over me with the thought that someone might not make it home for Christmas. This person or persons were on the same course as I was. Now, they might not be. Like Don Henley once sang, life can change in a New York Minute. Always consider the important things in life. That’s what the song says.
Finally, after four hours of listening to truckers grousing on the CB, copious texting on the phone and a pipe full of Kate’s special blend from the cigar lounge back home in Hiram, traffic began to move. As I moved forward, I discovered abandoned and snow covered automobiles littered both sides of the interstate. Some were pointed in unnatural positions. I spotted a U-Haul moving truck with a trailer and a late model Honda Accord on it in a ditch. Now, that had to be a moving experience someone will never forget. Further up the road, I encountered two more stoppages, for additional accidents that weren’t as long as the one in Christiansburg.
As the clock ticked 16:00, evidence of nightfall began to appear. In yet another backup, I passed an intermodal tractor trailer jack-knifed across the highway. An intermodal is a container trailer that comes from a ship or a train and is attached to a trailer assembly with wheels to be pulled by truck. There was just enough room to fit my truck between the back end of the jack knifed trailer and the guard rail. Lucky for that, or that would have been another four hour wait.
Abandoned and snow covered vehicles continued to show up on the sides of the highway. Supposedly, the National Guard rescued countless motorists from those cars and ferried them to shelters. This travelling public wasn't prepared for this challenge getting home for the holidays or finishing up Christmas shopping.
I began to see electronic message boards that spoke ominously about trip fortunes ahead. They displayed the same passage of “Heavy Snow, Avoid Travel, Seek Shelter!” Well, it’s a little late for that message. My trucker friends on the CB complained of jammed truck stops that were running out of food and fuel. Truckers were beginning to line their rigs up on the sides of the roadway and off ramps. Truckers are only allowed to drive a total of eleven hours a day. When your time is up, you have to stop driving and shut down for a ten hour break.
The road surface was now converting from a slushy snow and wet arrangement to ice. The ride became extremely bumpy driving over chunks of ice we affectionately call moguls. Just like the kind you ski over, except bigger. I had racked up a grand total of 79 miles from the point of the four plus hour highway shutdown and was now in Lexington, Virginia. All the trucks and cars had come to another complete stop. Now what? I said out loud. The CB chatter now turned to a foreboding hill up ahead as slippery as a used car salesman on a third rate lot after a flood. In yet another traffic jam, drivers and passengers got out of their vehicles to see what the problem was now. By this time, there were countless motorists searching for a place of personal relief. Truckers offered buckets and empty truck trailers to persons in need. Some auto drivers were beginning to panic for lack of fuel and food. This was turning into an ordeal for some.
The theme from Gilligan's Island popped into my head...."a three hour tour, a three hour tour..." The Virginia DOT was nowhere in sight. No plows, no salt, no nothing. I had never seen it this bad in recent times. Virginia was always fairly good at snow removal. I drove this route by car in the 90’s at the end of a snowstorm similar to this one. This amount of snowl didn’t seem that unmanageable to me. This DOT would be fired in Upstate New York. Virginia is a snow state; they should be prepared for this sort of thing. Sadly, thousands of motorists were left with the short end of this stick.
Word then came on the CB, several truckers and cars attempted the hill and slid into the guardrail in a crunch of metal. 911 was called, but no one came. With no authorities in sight, we truckers took matters into our own hands. Three rigs lined up blocking the highway so no one else could get by and suffer the same misfortune as the ones who attempted the hill. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries from the mishap down the hill.
The truckers gathered and plotted a course of action to get down this steep grade. It was decided that we would send the trucks and cars down, one at a time with instructions to stay in the middle and don’t exceed 1 mile per hour. The middle truck behind me would come out of the three across line and follow me when I descended to the bottom of that roadway disguised as a slab of ice. Me and the Fat Cat were second in line, behind a power company truck. The power truck radioed that it was slushy at the bottom of the hill and to take it very slow. My truck has what they call a “Jake Brake” which is a type of brake that employs engine compression to slow and eventually stop the truck. It works without supplying any stopping force to the wheels. It’s great because I can reserve my air from braking and also avoid skidding by not applying pressure to those wheels. This was one time I was extremely glad I had this kind braking system. Thank you Mr. Jacobs for figuring that one out.
As I watched the power company truck disappear out of sight in front of me, my knuckles grew white gripping the big steering wheel. My thoughts raced with scenarios of doom on this highway as I prepared to descend this mighty grade. Once you start a slide on ice, there’s not much you can do to get out of it. Steering and braking disappear and then it’s up to the man upstairs.
I dropped Miss Fat Cat into the lowest gear possible and let my emergency spring brakes out. I usually start off in a higher gear, but not this time. My heart beat at an elevated rate as I eased her onto the hill. Perspiration rode my brow. Creeping down the decline at maybe 1 mile per hour, I could feel the slippery road surface from the tires right into my hands. If I went any faster, I would surely become another mangled storm statistic. I tried to keep in mind the slush from which I would gain traction at the bottom. I hoped the reports on the CB were correct.
I passed the crashed trucks on the way down, but couldn’t rubberneck it too much for fear of joining them. I caught a glimpse of a white late model Volvo in the mix. I talked the big Cat down the hill the whole way. “Come ‘on girl, I know you can do it.” There was no salt, no sand or cinders of any kind on this decline of treachery. My only way down was a steady hand, a “fully jaked” engine on the Caterpillar 500, a resistance to hitting the brakes and faith in God.
As I sensed the road evening out, I felt the wonderful slush they talked about. Me and the big Lady made it! I wanted to get out and kiss the big slurpee. The highway was still slippery and offered ice chunks to make the ride rough. The Welcome sign to West Virginia couldn’t have come soon enough and signaled better roads all the way into Pennsylvania. The remaining state road departments on the run had the interstate under control. I watched busy plows with salt spreaders clean up Old Man Winter’s gift. I got to my destination in one piece, only nineteen hours late. And yes, Natasha back at dispatch central said they wouldn’t count it against me. This trip took a total of thirty six hours to go 622 at an average of 17 miles per hour. I feel for the families who lost a family member, especially this close to Christmas. Wrecked cars and trucks can be fixed or be replaced. Injuries heal. Effects of some of those injuries can linger for a lifetime. But, lives are lost.
It’s been a crazy and bewildering few weeks of driving up and down the east coast in a variety of climates. This was the third snow storm I’ve been through, combined with a pleasant 82 degree stopover in South Florida. I thought about that as I sat in the truck stop here in Pennsylvania, peeling another seedless naval orange picked just over a week ago.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Did you say cariaaage?
On Thursday afternoon, December the 17, I found myself at the Pilot Travel Center in Hampton, New Jersey, right off I-78 in North Central NJ. My hometown of Bridgewater is a stone’s throw away. I could spend weeks here and not visit with all my friends. I still know a lot of people here, even though I've been gone nearly 8 years. Besides being away from my family and home, this is a part of the job that is especially hard for me. I find myself in places where there’s nothing more I’d rather do than see old friends, family or do some sightseeing. I love to sight see. There's a lot of "off the beaten track" places and things I want to see. Our country is full of them.
With the kind of business I’m in, moving time sensitive freight requires being ready in almost an instant to travel hundreds of miles, often without travel breaks longer than twenty minutes in effort to meet a tight delivery schedule. We move freight that can’t be put on a plane or that of which needs special handling. My day can, and usually does, change quite abruptly sending me packing down the road in a hurry. The other challenging aspect is that you can’t just drive a big truck everywhere. There are often road restrictions, meaning low overpasses and power lines I have to watch for. I don’t need to make a sling shot out of the electric line leading to your house! Many residential areas also have low hanging trees and autos parked on both sides of the street that prevent passage. So, that truck with a circle and a slash line through it doesn't mean they don't like you, it means that if you come this way, you might break something.
All that said, I still remain hopeful that I will be able to turn the tables of logic and visit my family and friends on the road. I’m still relatively new to this type of work, and I’m learning how to manage the company, my locations and my time.
As I was sniffing the Bridgewater air from Hampton, the “Price Is Right Theme” sounded on my cell phone, signaling that the company was calling with a load opportunity. The automated system’s female voice told me that pick up was in Edison, NJ at 17:12 hours (we follow Eastern Time in military fashion at all times) and delivery is in Atlanta, GA the following day at 13:15. The pay was good and I couldn’t hit “3” for accept fast enough. I looked at my watch (that keeps military time) and it said 16:00. Holy crap, I’ve got to go right now! With afternoon Central New Jersey traffic warming up, my anxiety was building. Basically, it was a flying leap into the driver’s seat and a needle threading around a bunch of loping trucks at the Pilot.
With Edison in my mirrors, it was time to steam like a freight train without brakes to Georgia.
Somewhere just beyond upstate South Carolina and the Georgia line at Lake Hartwell, the relentless rain that became the biggest snow storm I’ve seen in December in years had began. My delivery was at the Lenox Square Mall in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. If the name sounds like a place for hunters, it isn't. It's far from that. For those of you who are un-initiated, Buckhead and that Mall caters to the richest people in Georgia. The Governor’s Mansion is right up the street and people buy expensive homes on busy streets here so they can be seen. At the Lenox, the floors are Italian marble and the stores rival what you might find on Park Avenue in New York or Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles. This is a place for the filthy with a snooty schnazola.
This was a special delivery and required taking the load off the truck by a power lift gate and carting it on the wooden pallet to the store in the mall. I pulled up to the delivery area at the mall and found 3 Mercedes Benzes, a Volvo and a BMW parked on the grid where I’m supposed to be. Some guy is sitting in a running S class from Stuttgart, so I let him have it with the air horn. I gave him a long, steady and loud blast. I got a bird in return. Well ok then, we'll just double park it like they do in New York, put the flashers on and off load it in the fire zone. Christmas Mall traffic can drive around me.
So, here I am, wheeling a pallet jack down the mall corridor and all of a sudden, I’m surrounded by mall security led by some guy who reminded me of a wedding planner. This dude was impeccably dressed with an earpiece and a walkie-talkie in hand. He gave me a thorough scolding for my cartage on sacred Mall floors. The reprimand included an inquisition of “Sir, did you NOT see the signage posted at the entrance? I replied that I didn't see a sign and inquired about a different entrance for deliveries. Martin Short shot back "you will HAVE to break that stack of boxes down and bring them in by hand carriAAAGE.”Hand carriAAAGE? What’s a hand carriAAAGE I inquired? "A carrAAAGE, a carrAAAGE, you put dhe boxis on it and wheel eet in." Oh...you mean a hand truck...gotcha. The planner's look made me feel as though I had committed some sort of transgression in this house of acquisition. I complied without discussion. I just wanted to be finished with the job. It was a long trip down the coast and I was wet, tired and hungry. At that point, I wasn't going to let some guy who talked funny take my day down any further.
Now, at the massive Petro Travel Center on I-285, I planned on resting for a bit. A dry change of clothing was in order, and perhaps a nice sit down meal at the Iron Skillet. I hadn’t had real sit down grub in a while. Whew, this would be a good opportunity to re-charge and get ready for the next mission.
The Qualcomm rattled off a series of places and scenarios I declined. I don’t have what they call “forced dispatch” so I can pretty much decide where I want to go…sort of. Sometimes, when the company has freight they really want to move, they will call me personally and apply some advanced sales techniques to secure a commitment to move the shipment. The Price is Right chimed on my phone and it wasn’t my little automated friend. It was Natasha, live and in person, making a case for a pick-up in Tennessee and delivery near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I responded with a “I don’t know, Natasha, there’s a major snow storm about to blow on up the coast going that way. Her response was “we will never hold it against you if weather prevents an on time delivery. How much will you do it for?” Well…since you asked, I offered my number, I’ll do it for $XXXX. Natasha sealed the deal with a “great, I’ll send the details on down the Qualcomm. Have a safe trip.”
This trip would turn out to be the longest 600 miles I have ever travelled. Winter weather loomed very large on this expedition and what seemed like a good deal, turned into a tribulation.
With the kind of business I’m in, moving time sensitive freight requires being ready in almost an instant to travel hundreds of miles, often without travel breaks longer than twenty minutes in effort to meet a tight delivery schedule. We move freight that can’t be put on a plane or that of which needs special handling. My day can, and usually does, change quite abruptly sending me packing down the road in a hurry. The other challenging aspect is that you can’t just drive a big truck everywhere. There are often road restrictions, meaning low overpasses and power lines I have to watch for. I don’t need to make a sling shot out of the electric line leading to your house! Many residential areas also have low hanging trees and autos parked on both sides of the street that prevent passage. So, that truck with a circle and a slash line through it doesn't mean they don't like you, it means that if you come this way, you might break something.
All that said, I still remain hopeful that I will be able to turn the tables of logic and visit my family and friends on the road. I’m still relatively new to this type of work, and I’m learning how to manage the company, my locations and my time.
As I was sniffing the Bridgewater air from Hampton, the “Price Is Right Theme” sounded on my cell phone, signaling that the company was calling with a load opportunity. The automated system’s female voice told me that pick up was in Edison, NJ at 17:12 hours (we follow Eastern Time in military fashion at all times) and delivery is in Atlanta, GA the following day at 13:15. The pay was good and I couldn’t hit “3” for accept fast enough. I looked at my watch (that keeps military time) and it said 16:00. Holy crap, I’ve got to go right now! With afternoon Central New Jersey traffic warming up, my anxiety was building. Basically, it was a flying leap into the driver’s seat and a needle threading around a bunch of loping trucks at the Pilot.
With Edison in my mirrors, it was time to steam like a freight train without brakes to Georgia.
Somewhere just beyond upstate South Carolina and the Georgia line at Lake Hartwell, the relentless rain that became the biggest snow storm I’ve seen in December in years had began. My delivery was at the Lenox Square Mall in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. If the name sounds like a place for hunters, it isn't. It's far from that. For those of you who are un-initiated, Buckhead and that Mall caters to the richest people in Georgia. The Governor’s Mansion is right up the street and people buy expensive homes on busy streets here so they can be seen. At the Lenox, the floors are Italian marble and the stores rival what you might find on Park Avenue in New York or Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles. This is a place for the filthy with a snooty schnazola.
This was a special delivery and required taking the load off the truck by a power lift gate and carting it on the wooden pallet to the store in the mall. I pulled up to the delivery area at the mall and found 3 Mercedes Benzes, a Volvo and a BMW parked on the grid where I’m supposed to be. Some guy is sitting in a running S class from Stuttgart, so I let him have it with the air horn. I gave him a long, steady and loud blast. I got a bird in return. Well ok then, we'll just double park it like they do in New York, put the flashers on and off load it in the fire zone. Christmas Mall traffic can drive around me.
So, here I am, wheeling a pallet jack down the mall corridor and all of a sudden, I’m surrounded by mall security led by some guy who reminded me of a wedding planner. This dude was impeccably dressed with an earpiece and a walkie-talkie in hand. He gave me a thorough scolding for my cartage on sacred Mall floors. The reprimand included an inquisition of “Sir, did you NOT see the signage posted at the entrance? I replied that I didn't see a sign and inquired about a different entrance for deliveries. Martin Short shot back "you will HAVE to break that stack of boxes down and bring them in by hand carriAAAGE.”
Now, at the massive Petro Travel Center on I-285, I planned on resting for a bit. A dry change of clothing was in order, and perhaps a nice sit down meal at the Iron Skillet. I hadn’t had real sit down grub in a while. Whew, this would be a good opportunity to re-charge and get ready for the next mission.
The Qualcomm rattled off a series of places and scenarios I declined. I don’t have what they call “forced dispatch” so I can pretty much decide where I want to go…sort of. Sometimes, when the company has freight they really want to move, they will call me personally and apply some advanced sales techniques to secure a commitment to move the shipment. The Price is Right chimed on my phone and it wasn’t my little automated friend. It was Natasha, live and in person, making a case for a pick-up in Tennessee and delivery near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I responded with a “I don’t know, Natasha, there’s a major snow storm about to blow on up the coast going that way. Her response was “we will never hold it against you if weather prevents an on time delivery. How much will you do it for?” Well…since you asked, I offered my number
This trip would turn out to be the longest 600 miles I have ever travelled. Winter weather loomed very large on this expedition and what seemed like a good deal, turned into a tribulation.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Upstate and The Rooney
When someone says “New York,” the top of mind thought is New York City, a place so great they had to name it twice. New York, New York. The Big Apple, the home of skyscrapers and everything metropolitan and then some. New York City has been mentioned many times as the unofficial capitol of the world. You can find someone from everywhere in the world here. Many people from other parts of the country don’t even know that there is another quite viable part of the Empire State. We’re not talking about a “Tale of Two Cities” but two completely separate cultures akin to different nations on separate continents. Most everyone in the region calls this bucolic wonderland, simply “Upstate”. I can’t think of two parts of one state that are so different, that it’s hard to believe that they actually reside within the same borders. Upstate New York could actually drop “New York” and just be called “Upstate” and everybody in the region would know what and where you’re talking about. It’s a good thing the capital of New York...ahem…the state...is located in Upstate, or else these hardy uplanders would be short shrifted in government representation.
There are essentially four regions to Upstate, the Catskills, the Adirondacks, The Finger Lakes and Western New York State, including Buffalo and I guess you could throw in Rochester way up there on the shores of Lake Ontario. Every one of these regions is filled with natural beauty and a combination of rolling hills, bona-fide mountains and farm themed country sides that make you want to sing Old MacDonald.
In the 1980’s, a group of us from the aforementioned legendary group of friends made an annual pilgrimage from New Jersey to a blue grass festival on Rooney Mountain, near the hamlet of Deposit. The event’s motto was “This Ain’t No Picnic” and was dubbed The Rooney Fest. The best way to describe where this music fest took place is to say it was somewhere north of Binghamton and south of Syracuse. Eccentricity was the theme of this festival that took place faithfully on the first weekend of August annually. I had a t-shirt from every one. We would caravan up on a Thursday prior to stake out our usual camping spot to be occupied until late Sunday. Every year it was four days of music and mud. Rain never failed to fall in any given year. The Colonial Campers always set up in the big field by setting up an actual living room complete with colonial furniture…lamps, coffee and end tables included. The whole arrangement was placed on a large oval rug and power supplied by a portable gas generator under a rather large blue tarp.
We always camped next to the Santori brothers from Garden State Fireworks. Every year they brought a “Treasure Chest” filled with commercial grade fireworks. This is where I had lessons in being a pyrotechnic. A few of us would trek across the big field with cast iron mortar tubes, shovels…and the Treasure Chest. After the trenches were dug, the mortar tubes were carefully placed in the ground and back filled with dirt to insure a sturdy launch. The fireworks themselves were called “4 inchers”, cylindrical bombs about 12 to 14 inches long and 4 inches in diameter. One would drop the firework in the tube and pull the long wick out. With about 6 loaded tubes, the first was lit and just as you would yell “fore” after a hearty golf swing, the yell here was “fire in the hole!” At that time, the fuse would burn down quickly and you would feel that vibrating concussion as the missile left the tube and headed for the heavens, exploding with colorful delight accompanied by a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs from the audience. I learned at that point why Pyros are kind of crazy. The feeling of the concussion so close at hand is indescribable. It makes you nuts. Once in a while one of the fireworks would mis-fire and go off early, raining down fire and ashes from about twenty feet overhead. One had to be mindful of the possibility of burning clothing and hair. Occupational hazards as they may be.
The long Rooney weekend would end by everyone deliberately wetting down the area in front of the stage with coolers and buckets of cow wash water to make the perfect mud to dance in. I have a picture of a fellow dancing in the mud with a cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe. One dandy guy and girl were dancing with watermelon rind helmets fashioned with duct tape holding the cranial contraption together. Such Kodak moments. Go figure. Those two are probably parents today, trying to explain normal behavior to their children. After the mud dance, it was time to mud it on home.
All good things must come to an end, and so too did the Rooney Fest. Seems one participant wandered off from the party one night and drowned in a nearby cow pond. As is the case in today’s world, the law suits flew and the beloved festival was shot down like a dead duck for future generations. So sad.
Other times in the 80’s, we camped out at our old pal Cindy Chuvala’s 75 acre farm near Rhinebeck, New York in the Catskills. Windham Hill Mountain was quite visible in the distance. We positioned our tents and RVs in a wide open meadow and swam in the crystal clear Catskill Creek on the southern border to her property. A fun event was building a mammoth bond fire and baking fresh ears of Silver Queen corn in the wood coals…husk and all. The nights were filled by sitting around eating corn and telling stories.
The drive on the New York Thruway straight across Upstate is unspoiled for the most part clear clean across from Buffalo to Albany. Ride north to the Adirondacks to Plattsburgh and you’ll find some of the most scenic roads in America. My friend Bob Stoekert owns a campground near Plattsburgh near Lake Champlain, across from Vermont and a stone’s throw from Canada. Bob will be more than happy to tell you all about the benefits of camping in Upstate. I’m looking forward to trying out his corner of the world.
As I left Syracuse to pick up a load headed to Ohio, I was treated to some of the most scenic winding country roads I’ve ever seen in Upstate. The sky was overcast and the landscape was blanketed by a fresh overnight snow fall…not a lot…maybe an inch, just enough to make it all look so seasonal. Wispy gray smoke wafting from chimneys in the chilly morning air could probably be traced back to a cozy hearth. I passed through the village of Woodstock and thought of another mud-fest I was too young to attend many years ago. I could picture myself hiking into the countryside with an axe on shoulder in search of a fresh and perfect Christmas tree.
So, I vote heartily for Upstate. Don’t miss this crown jewel of the Northeast. I’ll will return.
There are essentially four regions to Upstate, the Catskills, the Adirondacks, The Finger Lakes and Western New York State, including Buffalo and I guess you could throw in Rochester way up there on the shores of Lake Ontario. Every one of these regions is filled with natural beauty and a combination of rolling hills, bona-fide mountains and farm themed country sides that make you want to sing Old MacDonald.
In the 1980’s, a group of us from the aforementioned legendary group of friends made an annual pilgrimage from New Jersey to a blue grass festival on Rooney Mountain, near the hamlet of Deposit. The event’s motto was “This Ain’t No Picnic” and was dubbed The Rooney Fest. The best way to describe where this music fest took place is to say it was somewhere north of Binghamton and south of Syracuse. Eccentricity was the theme of this festival that took place faithfully on the first weekend of August annually. I had a t-shirt from every one. We would caravan up on a Thursday prior to stake out our usual camping spot to be occupied until late Sunday. Every year it was four days of music and mud. Rain never failed to fall in any given year. The Colonial Campers always set up in the big field by setting up an actual living room complete with colonial furniture…lamps, coffee and end tables included. The whole arrangement was placed on a large oval rug and power supplied by a portable gas generator under a rather large blue tarp.
We always camped next to the Santori brothers from Garden State Fireworks. Every year they brought a “Treasure Chest” filled with commercial grade fireworks. This is where I had lessons in being a pyrotechnic. A few of us would trek across the big field with cast iron mortar tubes, shovels…and the Treasure Chest. After the trenches were dug, the mortar tubes were carefully placed in the ground and back filled with dirt to insure a sturdy launch. The fireworks themselves were called “4 inchers”, cylindrical bombs about 12 to 14 inches long and 4 inches in diameter. One would drop the firework in the tube and pull the long wick out. With about 6 loaded tubes, the first was lit and just as you would yell “fore” after a hearty golf swing, the yell here was “fire in the hole!” At that time, the fuse would burn down quickly and you would feel that vibrating concussion as the missile left the tube and headed for the heavens, exploding with colorful delight accompanied by a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs from the audience. I learned at that point why Pyros are kind of crazy. The feeling of the concussion so close at hand is indescribable. It makes you nuts. Once in a while one of the fireworks would mis-fire and go off early, raining down fire and ashes from about twenty feet overhead. One had to be mindful of the possibility of burning clothing and hair. Occupational hazards as they may be.
The long Rooney weekend would end by everyone deliberately wetting down the area in front of the stage with coolers and buckets of cow wash water to make the perfect mud to dance in. I have a picture of a fellow dancing in the mud with a cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe. One dandy guy and girl were dancing with watermelon rind helmets fashioned with duct tape holding the cranial contraption together. Such Kodak moments. Go figure. Those two are probably parents today, trying to explain normal behavior to their children. After the mud dance, it was time to mud it on home.
All good things must come to an end, and so too did the Rooney Fest. Seems one participant wandered off from the party one night and drowned in a nearby cow pond. As is the case in today’s world, the law suits flew and the beloved festival was shot down like a dead duck for future generations. So sad.
Other times in the 80’s, we camped out at our old pal Cindy Chuvala’s 75 acre farm near Rhinebeck, New York in the Catskills. Windham Hill Mountain was quite visible in the distance. We positioned our tents and RVs in a wide open meadow and swam in the crystal clear Catskill Creek on the southern border to her property. A fun event was building a mammoth bond fire and baking fresh ears of Silver Queen corn in the wood coals…husk and all. The nights were filled by sitting around eating corn and telling stories.
The drive on the New York Thruway straight across Upstate is unspoiled for the most part clear clean across from Buffalo to Albany. Ride north to the Adirondacks to Plattsburgh and you’ll find some of the most scenic roads in America. My friend Bob Stoekert owns a campground near Plattsburgh near Lake Champlain, across from Vermont and a stone’s throw from Canada. Bob will be more than happy to tell you all about the benefits of camping in Upstate. I’m looking forward to trying out his corner of the world.
As I left Syracuse to pick up a load headed to Ohio, I was treated to some of the most scenic winding country roads I’ve ever seen in Upstate. The sky was overcast and the landscape was blanketed by a fresh overnight snow fall…not a lot…maybe an inch, just enough to make it all look so seasonal. Wispy gray smoke wafting from chimneys in the chilly morning air could probably be traced back to a cozy hearth. I passed through the village of Woodstock and thought of another mud-fest I was too young to attend many years ago. I could picture myself hiking into the countryside with an axe on shoulder in search of a fresh and perfect Christmas tree.
So, I vote heartily for Upstate. Don’t miss this crown jewel of the Northeast. I’ll will return.
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