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*

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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Southern Compassionality

Friday, January 27^th, 2012

      Despite all of the pleading, pushing and cajoling, it seems that my fate was sealed. I asked nicely. I made excuses. I almost begged. I'm still to proud to do that, and sensible enough to realize that begging is not something I care to do. I'm still heading to Laredo. So now that that whole bit has been cleared up, I was left to make the best of the rest of my day.

      I love driving in the South over the winter. There is so much more greenery than elsewhere, although I've heard that it has been amazingly mild thus far. I wonder where all those people last year who were saying, “How about global warming now, we got 6 feet of snow?” I've not heard much from them of late, but I've been in a truck avoiding the terminals the best I can. Today's drive took me through Mississippi, along a few of the back roads.

      I've always had an appreciation for the landscape of the South. Soft rolling hills, bedecked with a mixed forest of spare conifers and mighty hardwoods. The undergrowth is what I remember most from my youth. I'd spend the summers in Virginia with my aunt. That was when I got that first smell of a different land. Smells aside, I was certainly enjoying the sunshine and warm temperatures today. I was blessed enough to catch a glimpse of some daffodils in full bloom along a few sections of freeway. They were in little clumps, but certainly enjoyable for someone who has not seen flowers in the wild for some time.

      For some odd reason, there was all sorts of traffic today. I understand that it is Friday, but man, where the hell do all of these people come from? At one point, I found myself comparing the drivers here with drivers in L.A. Stupid amounts of traffic all around, but people are nicer in L.A. I was a bit surprised. Over here, if you put your blinker on, tough nuggets. You are going to wait until a space is already cleared. In L.A., when a truck puts a blinker on, people actually stop and let you over. I recall one time another driver and I got into it comparing New York and L.A. drivers. He maintained that L.A. drivers were worse, and they are in that they cut you off and ignore you. I still say New Yorkers are the bigger bastards. They'll cut you off, then cuss you out for being in the way. That, and they won't let you merge until you are almost crushing their car into the jersey barrier.

      On a less funny and more introspective note, there was a small almost insignificant back up on I-10 west bound this evening. Just west of Baton Rouge, someplace after the I-110 split. Three lanes of traffic, going all sorts of slow. Up ahead, an emergency vehicle is on the right shoulder. Down here everybody is obligated to move over a lane for emergency vehicles. SO, three busy lanes into two overcrowded lanes. Dammit. I get up to the flashing blue lights, and see the tow truck driver putting gas in a lady's car. I raise my voice, and shout into the air of the cab, “Nice going numb-nuts!” Not that she could hear me. More for my own benefit and feeling superior.

      Then it hit me. That is exactly what I did. I made myself feel better at the expense of someone else. Actually, the more immediate thought was that I have no idea about that woman's circumstance. She could be a single mother of 4, unable to afford to fill the tank of her car for want of food for her kids. I silently reproached myself for judging so quickly. Her look of frustration, hand up to her head leaned against the window, returned to my mind. I could tell that she already felt bad enough. There was no need for me to add my negativity to the situation.

Often times, we find that the lesson comes after the test, as it did in this case. I'm getting better at catching myself, I just want to get even better at it. I once wished aloud to somebody some where, “I wish I had a little screen in my head that would display what I am about to say, then ask if I want to really say that.” Kinda like typing, a self check. Given that we will only ever speak so many words in this life time, I would like to make as many of those words as kind and gentle as I can.

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Weighting and Appointments

Thursday, January 26^th, 2012

      Well, that's a load off my mind. No, I'm not trying to make clever puns, I feel honestly relieved to be out form under the last couple of loads. Sometimes, when you have a load for a long time, it becomes really familiar. Other times, it becomes too familiar. Like when you are pulling giant rolls of paper over some mountain range to a place that makes cereal boxes. Yeah that gets old fast. This time though, the loads were heavy, but much more valuable.

      For the last week, I've been hauling copper around; first in the form of anodes (thin flattish sheets about 3' x 2'), and most recently in the form of billets (3' cylinders with a 10” diameter). All told, both loads weighed about 78,000 pounds. Or, if you like, 39 tons. Today's price of copper (bright, clean) was 3.92 a pound. This week I moved about $310,000 across the country. This is my contribution to the GDP this week, not counting fuel and other stuff like eating and scale tickets.

      Normally, I don't give a rat's behind what is “in the box.” In fact, I really don;t care in most ways. It isn't my stuff. All that matters is that I get to where I need to go without incident or losing the freight (my life or health above all however.) These loads add the extra dimension of potential cargo theft. Perhaps it is a mild paranoia on my part, but who can say? I can't think of anybody who'd bust into a trailer with a massive lock on it then walk out with 1200 pound cylinder of copper. I have, however, heard a story about people stealing those huge rolls of paper off a truck (those weigh 7,000 pounds+). I suppose that if you want something bad enough you have to be willing to take it.

      So now, I'm hanging out just outside of Tupelo, Mississippi. The west end technically. I've been here long enough to watch the rain come and go. Long enough to get confused multiple times about how that lick goes in the two songs I am learning. Then long enough to watch the sun come out for a bit, then set. It is kinda funny, since I was asking for rain the other day to wash all the road salt off my truck that had accumulated in the shitstorm that was Wyoming. I'm thinking I wished a bit too hard. That said, it smells like spring here, with brilliant emerald fields of something or other (sod?) lining the highway.

      On a related note, I was also wishing for a run to Laredo, Texas. Lo and behold I get one! The thing is, I am scheduled to be home next weekend. That is all fine and good. Normally, it would not be an issue, but the “hours left to drive” thing comes into play here. I'd have to drive pretty hard and straight to get back to Seattle in any amount of sensible time. I messaged the planners to see if they could get me a more direct route home. Here's the thing though. I've already committed tot he plan (see yesterday's entry) and even called the shipper trying to get the trailer loaded early. He is already planning the bills around my trailer number. Man! *laughs* Still anyway, I am going to try to get back to Seattle sooner rather than later.

      In the meanwhile, I will practice banjo more, making mistakes as I go. It feels kinda good to be able to make mistakes and not have very serious repercussions. I'm sure life is that way to an extent, but not when it comes to appointment times. So I'll still push for Seattle.

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