Early Morning Thoughts

Currently. As I write this, it is early Friday morning, just after 1:00 am. We are at the Schneider facility in Fontana, California, just east of LA. Terry is sleeping, and after I write this, if we still don't have our next load, I may climb into the top bunk and grab a nap myself.

We just delivered a load we picked up yesterday in Ogden, Utah, to a place east of here in Redlands, California. Now we are just waiting for our next load.

Things since I last wrote have been going very well. I'm feeling great, sleeping well, and I am loving driving the night shift after doing it almost a month. We are supposed to trade back after our time off next week. I think I'll miss the night driving.

We have been getting good loads, good miles, and have been out west more than anywhere else, so all those things taken together make for a very good driving and teaming experience for both of us.

Much of the routine I followed as a solo driver has been replaced by other rituals, routines. I am not reading as much, am not on my computer as much, not listening to books very much on XM radio or on tape. Now when we have down time like this, I'm more likely to sleep than anything else. And driving, I am more likely to listen to my own music, especially driving at night. But those changes are not bad, merely different.

The things that I love about teaming are balancing some things I miss about driving solo. Driving down some lonely highway out west, amazed at the outlines of mountains surrounding me on every side, looking at stars strewn about the sky like change poured from a jar onto the sidewalk, listening to one of the playlists I'm currently enjoying, suddenly, the curtain separating the front of the truck from the sleeping area parts, and Terry stumbles up front, still half asleep. And we talk. About the beauty of this country, even at night; about politics; theology; relationships; reliving memories we share from the past 25 years, laughing. And when I'm working on the next segment of the story I'm currently writing, bouncing ideas off Terry for his feedback or evaluation. Or, last night, on I-80 in Wyoming, asking him about some lines of poetry I've been working on since Laramie. Those are the things I love about teaming.

The Magic of the West . After driving a truck for almost four years, seeing every part of this country multiple times, having great experiences, and some not-so-great ones, it amazes me how much I (and we, for Terry echoes these sentiments) still am entranced and in love with driving out west.

The first year I was driving, and everything was new, I shot lots of video of places I would go, most of the time my first time there. I dug those out a couple of days ago, and watched them for the first time in several years. Footage from Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, California, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada -- everywhere I went in those days. Watching those old images just reminded me again how even after several years, I love driving those roads as much as when I first saw them, and they captured my heart.

I have the best job, the best life, in the world. You have permission to be jealous. I don't blame you.

"Belle of the Monday Night Ball." It has been years since I have written any poetry at all. I'm always reading it, and always playing with ideas for writing it. But the last poem I wrote, which was also my favorite, was one I wrote for Charlotte on Valentine's Day back in 2000 (it was part of the Valentine's Day blog entry I wrote last February).

But last night, driving through Wyoming on I-80 in the wee hours of the morning, I wrote a poem. It's nothing I would trumpet as necessarily good poetry, and was mostly an exercise for me to sort of divert my thoughts from wrestling with the story I'm working on. For weeks, most nights, I have spent hours and hours thinking, mulling over, considering, meditating, and working out ideas for that story. And I felt like I needed a break just to let those different things settle down for a bit so I could come back to them later to see how they arrange themselves.

So, back to the poem. Last year, several times, for different reasons, Terry and I shut down in Dallas overnight, and stayed at the motel Schneider used there for drivers (they now use a different one). Most of those times, we would go to the small bar in that motel and shoot some pool and just hang out.

On several occasions, we noticed this one woman, probably late 20's or early 30's, there. She was usually the only woman in the place, and it wasn't crowded anyway in the middle of the week. She was always by herself, but would be hanging out, playing pool, drinking, talking with a group of guys.

One night, Terry remarked as a sort of joke that she was "the belle of the Monday night ball." We laughed, but later both agreed that that would make a great country song. So, over the past year and a little more, at various times, we've talked about ideas for writing that song. We've talked about the woman, who she might be, what brings her there -- alone -- and all the things that would go into making a good slow-dance honkey-tonk song.

Neither of us has done more than talk about it, just for amusement, never with any real serious intention. But last night, as a diversion and for fun, I began to work out some lyrics, and ended up with a short poem instead of the song I'd intended.

Terry liked it, and I like it okay, so in that light, I share it with you, pretty much the way it came in the night in Wyoming, between Laramie and Rock Springs.

09/24/2008

"The Belle of the Monday Night Ball"

Monday night finds her again

on the edge of town

at a place called Sloppy Joe's.

Couldn't hold a candle

to the weekend girls

but tonight she's

the belle o' the ball.

Belle of the Monday Night Ball --

she drinks with the guys

beats'em at pool

dances cheek to cheek every song.

And at the end of the night

the prince of the week

gets to take her home.

She's the Belle of the

Monday Night Ball.

From Russia With Love. You know one of the things I like doing in these blog entries is talking about the interesting people I meet on the road. I met such a person last week at the Schneider facility in Dallas.

We were passing through, and had stopped there for fuel, a shower, and a meal. There was a wait for showers, so Terry and I went ahead and got some lunch and sat down to wait. No sooner had we sat down than they called Terry for his shower.

So he left and I sat there and ate, guarding his lunch until he returned.

It wasn't long before another driver came and sat down across from me at the table. We talked about trucking things for a couple of minutes, talked about Schneider, other things. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

Then he asked me if I was married. I told him I wasn't. Suddenly, he pulls out a business card and hands it to me as he tells me I need a Russian woman for a wife, and he's just the man to set me up.

He's married to a Russian woman, he told me (his second, actually), and he highly recommends them. His selling points for Russian women were that they "are more assertive than American women, and they aren't rich, so they are frugal."

So, in Dallas, Texas, in the twenty-first century, I run into a guy running a mail-order Russian bride service on the side.

I tell him I'm not interested -- well, maybe if he knows any Russian women who look like Anna Kourni-(omg)-kova from the recent issue of Maxim magazine, I might sign up. But all the Russian women (besides dear Anna) I've ever seen look like . . . um, Russian women. Guess I'll pass.

Oh, but that's not all. He wasn't finished with me. (Where is Terry? How long can it take to get a shower? Why don't they call me?) He began to talk about how he would never marry a black woman -- "I don't believe in mixing the races, nosir" -- and how if the Civil War were ever repeated, he knows whose side he'd be on.

Keep in mind, there are people all around us, including black folks. And Mr. Russian Ambassador talks to me like I forgot to put in my hearing aid.

Oh yes, he continues, his sister was a cop in Chicago for 25 years, and she used to get on to him for saying things about black folks, but now that she's retired, she talks about them more than he does. (Terry, hurry up, for God's sake!)

On and on. Finally, after about 100 years, Terry finally gets back to the table, they call me for my shower, and I leave him to talk to the guy who should have stayed in Russia.

Family Ties. In about a week, we are scheduled to shut down for some time off. We will shut down in Atlanta, I will drive up to Rome to see my family, and Terry will fly to Little Rock. It's been three months since I was in Georgia, so I'm looking forward to seeing people I love. Hopefully, none of them will try to set me up with a mail-order bride from anywhere.

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . making choices and taking responsibility . . .

Allan

A Collection of Thoughts

A dream load. Last time we left you, Terry and I were sitting in Fontana, California, after taking our first load as a reunited Lonesome Dove Xpress team there. There is a funny story about that load.

We got the load there early Sunday afternoon, and it wasn't supposed to deliver until 2:00 pm on Monday. If we stayed with the load, we'd be waiting over 24 hours. If you are a solo driver with a load like that, tough luck. You're stuck with it. But because, in theory at least, Schneider likes to keep their teams moving on loads that are time-critical or high value, they don't make teams babysit a load like that.

So when we got there Sunday, I called the weekend shift at Schneider to tell them we were there a day early, and we'd love to be able to relay the load in Fontana, and be able to be moving on another load. The person I spoke with said they didn't have any freight for us on Sunday, but to call back first thing Monday morning.

That's what I did, just after posting the last blog entry. They took us off the load, and told us that they'd have us on another load as soon as possible.

We unhooked from the trailer, and parked right across from it in an empty spot.

And waited. And waited. Waited some more.

Surely it won't be long now.

Wait some more.

We could see the trailer we'd just dropped. It was a high value load with a strict appointment time. We could have taken it, but we didn't want to wait if there was another load.

So we dropped it, as instructed by Schneider.

And waited.

10:00 o'clock. 11:00 o'clock. No load. No one else came to get the trailer we had dropped.

Noon. 1:00 o'clock. One hour before the load has to be 40 miles away. In LA traffic.

We are still waiting. The trailer is still where we left it.

Why didn't they just tell us to go ahead and take the load to deliver? Why didn't a local solo driver come get it?

Late in the afternoon, after staring guiltily at that loaded trailer not moving all day, we finally got another load.

That other trailer never did move before we left.

But when we got the load going to Texas, we didn't really care.

Things so far. We have settled into teaming again very easily, falling naturally into old routines. It has been good.

After being on the road for a week, we were in Arkansas for the weekend because Terry had already scheduled that time off before we started teaming again.

Our loads have been okay, but not great for the most part. We've been waiting more than we did when we were teaming before. But then, along comes a load like the one we got last night: take a load from Lagrange, Georgia, to Ogden, Utah. Plenty of time on the load, no rush, setting our own pace. Perfect! This is the kind of load we live for!

The day before our time off in Arkansas, I got sick. I am just now, two weeks later, getting better. I won't go into more detail than that, other than to say I have been pretty miserable. I went to a doctor when we were in Arkansas, and then had to go to an ER on the road last week.

Being sick in a truck stinks.

A good woman journeys to a better place. Last week, one of my favorite aunts, my great-aunt Edna, passed away. She was one of the happiest, most joyful people I've ever known in my life, and I will miss her. I had been looking forward to seeing her in a few weeks when I go home for our family reunion.

I wasn't able to attend the funeral, but when I learned of her passing, I wrote a tribute to her which I e-mailed to her son, and some other folks in my family. I wrote it as a letter to Edna, and I include it here in her memory.

Dear Aunt Edna:

I learned a little while ago that you have stepped across the threshold

into that greater glory of life eternal, which we all hope for, and to

which all our faith looks with joy. It makes the hope and joy all the

greater when those we have loved take the journey before us.

I can imagine you there, being greeted by those who went before you --

those I think of most are Uncle Dick, my granddaddy Boe, Aunt Mary, and

Aunt Phoebe. I'm sure they all -- and others whom you had loved -- were

there to meet you, except for Aunt Mary, who was probably too busy

watching reruns of old Boston Red Sox games to notice much of anything

else now that Tyler is one of them.

When I think of you, Aunt Edna, many things come to my mind, but some

things stand out more distinctly than others. I used to love it when you

would come to Nanny's house (sometimes with Aunt Louise) to spend the

night. You'd be there, with Nanny, Mary, Phoebe, and maybe Louise, all

sitting around the table in the kitchen drinking coffee and talking up a

storm.

One time I remember being home after I had moved away from Rome, and I was

over at Nanny's when you came. I hadn't seen you in quite a while, and

you bounced up those steps, came in the front door. I remember you

grabbed me, hugged me, and told me you loved me. I asked you how you had

been, and you laughed as you said, "I've been causin' just as much trouble

as I can."

You always said things like that; I never remember one time ever hearing

you complain or say anything bad about anyone else. I never remember

seeing you when you had a bad day, even though I know you must have had

them sometimes; I just never saw them. I can think of no one I've ever

known in my life who had the love of life, the happy energy of bright

sunshine and smiles more than you did. I always felt better after I had

been around you, and I always laughed more when you were there. You were

just that way.

I just wanted to write to say that I will certainly miss you, as we all

will, and I wanted to thank you for touching my life in such a special way.

I am looking forward to seeing you soon. Until then, I will remember with

joy your life and love.

Much love,

Allan

Only while driving a truck. It is 1:30 in the morning. I'm driving the night shift. I'm going through Lebanon, Tennessee. I stop at a Pilot truck stop to refill my coffee, and decide I'd like a sandwich from Subway.

So, I find myself standing in line with a woman in front of me about my age. No one out in the Subway, but we can hear someone banging dishes in the back, like they are washing dishes. The woman has been there a few minutes when I walk up.

So I start yelling for the clanging dishwasher: “Subway, git ye butt out here! We hongry!”

Finally, the clanging stops, and a short, plump man who looks about 50 comes out drying his hands on a towel, apologizing for keeping us waiting. He hadn't heard us until I started my barnyard yelling.

The woman places her order, and we all make small talk. The guy asks me if I like driving for Schneider, and I say yes. He says he used to drive a truck, and the woman has a friend who drives a truck.

The man says he got fired from his trucking job when he told his dispatcher one day that he should “make an appointment with your proctologist to see if you can find your head.” No wonder he's working at Subway.

But the Subway man says that he might go back on the road after October. He can't leave before October because he's wrapping up production of an independent film that has been opted by the Spike cable tv network.

The woman was about to leave, but now she comes back, saying, “I've got to hear this!”

So the man proceeds to tell us that he produces independent films, most notably a series of films about a female superhero called “Thong Girl”. He plays her sidekick in the movies, “Boxer Brief Boy.”

I was laughing so hard I didn't know if I could drive the truck for a while. Here I am in smalltown America – Lebanon, Tennessee – listening to a dishwasher at Subway in the middle of the night talk about his award-winning films starring “Thong Girl.”

He said that when they were filming one of the movies, they used the offices of the mayor of a neighboring town, Gallatin, to shoot some scenes. Well, a rumor got started in the town that they had been shooting a porno film (which it is not), and the mayor got fired.

When I got back to the truck, laughing so loud I was afraid I'd wake Terry up, I realized once again that as long as I drive a truck, I will never run out of things to laugh at or write about in this blog.

Life is so funny.

A much better movie. I found out the other day that a movie is being released soon that is about the early life of Billy Graham. The trailer looks great, and I encourage any of you who admires Billy Graham to check it out. You can see the trailer here: http://www.billytheearlyyears.com/

Maybe you can find a double-feature: Thong Girl and the Billy Graham movie.

Politics. For the first time this election cycle, I am encouraged that John McCain may have a realistic chance to win the Presidential election. His selection of Sarah Palin was a brilliant move, and I would not be surprised to see her become President one day.

Reading. You know how much I love to read, if you have read this blog very much. One casualty of teaming again is that I'm listening to fewer books on tape or on XM radio, and I'm not reading as much from regular books. Mostly because there's not as much downtime, and teaming tends to make one more tired than driving solo.

However, Terry and I have been reading the same collection of short stories by Annie Proulx, Close Range , a collection of stories about Wyoming. It includes the story “Brokeback Mountain”, from which the movie of the same title is based.

The stories are excellent, Proulx's writing is amazing, her mastery of language is a learning experience for both of us. And on the load we are on currently, we will be driving through Wyoming on I-80, so it will be even more rewarding.

Writing. I haven't written any more on the story I was working on in a while, but ideas are always in my mind. I've just been too sick and tired to feel like doing much of anything lately.

I suppose that's about all for now.

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . making choices and taking responsibility . . .

Allan