Turning the Page

Monday, July 30^th, 2012

      What keeps us running? Is it personal achievement? Fear of something? Desire to get somewhere other than where we are? Trying to lose weight? Doctors orders? I have my own answer for this question, but I will certainly note that I've been running pretty solid for the last four days, driving from Springfield, MO, up to Aurora, IL, then over to Tacoma, WA. All this to make it back in time to leave again going the other way.

      When you run so hard to get somewhere, the days go by in blurs. You take the federally required minimum ten hours off, sleeping maybe six or five of them. Hygiene takes a bit of a hit, since it seems like there's no time for anything. There are some incidents that hold prominence in my memory of the last week.

      Leaving Springfield, I was assigned a load out of the Kraft factory. I had no idea how much different stuff Kraft makes, but have a look sometime. I had settled in for a wait, since it was a live load, but I was still in a bit of a hurry. You're always in a hurry when it is time to go home. And I was hungry. My stomach was about to jump out and get its own food. Walking into the shipper, the entrance way is a makeshift break room, with vending machines against the far wall, and a low table built into the near wall. The narrow path between the obstacles was decorated with a smattering of chairs of varying makes. They totally had a microwave. Rummaging in the truck, I found that I had some microwavable Velveeta shells and cheese. Oh yeah. Guess who makes that? I went in and joked with the clerk about my lunch. He came back with a pouch of the cheese sauce, flopped it on top of the microwave and said jokingly that the big pouch was the real stuff. He walked away. A few hours later, the pouch was still there, so I took it and put it in my truck. Sitting on the floor, I found that after a couple hours it was rather hot, as the floor heats up from the exhaust filter not too far under the passenger seat. I will say that in a pinch, Velveeta makes a good hot pack and will stay in your shirt for a good spell, the foil stuck to your skin. Later in the week I tried easting the Velveeta with some salty corn chips, figuring “nachos.” Bad idea. That stuff is way to salty to be used as nacho cheese, at least with chips like Fritos. So I tossed the bulk of the bag, sad for the loss of my heating pack, but not that much.

      Blowing through Iowa and South Dakota, then a touch of Wyoming and into Montana. In the South East part of the state, one will find the monument to Wounded Knee. More specifically a pretty boy turned slaughterer. (curly hair that would make Fabio jealous!) They even named the national forest after that Custer guy. This time was much different. A fire had swept through some time before. Entire trees still standing upright, looking like spent matches. The Earth was blackened in many places, in others it was scorched red, devoid of any trace of organic matter. Some surviving trees showed traces of where the heat had singed all of the needles off, as if the fire still haunted the area, leaving a shadowy trace of its existence. Little burnt out nubs of bunch grasses set amidst a blackened landscape. And the smell. It still smelled like an ashtray. The area reeked of char. For all of that, some annual grasses had sprouted, brilliant yellow green, vibrant with new life among the failed cinders, brought about by the recent rain that had swept through. That whole scene will leave an impression for some time.

      So now I'm back, getting ready for the next adventure. I'll be hanging up my CB for a little while at least, maybe for a long while if I find something else I wish to pursue. Chances are that I'll be back out on the road, running. From what though? I've been so busy running for work that I've not really had time to take stock of my life, to reflect on events, to experience my emotions, from joy to grief. I have a lot I need to work through. I can see why some people stay out on the road all of the time. Your problems can't catch you if you are one step ahead of them. If you're always focused on what you are doing right then, the thoughts get crowded out by the present, for better or for worse. Still, some things do need to be experienced, and this is what is happening for me now., now that I've stopped moving. For now.

A shot at redemption

Tuesday, July 24th, 2012

     A welcome day of rest.  Sure, I had the hours to drive today.  The interest was certainly not there.  I feel that I've kinda let myself go in as much as my routines are concerned.  I have not done my exercise in a couple of days, and I've not meditated as much.  That said, it feels like a welcome break from the daily grind of life.  While on the one hand, I want to create a certain kind of life, the other hand wants me to relax a bit and know that the routine will continue if you really want it to.  Rather than berate myself for not sticking to a rigid plan, I decided to do something completely different and go into St. Louis.  

     In some ways, I was hoping that the city would redeem itself after the spectacle of the drive by monkey spanker.  (In retrospect, it seems funny to me how we on one level know that all dudes have a unit, but that we never think of it, or choose to forget it until we accidentally see it).  Happily, I have a friend in the area who just happened to be available today.

      The first step is getting from the truck stop to any place else.  This involved a cab ride.  Amazingly, the dude was early!  Even better, we had a fantastic conversation.  It started off with me asking about his work, and he happily obliged by telling me that it was alright, but that he was moving on to work in the oil fields in Montana, near the Canadian Border.  He asked if I was a Christian, and I explained my views, which were certainly not his.  When explained, Christianity sounds kinda silly and hokey.  Regardless, we got into how the U.S. would be a much better place if people would simply listen to each other, judge less, and accept more.  His politics were conservative to a tea, claiming that Obama is the greatest threat to our country.  I managed to avoid that conversation and steer it towards corporate influence and the broken political system.  Great stuff!

       Downtown STL was hot today.  The Arch is ginormous, and the Courthouse is being refurbished.  That did not stop me.  Someplace north of the courthouse there is a long string of city blocks converted into parks.  There was even a food truck!  I felt as if it were some kind of rare event out here, especially when compared with Portland.  Having some lunch then looking through the parks, I went to wade in one of the many pools.  Just getting my sandals off (could you imagine wearing work boots today?!) and getting my feet wet, a volunteer (it said so on her name tag) came out of somewhere.  She advised me not wading in that particular pool, as "some homeless people use it as a latrine."  I did not bother to ask if it was number 1 or number two.  Instead, I got out and moderately burnt the soles of my feet on the hot pavement in doing so.

     Further down the way is the real city garden, complete with screaming kids hanging out in a pool.  That was kinda fun, but the real fun was revisiting an old friend who I've not seen in the better part of a decade.  Our first stop was the Botanical Garden, decked out for the Chinese Lantern Festival.  Certainly a hot day for walking out in the sun, never mind all of the people working out in it.  In the gardens, there are a number of traditional decorative structures, most made of silk covering a metal frame.  The two displays that were not of silk caught my attention.  There were two Chinese style dragons, made from plates, presumably on a metal endoskeleton.  Tied in a traditional manner, these two creatures were about 50 feet long apiece.  The other non-silk creation was a mythical creature made of all sorts of other animal parts, the name escaping me at the moment.  This sculpture was constructed of little glass vials filled with colored water and tied in a traditional manner.  Absolutely amazing!

      So since we we here, there was the obligatory Anheuser-Busch Factory tour complete with free beer at the end.  They had the Clydesdales in their stable area, one getting his pubes trimmed.  Seriously.  I won't go on about the horse behind him hanging his dong out to dry; that clause alone says it all.  The sheer scope of the brewing is amazing, with Budweiser consuming 9% of the U.S. rice crop every year.  The smells are sweet and grainy, and the temperature variances about 70 degrees from the coldest to hottest.  On what looks to be 10 acres of floor, 3 people bottle all the beer that comes out of the plant.  Three on a shift.  There were 4 times that number of hosting staff in the hospitality room (where they give you the free beers).

      Overall, I've decided that this town may somehow have redeemed itself, but through no fault of its own.  Seeing an old friend and having a good time is priceless.  Seeing the horse dong is something I could have done without, as dongs seem to be some kind of theme for me here.  Honestly, St. Louis needs to keep it in its pants.

   

Human rights

Sunday, July, 22nd, 2012

 

     The soil here is dry and solid.  New grass struggles to grow in the arid heat, withering and scorching plants for miles.  Corn, tall as a man, stands idly by, watching, waiting for rain, leaves curled up to prevent further loss of moisture, the lower leaves long since turned brown and brittle.  The ditch-weed  is growing bright and green, seemingly impervious to nature's whim.  Around a pond, the cat-tails remain green, but there is an edge of brown creeping inward as the dessication of the landscape continues.  It's been hot for days.  Humid but no rain, and it shows.  Illinois is dry.

       Mississippi, however, is not.  The locals there assured me that it has been raining almost every day for months.  the ground is soggy and saturated, emerald lawns shine in contrast to the parched plain to the north.  It was in Mississippi that I had a singular awakening.

     I pulled into a Love's travel center.  Technically for fuel, but a bathroom break is always welcome.  I have a good time at the pump, chatting with another Swift driver who was next to me at the shipper.  Good guy from California.  I put exactly 80 gallons in, proud of the achievement (pumps register out 3 decimal places, so this is no easy feat) and head inside to relive my bladder and improve my blood sugar.  Directly outside the door to the fuel desk, there is a pair of ladies, a table and piles of stuff on said table.  Wearing their neon yellow shirts, the ladies are hard to miss.  Even more so, since they are actively greeting all who stroll into the store.  Well, one of them was doing the greeting, the other seemed to have a supervisory capacity, in that she was sitting down, silent and watching.  Not really pushing the goods.  

     So I walk up to them, the talky one in particular, and inquire as to their doings.  I am then informed that they are selling goods to raise money for their ministry.  Right on!  I love social groups that try to do good in the world.  Normally, I'm quite a sucker for charities, especially people trying to sell handmade lacquered wood clocks in 90 degree Mississippi heat, that is as humid as only Mississippi can be.  I was thinking of just handing them a fiver and walking inside.

      Then it dawned on me as to where I was.  For some reason, perhaps inspired by my recent thoughts, I asked what their stance was on homosexuality.  At first, she kind of looked at me, blank stare.  Her reply was "I'm a Christian."  Of course she was.  It was a Christian ministry.  My response was to simply raise an eyebrow, quizzically.  She went on to say that she believed in everything the Bible said, and took it literally.  Huh.  This is not the concept of Christian I had in my head.  For me, the concept of love everyone as yourself does not exclude any group, for any reason, race, creed or lifestyle.  I thought to myself, "so then you surely do not eat shellfish, since that is an abomination unto god's sight, as per Leviticus."  I did not press the point.  I instead asked if she had any gay friends.  She informed me she had recently moved to the area and was not going to go out and search for those kind of people now that she was part of this church.  Ah.  I understand.  It is a simple case of wanting to feel a sense of belonging to a group.  A feeling for a need of support, having the people you surround yourself with influence you.  I felt a deep compassion for her.  She went on to note that she did have a gay friend in Knoxville, whence she came, but she doesn't speak with him any more.  In fact, she now prays for him to change his mind.  While on the one hand I am outraged by this, on the other hand I am deeply compassionate for her.  I've been in a similar boat.  Not with this issue, but more along the lines of road rage.

     I've come to realize that the common denominator in all of the things we dislike is our own person.  What makes something wicked or blessed is our own point of view.  For her, she was taking on the issues of her church to belong to a group, something anyone who's ever been alone as much as I have can relate to (trucking).  Instead of trying to convert her, I simply smiled and walked into the truck stop.  You see, now that I realize that every single action we take becomes society, I'm shaping myself up.  I would give to anybody who asked for money, out of sheer kindness.  Not any more.  I will no longer support bigoted causes knowingly, and in cases I do not know, I will ask and test, and probe to find out where my energy is going to and what kind of society I am helping to create.  In my society, everyone has equal rights, or nobody has any rights.  It is my opinion that when you say it is alright to exclude any one group from having rights, dignity, or humanity that any other group may be next on that list.  To defend everyone's rights, we need to stand for the minorities.  It has been said that gay rights are human rights.  I certainly think so.

      After getting my sandwich and reliving myself, I walked back to my truck.  The very same lady asked me if I wanted to make a donation.  I was pretty sure that I didn't put on one of those Scooby Doo masks.  I politely told her that I had already spoken with her and I was away. 

    

Support your local black Market

Friday, July, 20^th, 2010

(This is not the intro). So I see that I've missed a day. I figure I'll let myself slide a bit. I was rather tired yesterday and couldn't be bothered with writing twice. That said, yesterday was not an uninteresting day, nor was today.

      Waking up at 10:00 a.m. I found a note stuck to my window. Since I was at a terminal, there was little likelihood of it being a wish for me to convert to a particular religion, a note requesting my presence at a religious service, or a solicitation for a donation. It was, in fact, a work request. I brought in to the service desk and asked them what the letters “RF MM” mean. I gathered that it referred to the right front trailer tandems, as it said trailer on the work order and was told that the “MM” means “mismatched.” In tire jargon, I was running to low pro 22.5 tires (low profile tires are 275-295/75R22.5. Same tires in my eyes. One was a 295 and the other was a 275. Some technical stuff or something. So I had that fixed. The rest of the day was uneventful until Knoxville.

      Coming into Knoxville, I felt like listening to some radio, particularly after I heard “The Hill Billy Hour” advertised as I was channel surfing. Ah, local culture. Happy to have missed the rush hour, I got to enjoy the music. To my surprise, the entire first hour was dedicated to truck driving songs. Hits like “Life through a Windshield,” and “Phantom 309.” Of course I'd never heard any of these songs before. They were written way before my time and could be conside3red old timey country western. There was a theme to the songs, one being about how truckers are always on the move, and this one had 9 wives in 9 states. Technically, the song was inaccurate, since the guy was driving from Carolina to California, and unless he was driving from South Carolina, there are only 8 states along that route. More satisfying however, was the story of Phantom 309. Not unlike “Large Marge” from Pee Wee's big adventure, the story is about some dude getting picked up by a trucker's ghost. It turns out that the truck driver died swerving to avoid killing a bus load of children, which brings up the second common theme, “one life or ten?” Simply stated it implies that a real trucker would sacrifice himself instead of killing others. Obviously not big Ayn Rand fans.

      Moving on to Friday, I woke a bit groggy, and for some reason decided that having a CB would be a good idea. I'll admit, it may not be the wisest decision I've ever made, but in case the zombie apocalypse comes, having a radio will be wicked useful. I may even try to set it up in the car I buy. How much fun is that? I walk into the CB shop at the truck stop and ask if they have a refurbished CB they want to sell for a reasonable price. Of course they do. Repairing CB radios is what they do all day. They showed me a few, and I opted for the least expensive one, saying I don't need it for very long. I'm sure I could sell it for a reasonable amount if needs be. The dude asks, “you don't need a ticket for that right?” Apparently, 'ticket' in Southern translates as “receipt” in English. So I decide, why the heck not? I'll support the black market. Even if only a little bit. I bought the power cord to go along with it and set it up in the truck. Long story short, I ended up buy a whole set up, from an external speaker (thrown in for free), to the co-axial cable (the one in the truck was a p.o.s. (not point of sale), and of course the CB itself, mike included. Some small amount of cash later, no receipts exchanged I was on my way, happy with the service and would come back again. Honestly, having a “ticket” would have helped me to a degree, as a tax write off, but I've not kept any for this year to date, and if I choose to itemize, I will take the standard $55 a day deduction for truckers. ($55 for every day not spent at home, which for me would be like every day except 2, since I 'live' in Sedro Woolley, but never go back.) Only one more black market to attend.

      So now I'm parked in Hattiesburg, MS. AS much as I love the idea of driving in the South, I do not care for the South itself. The scenery can be majestic and beautiful, it is nice in the winter, and food is cheap, but the energy here just does not suit me overall. I will, however, go outside and play some banjo in Dixie, because it is something I want to do. Nashville is not Dixie. Memphis, maybe at a strecth, but not Nashville. So I'm here at the Kangaroo truck stop off I-59, exit 67A. Walking from the bathroom to my truck, I see a woman walking across the row of trucks. Probably a female driver. I've seen quite a lot of them these days. I climb in my truck and sit for a spell, waiting for the timer to count down so I can idle. Suddenly the lady is at my window. I ask what she needs, as if money was not the obvious answer. “Money! I gotta get a roof over my head before it rains again. Can you help me out? I can help you out *wink wink*.” I totally feel the innuendo hit the bottom of my gut, slightly repulsed. I pull some money out, offering to help (WWJD? .. he totally helped prostitutes. didn't he end up dating one too?) I pull out a few bills and hand her a fiver. She asks, “Wanna give me that other five?” and snatches at it. I smile and politely refuse, and she's on her way. But before she goes, she grab at the crotch of my jeans and smiles knowingly at me, off to the truck next to mine.

      So yeah. The black market is not an entirely bad thing, although it may impoverish society at large by tax dodging, but that is another matter altogether. There are some lines that need never be crossed, and anything involving potential for disease is one of them *ick*

Being the change

Wednesday, July 18^th, 2012

      The built in thermometer reads 107. This is in part due to the asphalt. It is also attributable to the idling of my truck and the trucks next to me. I had no idea it was so hot outside, like walking into a shimmering wall of heat. Inside it is cool and shady. I may have become addicted to the air conditioning. Winter may be the only cure. Then something hits my truck. A small something. Then again. Then frequently. Followed by a large boom. I see that is has started raining and there's lightning outside as well. Walking to the fuel island, I let the intermittent drops assault my personal dryness. I watch as spattered droplets vanish from the blistering pavement, taking a bit of the heat away in the process. It has been hot for days. Hovering around triple digits, with scant relief at night. I'm told that there is a drought all over the country, here too. Getting some coffee and water for the day's ride, I walk into the frigidness of the fuel island C-store, chills covering my skin in little pellets.

      Walking back to my truck I see that the rain has passed, the front having blown through like a cop after a donut thief. The beauty is marvelous, the temperature reduced to a more comfortable 74. The spent rain, now sits atop the blacktop, yearning to replenish the soil, but foiled by impervious surfaces. There are rainbows, but not in the sky. Oozing along the ground haphazardly, streaming eventually toward a storm drain somewhere, to be forgotten by most. Still, the reflective iridescence looks merry after the sudden fury of the storm. It is as if the former trees are sending a wish for joy into the future. Transmuted by time and pressure, then again by man and his machinations, these former herbaceous beings once more express their joy in the rain.

      I've been inspired today. The very notion that each and everyone of our actions shapes society is so wonderful and at once terrible to comprehend. The move towards consciously creating that is at once a small and enormous task. It takes self awareness and inspiration. With that in mind, I've had an interesting day, and everything seems to have been going my way. A large percentage of lights have been green, which is always a good sign. I've run into some interesting characters along the way, through no effort of my own.

      For the first time since I can remember, I've got another driver on the same run as me. Funny how we were both at the shipper at the same time. Not really. It is merely an example of synchronicity. I prefer to run alone in a lot of ways, but I'm sure that there is a lesson in here for me someplace. The guy is upbeat and a bit coarse, which is interesting.

      While getting fuel at a Pilot, I pulled into the island next to an older gentleman, with whom I had a lovely chat. We spoke of how wonderful it is to be a good person, and the idea of paying goodness forward to whomever. He was only working to help pay for his daughters' houses. Two of them. His reasoning? Seems that his parents did the same for him. That is such a beautiful concept, especially when done out of love instead of obligation. He was telling me that he considered a job at Swift, if only to get to Phoenix to visit his daughter. I didn't have the heart to say that if you park at the terminal there for more than a day, the shareholders want you to clean out your truck and put somebody else in it. We spoke of cooking, and how wonderful it is, and how much I miss it.

      What a day! For now I''m going to sleep at the Martinsburg, WV terminal. The only place with parking this time of night along I-81. It is amazing how busy this corridor is these days. Truck stops jam packed, exit ramps loaded up, rest areas overflowing, even the Adult Shop has a full lot. Thank whatever divinity you enjoy for this place.

Chicago Night

Tuesday, July, 17th, 2012

 

      Ah Chicagoland.  It is certainly much nicer at night.  The contrast of light and darkness makes for a splendid scene.  Driving right through town, one gets to see avenues doubly lit with street  lights, standing in regimented precise rows, like an honor guard of some sort.  The Sears Tower (I understand it has been renamed, but it will always be Sears to me) stands both bright and dark against the hazy orange backdrop of the city sky.  Speaking of sky, there is a road called the Skyway.  This is I-90 for the laymen.  It is, of course, a toll road, equipped with toll booths of the older variety.  No, they are not of the Phantom Toll Booth variety, but they are lit with classy neon signs.  No art deco sadly.  One thing that struck me as odd was the McDonald's right on the toll way, next to the booths.  I imagine that a Big Mac attack would have to be of dire proportions to merit building a fast food place right there.

      Before the sky way, there is s stretch where I-94 and  I-90 run the same route.  This road is called the "Kennedy (expressway)".  I imagine that they can tell an out of towner by whether or not they know the names of the expressways.  The Dan Ryan commences after I-94 splits off of I-90, and I have no idea who that is.  Probably an old Bears player or something.  Along the Kennedy, there is a long stretch that is posted at 45 mph.  I imagine this would be more relevant in the day time.  Personally, I was going 55.  I was by far the slowest vehicle on the road.  A couple guys blew past me as if I were standing still.  Blew my doors right off.

       I decided to drive straight through Indiana, and past Toledo, Ohio.  Looking down, it occurred to me that I had driven just over 300 miles without stopping.  Even better, I managed to get to Breezewood, which is certainly farther than I had anticipated.  By 50 miles.  I even had time left to spare.  For now, I'll stay here for the night, and the bulk of the day tomorrow.  My delivery is about 2 to 3 hours away, and I suppose I could get closer in the morning, but we'll see about that.  I'm not feeling the rush to get there honestly. 

Connections, Cheese and Socialism

Monday, July 16th, 2012

 

       In some ways, it seems a bit odd to be posting today's blog so early.  It is not even noon yet, but I've already worked my day.  Right now, I'm about 45 minutes outside of Chicago.  I plan on driving through after 10 p.m.  That's the only sensible option really.  

      Leaving at sundown, the world takes on a different feeling.  Before I left Fargo, however, I happened to be walking out of the Petro, and was walking out the door shortly behind a gentlemen presumably from the South.  I only presume that because he was wearing overalls and a faded red ball cap that read "Ole Miss" in dingy black letters.  He could have been from Boston for all I know, but we all come laden with presuppositions and judgements.  Seeing as there were two doors, I got the first one, and he got the second one.  He waited for me a bit, and I could see that he was a bit hesitant to get back out into the truck.  

      Seeing this, I told him that I was not in any rush either, saying that it was nice to be out of the truck.  He agreed heartily, as only a large framed, stocky guy can and we shared a chuckle.  Some small talk was exchanged and he then told me that he was getting ready to leave.  Another overnight run.  I told him that it was the same for me.  For a brief moment, there was a deep laugh, borne out from a deep sense of connection and empathy.  At least for me there was.  It was nice to know that there was somebody else in the same shoes as I was.  I'd been waiting for that all day without knowing it.

       A little while later, I was off and running, putting miles behind me.  At one point, I stopped in a Kwik Trip in Wisconsin, looking for some cheese curds.  Why else would you stop there?  Going inside, I found the curds in a one pound bag.  I thought about it for a while.  For $6, you too can have a pound of cheese chunks.  I was sorely tempted until I read the nutritional information.  A single package had 16 servings.  Seriously.  Calories per serving? 120.  That one pound of cheese could feed a person for an entire day.  Knowing that I'd want to eat something else, I instead opted for 2 cheese sticks (80 calories each).  I have now come to the conclusion that Wisconsinites like all dairy products (barring perhaps milk) amazingly salty.  Having eaten the cheese, happily I might add, I felt a strange need for lots of water.  

        I will say that the best part of driving through Wisconsin in the dark is that it is dark when you do that.  This is wonderful for me because I am unable to read all of the political signs in the dark.  Having just come off a recent recall election of nasty proportions and some serious ickiness, I was glad to miss all the signs.  I was, however, privy to one sign towards the beginning of the morning, after my 5 a.m. nap  It was simple and read "Socialism- spreading poverty equally."  This got a reaction out of me, and beggared the question of whether or not this guy actually knew what socialism is.  In the end, I decided that it was best left alone.  I'm not going to change his mind, and I needn't let him effect me.  A good lesson overall.

     

     

Sittin'

Sunday, July 15th, 2012

 

        This whole night driving things has me a bit out of sorts.  For example, today is part of my 34 hour reset.  Normally what would happen is that I stop one evening, take the entire next day off , then roll out the morning following that full day off.  Not so this time.  I've taken the whole night off last night, and I will be going back to sleep shortly.  I slept for a few hours earlier, just out of sheer exhaustion, trying to stay awake and keep the momentum for night driving going.  It somehow feels wrong to need to go back to sleep in a couple of hours, as I've only just woken up.

     I want to promise myself that I'll get on a normal schedule again, and have a job where I live someplace, but can travel, either on weekends or not.  Ha.  It has been said that always wanting to quit is part of being a driver.  I still refuse to paint myself as a driver though.  It seems so limiting.  It is, far and away, the most portable skill I have, capable of generating a modest but sufficient income.  I do not think I'll ever drop my CDL, but at the same time, I may end up looking for other options again.  Maybe it's just the tired talking.  Have you ever tried to live on a permanent sleep deficit?  I swear this is why most truckers are so low energy.  

      Since not much of note has happened today, I'm keeping this brief.  I stayed up late, slept some, ate some breakfast.  That's about it.  Just trying to wrap my head around leaving tonight still.

Storms, astronomy, and Fargo

Satruday, July 14th, 2012

 

     The past two nights, I've awoken and started driving in the dark.  This has been fantastic, since each night brought distant thunderstorms to the southern horizon.  I watched with glee as the lightning arced from cloud to cloud, in a series of fragmented bolts.  On occasion, the bolts would strike the ground, perhaps igniting a fire some place beyond my concern.  Both episodes were dry for the most part, with a few bands of rain.  Every so seldom, a bolt would blast down in the field of my direct vision, temporarily blinding me in the darkness.  Even after the bolt evaporated, there were negative images in a greenish black, burned into my vision.  Happily I eat a lot of carrots, so that passed quickly.  I like to think to myself that this is some kind of omen or something.  Maybe it isn't, but maybe it is.  I do not recall having any specific question in mind at either time.  The best I can do is take it as a sign that I chose the right route instead of driving through driving rains.

     Having passed the storms, The rest of the night brought me into North Dakota.  It is a lovely place, which I now understand had no trees at all until settlers came across.  I figured that there would always be trees where there was enough water, but I was wrong.  Trying to picture the plains without sparse shelter-belters seems like an alien concept to me, but "normals" change all of the time.  

      The highlights of the day thus far has been the large number of small wetlands along the roadside.  Humans call them "Prairie Pot-holes," while all other creatures just live there.  Cattails line the banks of these small bodies of water, still and reflective in the early morning light.  On one of the larger ones, what some would call a large pond back East, a Canada goose was leading her troop of quite large and maturely feathered gosling across the otherwise calm surface.  In all there were six not so little ones in tow.  I saw no sign of a partner goose bringing up the rear, which seems quite odd to me.  I hope all is well with them.

      Contrary to popular belief, the Great Plains are not entirely flat.  Sure there are some places that are, but up here, as well as in South Dakota and Nebraska, I've traveled some slightly rugged terrain.  I even had to down-shift a couple of times to maintain my RPM's.  Nothing you'd want to bike up, but nothing so high as to afford you a hang gliding location.  There was, however a scenic overlook just outside of Dickinson, ND, that sat atop the plateau, over looking a series of valleys cut out by the river below.  

     Sunrise was once again amazing, still with the same dark grey clouds, but layered, evoking the effect to the sun rising out of an envelope.  A few hours previously, I saw the waning crescent moon rise, a deep red and larger than any crescent I've ever seen before.  I kind of did a double take, unsure as to what I was seeing at first.  I was also privileged enough to watch Jupiter and Venus rise this morning.  Venus was much less luminous lower in the atmosphere than we more often see it bright and higher in the sky.  It almost looked like Mars from that angle.  

       Not many people out here to comment on, but I did notice that in the restaurant that you can kinda tell which women are native to this part of the country.  It seems that the predominant hair style is straight and long.  Sensible, yet traditional.  Eyeglasses were quite common amongst the women, all shaped in a  sensible and intelligent rounded rectangle form.  It was as if there was a colony of stereo-typed librarians here at one point that ended up spreading across the northern plains.  The people highlight is that I saw a brown person at the truck wash!  Like some rare trading card or token ethnic dude on a television show.  

      For entertainment, I think I'll walk over to the Home Depot across the way and ask if they have wood chippers for sale.  Particularly, ones strong enough to chip, say, a dismembered human body.  I wonder if they get that a lot here in Fargo?

Just Observe

Friday, July 13th, 2012

 

      Another busy day today, and another hard run tomorrow.  I am totally looking forward to taking the day off in Fargo.  Upon awakening, I was pleasantly surprised at how good I felt after a scant 6 hours of sleep.  On the down side, I did not recall any dreams.  On the up side, I made it here alive.

     Of late, I am working on becoming more present in the moments.  The gist of the whole thing is to still the mind and just observe.  Nights are great for that because there are so few distractions.  That said, it is no small feat.  Monitoring every thought is like trying to grab hold of a fish, coated in Vaseline, swimming in an aquarium, in the dark.  I may have gotten to the point where I've turned the lights on, but there are so many metaphorical fish lurking about that I just end up staring at one of them for a while.  Such is the mind.

   The benefit here is the few glimpses you do get of stillness, and how enchanting it is.  Just before dawn, I was driving through Montana.  It had been getting light for quite some time, but then it happened. Looking off to my left, there was a break in the clouds, Thick and grey, the lower clouds were stacked like mountains, while the clouds higher in the atmosphere floated in thin wispy contrails and brushstrokes.  Set between a pair of modestly forested hills, the sun shone through, golden red for the briefest of moments.

     In that splendid moment, thinking ceased, and all was right in the world.  No pressures, no concerns, no worries for anything but the here and now.  I was sad to have the scene disappear as I rounded the curve.  I tried to find that moment once again, but it was quite gone.  This seems to often be the case in life; we'll find something that leaves us breathless for a moment, then strive to cling to that moment, as if we could grasp a curl of smoke.

      Shortly thereafter I took a short nap.  This seems to be a great routine for driving the overnight.  Rest about 1/2 an hour around dawn then you're good to go again.  In some way, I think part of me was trying to cling to that sunrise moment.  I found myself more irritable and impatient as I drove down the road.  At one point, I felt my heart just ablaze with fire and anger at some guy passing me too slow for my taste.  As he drove by, I saw him driving completely distracted.  That got me going for a few moments.  Then  I watched the body's response to the thought.  Funny how the emotion subsided so quickly just by observing.  This is not to say that my fuse was any longer, just less explosive.

     For now, I am going to get some rest, meditate and maybe skip the banjo again today.  I'll have plenty of time in Fargo!

Eastbound and Down

Thursday, July 12th, 2012

 

      Hooray!  I'm leaving the I-5 corridor for greener pastures!  I somehow managed to score and awesome load from just east of Seattle to just east of Harrisburg, PA.  Sure, I'm hauling a heavy load of fizzy sugar water, but why let morals get in the way of making a good buck?

     Another early day today, and an early departure tonight.  Seems a bit nicer to roll out at 11 pm instead of watching the sun set then watching it rise again.  It has certainly been a long day, much of it filled with anxiety about this long load.  At one point, I recall looking down to discover that it was only 10:00, and feeling surprised.  Between the anxiety and trying to observe my thoughts and emotions, time has simply slipped away today.

      During one particular moment, I happened to look out my window and at this massive granite escarpment, just before Snoqualmie Pass.  In that tiny glance, the detail was so pronounced that i could see the crags, each racing to carve deeper into the face of this monolithic beast.  Douglas Firs sprouted all along the gentle slopes of the mountain side, seemingly unaware or indifferent to their precarious perch.  

      There is quite a lot of beauty in the natural world, and I will certainly elaborate more when I have the liberty of free time.  For now, I'm on a fairly tight schedule with a 34 hour break coming up in Fargo, ND.  I guess it doesn't have to be Fargo per se, but that is the plan at the moment.  To the best of my knowledge the Petro there is close to shopping but not nature.  I could stay in Billings along the way, but I've got time to run still.  May as well use it until it becomes inconvenient to do so.

    That said, I've got to get up and working in 7 hours from now, and the night shift is a bit tricky on a lack of sleep. 

Songs, Time and stars.

Wednesday, July 11^th, 2012

      I think it is still today. My system is still adjusting to the change between diurnal and nocturnal cycles. I'm sleeping in fits and starts, usually no more than 3 hours at a stretch. Totally worth it in the summer time. Granted, it is hot in the day time and I end up idling my truck to keep cool, but the stillness of the nights is all the payback I could ask for.

      A few hours out of the Bay Area, heading north, the Pilot at Dunnigan is the first good stop to stop at. There's coffee 24 hours a day, unlike the Oakland truck stop which stops brewing at 9 p.m. Granted they close at 2300, but dude... the wheels of commerce turn 24/7/365. These wheels are fueled by diesel and coffee. Apparently in 50% of the cases by nicotine as well. Dunnigan at midnight is a more or less peaceful place. You can just pull right through the fuel island with no wait, a rarity at this location for sure. No lines inside, again rare. The temperature is bearable, once again, not all too common this time of year. So I grabbed a cup of Joe (which is by no means anything homoerotic) and got on my merry way.

      Hopping in the truck, the radio turns on, playing the Allman Brothers Band, “Midnight Rider.” Even more ominous was that it was, in fact, midnight. Well played DJ, well played. The really uncanny part is that right before I turned the ignition switch, I was saying to myself that I gotta run hard to keep the feeling from catching up to me. If you've never heard that song before, there's a line that goes “not gonna let 'em catch me no, not gonna let them catch the midnight rider.” Somehow appropriate.

      Further along the road, I learned that the Swift Terminal in Willows, CA actually closes at night. No shower for me. Climbing right back in I decide that the next stop will be Weed, CA. Along the way, one drives past Lake Shasta and a few cities and towns that bore me frankly. Most note-worthy is the smell. Western mountains in the summer have a particular smell. To me it recall Trout Lake and times I've spent there. While the central valley has an earthy, sandy agricultural smell (mixed with occasional cow flops) the hills smell of fresh air. More than that, there is the elusive scent of pine and chocolate. It is a dry musty smell that is pleasant and refreshing. It smells like wilderness to me. I am so glad for that.

      Arriving in Weed at 0400, the truck stop is mostly full, but very quiet. I get a sandwich and get back in for the ride. Leaving town, the first inklings of sunrise show themselves, sky just starting to grow lighter. The time? 4:20. Seems like my timing is right on today.

      Crossing into Oregon, the is a ginormous mountain along the border. It is a beast to climb with a truck full of Gatorade, but nothing impossible. The sun still has not quite come up yet, and the world is bathed in that pre-dawn grey-blue light. Venus and Jupiter twinkle merrily in the morning sky, indicating the Elliptic of our solar system, and I am dwarfed by the scale of things. Atop the hill is a brake check area. Perfect place for a quick nap. A quick hour and a half.

      Having missed the sun rise, I was happy to enjoy the hillsides bedecked with madrone trees resplendent in the warm morning glow. Velvety red bark making an astounding contrast to the dark waxy green leaves. With such simple enjoyment, I was surprised to find my trip over for the day. Back in Oakland / Rice Hill. Now to get some sleep for the next midnight ride.

In the 'hood

Tuesday, July 10^th, 2012

Oakland. The city across the bay. Home to the Silver and Black of the Raiders. I don't think I know of another Oakland, so this has to be the place. Some days, I feel that I know what cities are like. Today was not one of those days.

I've been to this shipper before, the Gatorade bottling plant, masquerading as Quaker Oats on my bills. It is a squat facility, but long and narrow. The workers here are union it seems, which is awesome for them. I'm not sure if this is related to the previous statement, but the lady who helped me this morning was rather curt and impolite. I was to pick up a load at 0600. She said come back at 0700. Let me rephrase that. I heard come back at 0700. So I did. I even found the truck stop here in Oakland. More on that later.

The business end of the bottling plant faces south on 57^th, just off International Avenue. Predictably, International avenue has a host of restaurants from various places, mostly Mexican food. There are little grocery stores, a few churches, but the shiniest building was a crematorium, advertising its services in bright green neon. The building here are low brick affairs, with what appear to be square metal patches along the roof lines, each patch having a rod capped with a nut on the ends. Earthquake measures presumably. Driving down 57^th, one gets the impression that you are really driving through a narrow aisle of a drop-yard; trailers in various stages of empty and loaded flank you on either side, like boxy honor guards. There is a dubious turn around for tractor trailers at the end of the road, which dead ends incidentally, but one can make the turn if you watch the mirrors closely enough.

So I'm backed in at 0715. A tricky maneuver, but nothing that cannot be done without patience and stopping to make sure you're not backing into anything. A lot. Then I wait. In the mean while, my 14 hours clock is ticking away. I've got to be parked and done by 1116. The long and short of it is that I used every single minute I had left of my time either waiting or coasting into a parking place at the truck stop. I finished with 00:00 left on the clock.

Now, about that “truck stop.” I do not think it would be fair to call this place a truck stop. Normally, with the mention of “truck stop” acres of blacktop come to mind, trucks parked in rows either idling or sitting silent. This is nothing of the sort. There are two fuel lanes, a scale and not much else. The C-store is minimal and sparse. The guy working the counter was quite pleasant, and there is laundry and showers. Parking? Not so much. If you drive along the facing avenue, you will see about a score of trucks parked along the roadside. A four lane road, flanked by buildings, the BART line and another rail line. Everything here is topped with barbed and razor wire. The auto parts pick-n-pull place looks like a military installation, minus the towers. The trees along the avenue all have aquare, trailer sized dents in their foliage.

The people here seem cautious. Unless they are asking you for money. To be fair, this only happened twice, but I probably slept through most of the day. Well, I did, but I gave one lady an apple and and orange, but she still insisted that she wanted some money for food. So I gave her a dollar in quarters. The next lady came by asking for change, and I told her that I gave it to the first lady that came by. She then inquired if I would like some company. For those that do not know, she was offering ... well, you'll just have to either not know or ask someone else.

I won't miss Oakland, but if I'm ever here again for any stretch of time I'm hopping across the Bay. At least they have seafood over there.

The Cemtral Valley and New Eyes

Monday, July 9th, 2012

 

      Today started with a bulge.  Before your minds go wandering off along all sorts of strange places, it was a bulge on the tire.  A potentially dangerous situation, lest the tire explode sideways and take out a car or pedestrian or some other object known for frailty in the face of shrapnel.  I was about 90 miles away from the nearest terminal.  I thought to myself, "Yeah, I got this.  They'll let me know what's what and fix what needs fixin'."  That was early this morning, now it is working up to noon here in Ripon, CA.  

     Trundling out of the Pilot in Dunnigan, I looked poised to hit that Monday Morning rush hour traffic into Sacramento.  I've hit traffic there before, but it was on the Friday after work rush out of town.  But I was getting ahead of myself.  You see, Dunnigan is at least an hour north of Sacramento, and there is lots to see and do beforehand.  Acres and acres of farms.  Rice fields to one side, some now flooded with water, vibrant green in the early morning light; some fields brown and dry, the barren stalks mowed and neatly packaged into massive rectilinear bales.  On the other side, I frankly didn't pay too much attention. The west side of the highway was closer and more important in that I was driving on that side.  It is much easier to stare a bit to the left than to the right and pay attention to traffic.

     For some reason, I was astonished to find other "flatland" crops being grown in the Central Valley.  Sunflowers, a scene I would usually reserve for Kansas, bowed their heavy, laden heads in the general vicinity of the sun.  Stalks of presumably GMO corn for processing into High Fructose Corn Syrup grew taller than me in the amazing extremes here.  I could not help but consider how high the price of corn must be for them to farm it here in this unique region.  Almonds grow here by the acres.  Pistachios, citrus fruits, avocados, an assortment of heat loving trees.  Corn threw me for a loop.

     I was pleased to see a large egret flying north along the road.  Such an amazing bird certainly deserves respect and my appreciation.  I can only imagine what this place may have once looked like before man.  I am sure it was a vast wilderness filled with swamps, trees and dry prairie.  So much going on here to be sure.  There are a number of bird sanctuaries along I-5, would that I had time to stop and enjoy them.

     For now, I am off to bed, the strange oddities of trucking demand that my schedule become an overnight run.  For now at least.  This will always change.  Before I depart however, I was thinking how writing this helps me appreciate and notice what is already around me.  Instead of seeing things and quickly forgetting them, I take note more carefully and closely at the natural beauty of the world.  Sometimes it may be about the people that inhabit this world.  Or it may even be about philosophy.  I reflected on how I am a part of this nature that I see around me, yet cut off from it by this steel and glass box.  Perhaps a metaphor for the human ego, but there we go again.  I better get some rest before tackling that one.

The week in review

Thursday, April 12^th, 2012

      As with anything in life, adhering to a rote pattern for its own sake does nobody any good, especially me. After nearly a month away now, I feel compelled to write. However, I do not feel compelled to write daily, as was my mandate before. To be honest, it seems kinda hard to top my experience in Saint Louis. I am still trying to burn that image out of my mind. In the meanwhile, I've returned back to Sumner, then out again, but this time, exploring the back roads of the heartland, which I'm sure is called that not because of geography, but because people here have hearts. I think.

I've seen all sorts of things this past week. Driving from Superior, CO to Golden is a wonderful drive, especially if you are not pulling any weight. This drive takes you abreast the Rockies themselves for a short span. The further south you travel from Boulder / Superior the more it becomes foothills, with less splendid views of mountains. For those interested, Superior is where Boulder has located all of the big box stores like Costco, where you can buy 100% recycled (80% post consumer) paper towels in bulk, because really, there is no irony there. Speaking of which, I wonder if this town has a complex by being so close to an awesome place to live?

      “B-Double E, Double R, U, N, beer-run!” Traveling from Boulder to the middle of freakin' nowhere Montana was more amazing than I thought. The trip through Wyoming along WY-59 certainly made pulling 45,000 pounds worth it. This road is fairly lonely, but not as lonely as one may think. Along the way, There are all sorts of industries. A number of tanker trucks passed me going the other direction. Most bore hazardous materials placards, number “1267,” and a couple with the number

“1203,” both flammable liquids; crude oil and gasoline respectively. I was wondering where this all came from, then an answer presented it self in the form of myriad pumps. Even better, I passed a site calling itself “Peabody Energy Mine.” Wait... I've heard of Peabody before.. oh yeah! The coal guys who wanted to mine coal under the Navajo reservation and use fresh aquifer water to sluice it over to Vegas! Then I passed another 2 “energy mines” along with miles of train cars, either filled or waiting to be filled. That and empty wind swept miles of ranch land, which cna be very breathtaking to behold, especially now as we head into spring.

      Up to Montana and back into Wyoming for the next load. Unbeknownst to the entire world, except for a select few, the North East corner of Wyoming holds a massive deposit of bentonite. I'm sure you are all waiting with bated breath, “what the hell is it?” It is often called bentonite clay, but it is in reality a volcanic ash. Light gray in color, it cakes very much like clay and is slippery as all get-out when wet. Or so I am told. The principle use is to make cat litter, the clumping variety. Talking to a local in the nearby truck stop, I learned of myriad uses for the slippery grey dust. It goes into cosmetics. It is used in steel production. It was, at one point used to create molds for engine blocks (single use molds), it goes into all sorts of food products, from hot dogs to all this other stuff I wonder about (as a binder). Yes, this little area of the world produces something like 70-80% of the world's cat litter. No shit!

     Then Off through South Dakota and Nebraska. The town of Mission, SD is buried in the heart (well, upper heart) of one of the Sioux Reservations. The town itself is not much to look at. Lots of squat buildings, some nicer than others, a few boarded up, graffiti along the perimeter of a steel building on the main drag. A shiny C-store on the west end of town, a university I've never heard of Sinte Gleska, but most of all I noticed the people. This town had more people on the streets than I had seen in mid morning Bellevue, WA, a place certainly 100 (perhaps even 1000) times larger. People of all ages walking around town going about their business. I'm not sure how to convey my amazement at this simple thing.

      Then there's Nebraska. Ever hear of Sandhill cranes? Well Google it if you haven't. Ever wonder why they are called this? I sure did. Turns out that there are endless miles of sandy hills pocked with marshes in north central Nebraska. Seems the cranes breed here. Muskrat lodges by the dozens!

      Fast forwarding to today, I got to enjoy quite a lot of the back roads here, almost driving off one of them just contemplating the landscape. Passing through the town of Farwell, NE (home of the largest Polish Catholic Church in Nebraska, a surprisingly specific sign) I got the sense that I was, in another place. Poland specifcally, even though I've never been. The land is flat, green, windy and probably cold as heck in the winter. Further along the road, is Loup City. The self proclaimed “Polish Capital of Nebraska.” I'm sure there's a tasteless joke in here some place.

      Back through Broken Bow and down to Lexington, to pick up an empty trailer. I learned that I was going to IBP, or Iowa Beef Processors, which it seems Tyson had bought out at some point. On the way down, I had driven past a number of expansive feed lots. Cows standing in complacency for want of a place to go and graze. Air so foul with manure and urine that I gag as I drive the 2 miles past one of these places. Yes, right to a “processing plant.” Waiting in line to get my empty trailer, 4 cattle trucks pass by, sending more cows to their doom. Yet I still eat chicken, and I know their fate is no less worse. Ah morality. That said, I apologized to the cows as they gazed out of their mobile metal prisons, only to be prodded into the jaws of death, and prayed that they have a better life in the next incarnation. What else could I do?

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Really, Saint Louis?

Monday, March 19^th, 2012

      For anybody driving long haul trucks, getting home is perhaps the most compelling event that can happen. When it comes to stopping for a while with friends and family, you'll be willing do things you normally would not. I'm not one to sling iron, but I will if it means the difference between getting home or not. (“sling iron” is trucker speaking for putting snow chains on your tires). We become willing to drive the last bit of our hours to get that much further the next day. Today felt quite good to roll out of the southeast, let me tell you.

      I was pretty jazzed for leaving my pick up an hour and a half before my appointment time. Blasting out of Nashville and into Kentucky, I just wanted to put the miles behind me. To be quite frank, it went smoothly. I listened to unit 7 of Pimsleur's Spanish 1, and will certainly have to listen to it again. Otherwise, the drive was wonderfully uneventful until St. Louis.

      I have a friend from St. Louis, and the place reminds me of him. Driving across I-64, you get a splendid view of the Arch that the city is so famous for. I've heard it was quite the feat to actually connect the two separate legs. Apparently, the sun and heat would twist the metal so much that it would have been exceptionally difficult to fuse the towers barring an engineering miracle. Then come the billboards. I saw several advertising Budweiser. It seems that they take their beer somewhat seriously here. Some blurb about some kind of 2011 sports championship. But what struck me the most was how beautiful it could actually be.

      I've been on the northern side more often (along I-70) and it tends to be a grittier place than what I saw today. A park stretched along the interstate for miles, with people walking, biking and jogging along a path. Union Station looked well cared for, and the buildings looked spiffy.

      To help me get a feel for the place, I like to look into the windows of cars that pass me. I do this mostly because I pass so few cars, and I can't see into them when I am passing, the truck is too wide and high. So I am compelled to look down into the cars going by. Sometimes, I'll get a wave and a smile. Rarely, I'll get a kid wanting me to honk my big horn, which I happily oblige. I was that kid once. The most common event is an empty passenger seat with nothing going on.

      Sure, I get people talking on cell phones, people texting, but some days you get some odd balls. Disappointingly uncommon is sighting animals riding shotgun. Nothing is more fun than seeing a dog hang its head out the window, tongue flapping in the maelstrom. I recall an incident involving a man reading a newspaper. Impressive, but foolish. This evening just outside of St Louis, I had a girl picking at one of her feet. Very flexible!

      The most memorable one happened today. I looked over and saw some guy *ahem* pleasuring himself. There should be such a thing as eye bleach, or a mind wipe. He was driving just slow enough to pass me, but not fast enough to pass quickly. Its just after rush hour, so maybe he's enjoying himself after a hard day of work, no pun intended. I mean, this has got to happen all the time right? Sure, why not? My first instinct was to vomit, which I luckily repressed. Not that the act itself if repulsive, more the idea that I got the impression that he wanted me to see it. I so hope that is not true. There are some odd people out there for sure. I'm going to comfort myself and choose to believe that he did not think anyone could see him workin' it. Please let that be true.

Still in Purgatory it Seems

Sunday, March 18^th, 2012

      Some few days later, I still find myself in the Southeast. Nashville is hot today, but the breeze is gentle and welcoming. It's too hot in the truck to meditate or play the banjo, so I'm inside the truck stop relaxing. These last few days have been curious to say the least. Honestly, I'm not even sure where to begin, or what to mention, so I'll start with what is the most obvious to me.

       It is fairly apparent that if I want any kind of life, I can no longer drive trucks over the road. Technically, I can have a life of sorts, but it is similar to being a nun. Obviously, I'm not a woman married to Jesus (he's totally pimpin' with all those wives!) rather a guy married to the road. For the record, I will say two things: 1) the road doesn't put out and 2) I imagine it would either a) burn like hell, or b) rub your junk off. Consequently, the road allows for other companions, but not for any length of time to be considered enjoyable.  Not only that, the road does not offer companionship beyond your own thoughts, or the opportunity to do anything but drive.  Five days a month is not enough time to live a good, balanced life.

      In light of this seeming engagement, I am opting for a divorce of sorts. I am considering other career paths. During the last few days, I have spent time meditating on this, reflecting kind of passively and actively weighing the ups and down of various enterprises. The honest truth of it is that I'd just as soon hang out and play banjo all day, but that is far from realistic at this point. I'm not even to a level where I can consistently play the same few songs I know without the occasional flub.

      Practically speaking, I will need a job that pays actual income if I want to purchase some land to steward. There are options that are way out there, from sustainable building to intuitive healing, all of which I feel would require extra training and more time devoted. More time than I can find between loads and the minutia of this job. There are so many experiences that I would like to have between now and whatever comes next, and they all require money. So, practical concerns win out for the meantime.

      Between now and then is a tricky amount of time to commit to a particular field. Perhaps five years, maybe more. As I was contemplating my options, it came to me. I can do anything honestly. If I can put up with the alternatingly frenetic and languid pace that is trucking (never mind the intermittent showers and frustration of things breaking down), then I am sure I can put up with any other job. Yeah, people can be tiresome. I see it everyday on the roads. It becomes easier to deal with when you start seeing the idiot that cut you off while driving and talking in his cell phone, is just another person, with their own experiences and subjective morality.

      Not only can I probably survive anything, chances are that whatever I do doesn't matter in the end. During a meditation, I came to realize that succeeding on a physical level holds little interest for me other than maintaining my somewhat modest american life. I'm sure I could pare down even more. Perhaps what is lacking is the connection in my own mind between the mundane and the sacred. Inevitably they are both cut from the same cloth, one a reflection of the other. The thing is, I can fly, teleport and dive into the sun in other realms. Here I can appreciate what has been created, and work to make things better. Which is cool and all, but teleportation... kinda hard to beat that one. Wait until i get better at energy manipulation!

      Long story short, the most pragmatic options honestly bore me. I'm not inspired by mundane work as I conceive of it. I'm not sure if I can find inspiration in going to a job for the next 10 years or so. Therein lies the challenge.

We're on a Mission from God

Wednesday, March 14^th, 2012

      Ah Dixie, you are indeed beautiful and nice this time of year. Your trees covered in purple flowers are a sight for sore eyes to be sure. Where else can you get a lush emerald green and 80 degree daytime temperatures? On top of that, where else will you get honest-to-goodness hushpuppies? I'm starting to wonder if the Universe is trying to convince me to stay in this corner of the country. There has to be some kind of progressive thinking people down here someplace... it can't be all 'red'. Which reminds me, wasn't being “red” a bad thing once? Like communist, or socialist? I digress.

      Today has been a bit of an adventure for me, and not many miles traveled. Starting sometime before sunrise, as is usual, things kinda went wrong on the truck fairly quickly. I had finished my pre-trip inspection, knowing full well that the light cord from truck to trailer was a bit wonky. Seems that it was out sometime last night before hitting the truck stop. I manage to get the lights working, but the mere act of turning the engine over was enough to loosen the plug from it's socket. I stopped to readjust it again, and was set to go. Pulling out onto the access road, the lights went out again. This time, I reversed the plug and swapped the ends for a much better fit. Down the road I go.

      I get to the shipper a bit early and enjoy some time playing my banjo. I'm done well before I expect to be. Right on! The thing is, I had to drop the trailer and let the yard jockey put it into the door. He pulls it out of the door and drops it in an easy to get to place (dude was way cool!) and I'm backing under the trailer, ready to roll. This time, it seems my mud flaps are dragging on the ground. That's odd. I pull away, and the truck won't build air pressure for anything. After a few bumpy blocks, I am at a Pilot truck stop under my truck looking at the leveler valve. (I know right? What the hell is a leveler valve?) Despite the fact that I had never heard of it before, it was certainly broken and leaking air.

      Three hours later, after a suggested 2 hour wait time, the repair guys come to fix my truck. Long story shorter, I unhook and drive 3 miles to their shop so they don;t have to work in the rain. The boss man starts to work on the truck, only to find out he has the wrong part, which is not uncommon since truck parts change so quickly. That's the thing with being a mechanic or technician. you make good money, but a lot of it can get eaten up with buying the ever changing tools.

      Dude goes out for a while to get the part. I'm in the shop with the younger guy, who's name is Cedric. Pretty cool guy. He was telling em how amazing it is to be down here. What with fishing and all. He enjoys being a diesel mechanic, despite the fact that his boss talks down to him a lot. It was straight out of a southern stereotype, which really surprised me. “Now Cedric, don't ratchet wild now. Faster Cedric. No, you ain't listenin'” Imagine all of that with a southern accent and a hint of acid in the voice. Cedric took it like a champ, and was all “yes sir.” During our chat, Cedric was seemingly trying to convince me to live down here in Birmingham.

      Some time later, the truck is repaired and I'm on my way. I extend my best wishes to Cedric and roll down the road once more, hooking up to the trailer I left in the Pilot parking lot. Probably shoudl have locked it, but who's going to steal a truck load of Chep pallets? Out of Alabama and into Mississippi. I'm wondering where to stop for the night. I'm thinking that I can make it to the town I'm set to deliver these pallets in, but not to the final, drop this trailer pick up another and park for the night. I don't have that kind of time. Just north of Tupelo, I hear a loud boom. Checking my mirrors, I see a piece of ejecta fly across the lane in my left mirror. That was a tire. Or a bit of one. Limping to the next truck stop, 5 miles away, I settle in for the night and call the breakdown hotline again.

      By this point, I am really starting to wonder what the hell I need to be learning from this situation. Both times, I had a load going west; the first load was to Amarillo, the second to Aurora. Now my next load picks up in Missouri, then back to Eastern Tennessee. We'll see if something else malfunctions before then.

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