The Gift

Christmas Past: The Good Old Days. For most of my life, especially since I was seven years old, this time of Christmas had personal, deeply meaningful significance to me, as it does to millions of others around the world. It was more than just Santa Claus, Christmas trees, last minute shopping, giving gifts to people you don't know that would be taken back, discarded, or delivered to some other hapless victim next Christmas. It was more than just a holiday from work or school. It was more than a traditional celebration of some great person from ages past.

Christmas Past, for me, was the reminder that God became man, lived a perfect life, died a sacrificial death on a horrible cross, and was raised three days later in glorious triumph over death, hell and the grave. It was a celebration that through his coming to this suffering, imperfect, fallen planet, dwelling with his own marred creation, I have hope of a personal redemption, the experience of an eternal joy, the awesome prospect of being the singular object of the love of the God of the universe.

I first encountered this personal meaning of Christmas November 12, 1972, a Sunday evening. I was seven years old. Through the example of my Mama, who had been recently converted, and the help of some friends, I walked down the aisle of the Open Door Missionary Baptist Church in Trenton, Georgia, to come face to face with this One who came so long ago, and whose birth we celebrate every Christmas.

The question posed to my seven year old mind by Tom V. as he talked to me that night was one I could understand: “Do you believe that if you were standing in the road about to be run over by a big truck, Jesus loves you enough to push you out of the way and die in your place?”

I understood that. I did believe that. And with a simple prayer, I put my child's faith and trust in that idea: that this man who lived and died 2,000 years ago loved me just that much, and wanted to be my Friend. And so he was.

And from then on, Christmas Past meant more to me.

“Jesus is Lord.” By age 14, I had forgotten some of my child's faith, that trust, and that friendship. I was going through the normal struggles teens go through, but the path I was on was not leading me anywhere good.

Again, through the help of my Mama, and our former pastor and his wife, Jim and Bobbie M., I was to come to a place in June, 1979, of renewing my friendship with the Man whose birth Christmas signifies. And, beyond friendship, I learned to call him Lord.

He not only wanted to be with me; he wanted to rule me. My life was to be his, totally. He was to guide my life in every respect, every detail, as I trusted him. And so I did.

The next 20 years were an adventure I could never have dreamed: I entered the ministry, moved to Dallas, Texas, to study theology, and all those Christmases Past were reminders of the gift and life that were mine because of that baby born in Bethlehem.

The Denial. At the end of 2001, I became suddenly, violently ill, seemingly at times to the point of death. In the process I lost my career, threw away my marriage, and began to forget Christmases Past.

My life had not turned out the way I had envisioned, the way I had hoped. Doubt replaced faith. Questions replaced answers. I was angry and confused.

In the years since then, though I have had periods when I have remembered Christmas Past and all that it had represented to me, and renewed my faith, the doubts, questions, and confusion remained.

By December, 2009, I had reached the place where I thought I had put God and my old faith in a big box, taped it shut, marked “DO NOT OPEN” on it, and stored it securely in the attic of my life, where you might put something that once had been valuable and useful, but now only has sentimental value, if even that. I thought that I had moved on with my life, reconciled to doing the best I could do without God and my faith.

Christmas Present, December 25, 2009, was going to be just another day for me out here on this road driving my big orange truck.

“I love you. I'm still here. I'm not through with you.” Last weekend in that frame of mind, I went to Dallas, the city I love, and saw people that I love. Two of the people I saw were Stretch and Orie, people I've known for over 20 years, and with whom I worked in ministry for several years in Dallas.

They encouraged me, loved me, prayed for me.

And reminded me of Christmas Past.

Being around them stirred something deep in my heart that I could not explain away, could not rationalize, could not question. It was familiar. It was God climbing out of the box I'd tried to put him in.

Over the past few days, I have been forced to confront my doubts, fears, questions, hurts, hopes, and dreams. I have talked to many of the people I'm thankful to have in my life, friends and family alike.

Through all the confusion shines the clear message of Christmas: “I love you. I'm still here. I'm not through with you.”

Christmas Present will mean more than I had thought it might.

What a gift!

Until next time . . . Jesus is Lord! . . . Jesus' Love Rules!

On the Road With Mama

Question. How many people could spend 24/7 for 10 days in almost total isolation from the outside world in a space no larger than a walk-in closet? How about with their grown child? How about with their Mama? Could you?

A Little History. Back in September, 2005, not long after I had started driving a truck, it worked out for my Mama to out in the truck with me for about 10 days. It was one of the most wonderful experiences either of us had ever had, and we talked about it often as we relived it over the years. It was special to be able to share what I did and the life I lived on the road with my Mama.

Not once during that time did my Mama scream in terror while trying to grab the steering wheel from my hand to save her life. And not once did I pull over to the side of a deserted interstate, put her out, throw out her bags and a quarter, and yell at her to “call someone who cares!”

We have planned several times since then to tempt fate and do a similar trip, but the timing always caused things to not work out for one reason or another.

But, finally, our patience and persistence were rewarded. From July 14 to July 24, we hit the road a second time. When it was all said and done, I think we both enjoyed this trip as much as the first one. And still, nary a grab for the wheel while screaming in terror or a stop alongside some dark and deserted highway.

Even after a second trip, we are still on speaking terms. Miracles still happen, do they not?

Maybe we should call Dr. Phil and announce our triumph.

I invite you to ride along with us as I relive some highlights of that latest trip in this entry of the blog . . . oh, and if someone can get the lights, I've got these great slides you'll just love . . . hey, where'd everybody go? Hope they come back for the next entry.

Atlanta, Georgia to Sharon Springs, New York. We drove from Rome (Georgia, where I'm from and where most of my family lives) to Atlanta early on Tuesday morning, July 14. I had just spent the weekend in Rome visiting family. It took a while to get everything situated in the truck the way we wanted, but then we were ready to go.

Our first load comes across the satellite – oh, how exciting – we went about 5 miles from the Schneider facility in Atlanta to get an empty trailer, and then drove around the Atlanta loop (I-285, “The Perimeter”) to a place about 11 miles away to get loaded. It didn't take too long, and we took that load right back to the place we picked up the empty trailer.

Mama and I joked that it would be funny (but it really wouldn't have been, I don't suppose) if we just drove around the loop in Atlanta for 10 days.

But, after the false start, we took an empty trailer to Carrollton, Georgia, where we picked up a load going to Sharon Springs, New York. Not west as I'd hoped, but it was at least a place Mama had never been to. And it wasn't New York City (Mama hasn't been there either, but I didn't want to show it to her from my truck).

On the way up to New York, we traveled through South and North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and then New York. We got to go through some of the most beautiful parts of Pennsylvania and New York.

After four years since the last trip, Mama adjusted to life in a big truck very quickly. You should have seen her climbing up and down in and out of that truck! She was a pro after a few hours.

And everything north of Virginia was new territory for her on this first leg. One of the highlights on the way up to New York for me was getting to stop at one of my favorite truck stops, White's Truck Stop in Raphine, Virginia, about 60 miles north of Roanoke on I-81. They have this fascinating collection of knives and guns in display cases – hundreds of them – and the food is generally some of the best on the road.

Once we exited off I-88 in New York east of Binghamton, we were on two lane roads all the way to Sharon Springs, which is on US 20. Some of the roads Schneider told us to take were not roads that big trucks were meant to be on, but once we were on them, there really weren't any chances to turn around or go back. But we made it.

One thing Mama kept remarking on as we drove through the rural countryside of New York state was that “they have as many barns as we do back in Georgia!” She couldn't get over the fact that it wasn't at all like she'd pictured it – all urban, asphalt, crowds of people milling like colonies of ants everywhere.

When we delivered the load to Sharon Springs, on Thursday, we drove over to Fultonville, New York, to the closest truck stop and spent the night. The next morning, we drove over to Fulton, New York, just north of Syracuse, for the next leg of the trip.

Fulton, New York, to Pineville, Louisiana. Friday, July 17, we picked up at a place in Fulton that had to be down in Pineville, Louisiana, near Alexandria.

When we got to the place in Fulton, there were several other Schneider trucks already there. It took a while to get loaded, and while we were waiting, I got to talk to the other drivers. The driver of the truck next to us in the loading docks asked me where we were from.

“ Rome, Georgia,” I told him. I told him about Mama being out in the truck with me for this trip.

“ Well, I'm from Lindale,” he said.

Lindale, Georgia, is a small town just outside of Rome, and my family has strong connections to that community that goes back close to a hundred years that I know of. My granddaddy worked in the cotton mill in Lindale for many years.

The other Schneider driver was originally from Michigan (he sure didn't talk like he was from Lindale), but through some family connections and other circumstances had ended up in Lindale a couple of years before. He was a nice guy.

I thought it was so cool to bring my Mama on a trip in my truck all the way to New York, and we meet a guy who lives literally less than 10 miles from where she does. It sure made the world seem a lot smaller.

We finally got loaded, and pushed our way west and south. That night, we stopped in Corfu, New York, east of Buffalo. Now, now, try to hold rein on your jealousy at our good fortune to have gotten to stop in Corfu, where the excitement never stops.

Sort of like Lindale, Georgia.

The next day we drove all the way across and down Ohio, going through Cleveland, Columbus and Cincinnati. Will the thrills of this trip never cease?

I will say this about Cincinnati: coming into Cincinnati from Kentucky on I-71/75, you come over this huge hill, and for about 2 miles there is a steep downgrade with curves. You can't tell you are close to any large city until you round one of the curves, and suddenly, sitting down across the river, this beautiful city seems to rise out of the earth pushing toward the sky. It is one of the most beautiful approaches to a city in the country.

Coming into Las Vegas in the middle of the night from the north on I-15 across the desert is by far my favorite for sheer awe-inspiring beauty.

Dallas is my favorite city to come into from any direction – it always has, and always will be, the most beautiful city in the country to me because of my own connections there, past and present.

Chicago, New York, and San Francisco are beautiful to drive into as well, for their own unique place along the sky.

On the way down to Pineville, Louisiana, west of Nashville, in Hurricane Mills, Tennessee, we got to stop for lunch at Loretta Lynn's Kitchen, a restaurant near the area where she grew up. The restaurant is really owned by her and the food is just what you would expect from her wonderful country heritage. That was a highlight of this trip for both of us.

We got to Pineville Monday afternoon. And we stayed in Pineville until Wednesday morning.

Off the road in Pineville. After all the places we been through, and all the places we could have chosen to stay for almost two days, I don't think it would have crossed either of our minds to pick Pineville as the place to settle on. But that's what we did.

Here's what happened: when we got to Pineville, we were both tired and we still didn't have our next load. I called my dispatcher in Atlanta to find out what was going on. He told me that there wasn't anything heading east from Pineville, and since we were supposed to be back in Atlanta on Friday so my Mama could get back to her life and go rescue her cat from the kennel where he'd been staying for 10 days, he didn't want to put us under a load heading the opposite direction.

That made sense to me.

It was about 1,000 degrees in Pineville that day. There was a truck stop over in Alexandria where we could have parked, but since we were both so tired, I suggested to Mama that we just find a motel with truck parking, and stay there. That way I wouldn't have to idle the truck for as long as we were stuck there, and we'd just be able to relax and catch up on some sleep.

That's how we ended up staying at the Super 8 Motel in Alexandria, Louisiana.

I know you may not believe me, but this was not the most exciting part of the trip. But we did manage to catch up on our sleep, so it wasn't a total loss.

To Birmingham and home. Wednesday morning, we picked up a load that took us to a place near Birmingham, Alabama. We delivered the load Thursday morning, and that afternoon, we picked up the load taking us to Atlanta. The unloading at the first place and the loading at the second place took literally all day, so there was no way to get to Atlanta Thursday night, as I'd first planned.

We finally rolled into Atlanta on Friday morning, July 24 ^th . Mama got all her stuff out of the truck and I took her back to Rome. We said our good-byes, and I turned around and went back to Atlanta, to my empty truck.

We have talked about our trip since then, and I think we both enjoyed this time out as much as the trip four years ago. It still seems funny to be in the truck by myself.

I'm already looking forward to next time, Mama.

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

Charlotte, North Carolina

Charlotte, North Carolina. This day after the 4 ^th of July finds me in Charlotte, North Carolina. Things since I last wrote have been good. I am looking forward in just a few days to being with my family in Georgia. Following that visit, my Mama comes out in the truck with me for about 10 days. We are both looking forward to that.

Ernest and Nikita. One of the things I love about being on the road is getting to meet some very interesting people all over the country.

So it was about a week ago, I was at one of the Schneider OC's, and I decided to do laundry. I took my clothes in and the washers were all full, so I sat down in a chair to wait until one opened up. Only one other person was in the laundry room – another Schneider driver in his mid-50's or early 60's. He looked like Ernest Borgnine's brother, he was shy some teeth, and he was wearing overalls with the legs cut off above the knees.

If he'd had a corncob pipe and his washboard he would perhaps have gladly played me a tune.

I would mention the smell in the laundry room, but since I hadn't had a shower yet, I'm not sure if I brought it with me or if it belonged to Ernest.

So anyway, there we are, two souls trying to wash our clothes. We start talking about driving, the economy, trucking things. He's been an independent contractor with Schneider for about 10 years.

We were having a nice conversation. Then I asked him about the economy.

Uh-oh.

Did I know that the communists had been trying to take over the country since 1776?

I didn't even know there were communists in 1776 – didn't they come along with Karl Marx or some other German?

Oh, that's what they want you to think, he told me. “Khrushchev,” he told me, “was a johnny-come-lately. They've been around forever.”

He then opened the secrets of the ages to me – how Catholics, communists, and others in the secret cabal had been secretly plotting to take over the world since the time of Constantine – and even before that.

The bad economy is a media creation. As were the high fuel prices a couple of years ago.

He left no group of people out of his survey of world history.

As he was winding down (the washing machines had never seemed so slow), he finally started talking about how the Mexicans (meaning illegal aliens) had no rights to anything, never had any. He told me that the only people who had ever had any rights were the property holders – and originally they were all Spanish Europeans. So anyone else's claim had no basis.

Silent until then, wondering if I could possibly make it a few more days on recycled clothes, I finally asked him a question: “Well, when the Spanish invaders first came and staked their claims to the land, didn't they take it from others who were already there?”

He stared at me for a moment, and then was silent. I had thought he looked like Ernest Borgnine. And I could tell he thought I looked like Nikita Khrushchev.

Hmm . . . could be.

Goldy's Truck Stop, Rustburg, Virginia. Today, as I was driving down US 29 from just west of Washington, D.C., down to Greensboro, North Carolina, on my way to Charlotte, I had driven about 300 miles and was looking for a place to stop to get some coffee, maybe something to eat and take a little break.

Coming over a rise about 20 or 30 miles south of Lynchburg, I saw a small place up ahead on the left. Goldy's Truck Stop. I wasn't expecting much when I went in, but it was a place a truck could park, and that's all I needed.

There was a small restaurant there, so I decided to check things out. Looking at the menu was like looking at a menu from my Nanny's kitchen. Could it be?

I ordered the cube steak, fried potatoes, and pinto beans. Sweet tea to drink.

And for a few moments, I was back in my Nanny's kitchen growing up in Rome, Georgia.

How I miss that place . . . and my Nanny.

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

Moving On -- However Slowly

Gary, Indiana. As I write, I am inside the Schneider Operating Center (OC) in Gary, Indiana, just south of Chicago. This is the largest Schneider facility in the country, and I am inside trying to stay as much as possible out of the heat and avoid idling my truck to stay cool.

Dallas. Last time I wrote, I was on my way to Dallas to spend a couple of days with my family there – no ties of blood, but ties of the heart just as strong. I had an enjoyable visit, even though, just as any time I go to visit people anywhere, there is never enough time and I don't get to see everyone I would have wanted.

My Daddy didn't get to Dallas on that Sunday afternoon as he'd thought – he found out at the airport in Florida that his flight had been canceled, so he had to take one the next day. I thought I'd missed my chance to see him since I was leaving on Monday morning, but the load I finally got out of Dallas didn't deliver until Wednesday morning in Albuquerque, New Mexico, so I had time to wait on my Daddy's arrival..

I picked up the load on Monday afternoon, and then parked at a truck stop in Fort Worth, from where I would leave Tuesday morning. That let me see my Daddy on Monday evening when he got to Dallas, and we had a very nice visit. The last time I saw him was when he was working in Phoenix last year, and Terry and I passed through on our way to California.

Everything I could say about my Daddy was pretty much said in the entry I wrote about him last year on Father's Day, titled simply “The Hero.” Just click on the link if you want to read about him.

West to Albuquerque. From Fort Worth, I got to drive on one of my favorite roads in the country, US 287, up to Amarillo (I also love the drive on 287 north from Amarillo into Colorado and up into Wyoming), and then west on I-40 to Albuquerque. I made it as far as Santa Rosa, New Mexico, on Tuesday, and delivered my load before dawn on Wednesday morning.

Back to Texas – Laredo – then north. I got my next load assignment Wednesday morning, to drive down to Santa Teresa, New Mexico (just west of El Paso), to pick up a load going to Laredo. Once again, I would get to take one of my favorite drives down US 90, US 277, and US 83, from Van Horn, Texas, to Laredo.

But, I couldn't pick up the load in Santa Teresa (only 260 miles from where I was) until Thursday afternoon. That put me in Laredo on Friday afternoon, and also meant that last week, I only netted about 1500 miles total. If you consider that it's easy to put in 500 miles in one day, that equates to 3 days of driving in a week. I drove a little every day, but days like Wednesday and Thursday, I only drove 200 or 250 miles.

But a short week on miles is made less discouraging by being out west and in Texas. That's better than 1500 miles in one week in someplace like New Jersey. So I won't holler too loudly.

Saturday morning, I picked up a load that I took up to Addison, Illinois, west of Chicago, and it delivered today. That meant that Saturday night, I got to go through Dallas, and I got to visit some more.

Today. I will recount my day today as an example of how quickly a day can be twittered away out here on the road. Last night, I had received my next load assignment – I was to come down to Gary when I delivered in Addison this morning (about 50 miles), pick up a loaded trailer and take it another 50 miles to Romeoville, Illinois.

After I delivered the load this morning, on my way to Gary, I got a message indicating that I'd been taken off that short load and was being assigned another load. So when I got to Gary and was waiting on my next load, I took a shower and got some lunch.

The next load was picking up today in Griffith, Indiana, only about 10 miles away, and delivering up near Minneapolis – next Monday! About 450 miles away. I called my dispatcher and she agreed that it wouldn't be a very good idea to leave me under that 450 mile load for 6 days. So I was to pick it up and drop it in Gary, and another driver would pick it up over the weekend and take it to Minneapolis.

So I go to pick up the load. But, the way Schneider told me to go (they send turn-by-turn directions to the places we have to go over the satellite) suddenly had me on a road that big trucks weren't supposed to be on. And the sign was posted in a place that by the time I saw it, there was no place to turn around. So I had to keep going. No problems but only because I wasn't stopped.

Anyway, I got to the shipper, went inside, and when I told them I was there to pick up a load going to Minnesota, the guy in the warehouse said, with some good Chicagoland cursing, that they weren't expecting any trucks until Friday to pick up this load. He called the broker who had arranged the load with Schneider, and then started loading the truck.

He was only one pallet shy of finishing the load when he got a phone call. Things had changed, and he was going to unload my truck – they had rescheduled the pickup for Friday as he had originally thought.

So it was that, after about 3 hours, he had loaded me, unloaded me, and I went back to the Gary OC a different way than I had come – this time on roads I was allowed on – and I still had my empty trailer and nowhere to go. It was late by then, and I didn't want to fight through Chicagoland rush hour traffic and be stuck somewhere without a place to park tonight, so I told Schneider I'd be available in the morning.

As things stand now, I will pick up a load in Batavia, Illinois, in the morning at 10:00 that is going to Prince George, Virginia. Again, it's a situation where the load can't deliver until Monday of next week, so I will drop the load on the way, probably Indy.

“ So it goes.” (My favorite expression from Kurt Vonnegut's excellent Slaughterhouse Five .)

Moving on. I learned last week that my ex-wife, Charlotte (about whom I've written much in this blog in the last two years), is involved in a relationship with someone on a more-than-casual level. It's a friend of her brother's.

I always knew that one day that news would probably come. For the past couple of years, I have thought that when it came I would find myself able to be happy for her and thankful that she's moved on with her life in that direction. It is true, however, that you can think you know what you will do in a given situation, but until the moment comes, it is an untested idea.

When the moment did come for me to know, and I explored my reactions and feelings about it, I found only what I had hoped – joy and gladness for her. And no sadness or regret for me.

It helps me to feel positive about this news because the other person happens to be a friend of Charlotte's brother, Mike. I don't know the man (though I have known of him through Mike for years), but I know Mike. The fact that he is Mike's good friend of many years is an endorsement for me of my hopes that when Charlotte did take that step (wherever it leads), she would have found a good man. The likelihood is that if this man is a friend of Mike's, he is as good a man as could be found anywhere.

I have thought for some time that I had long ago moved on with my life, whatever that means. But this news of Charlotte moving on with hers in this way has pleasantly confirmed it for me.

There is a side of being on the road, living on the road as I do, alone, in solitude (except for those great months with Terry) in which all of my thoughts about who I am, especially in relation to other people, have to be suspect. There is a thought sometimes that being out here all alone for months at a time is in some sense an incubation from the entanglements involved in relating personally to others.

The first couple of years after I started driving a truck, after my divorce from Charlotte, there was a true aspect of my solitude which involved some sense of withdrawal and escape. It was easier for me to grieve and work through all the other issues of my life which had been torn asunder and needed to be put back together alone in the truck – though, doubtless, in some respects, and especially at certain times in those early days, it was much more difficult on some levels.

Then, when the shreds of my former life had resurrected into a new one, things were okay. I began to feel the sense of contentment, gratitude and joy in living that I have expressed many times in this blog. That included the feeling – the conviction – that I had moved on in positive ways, including where my relationship with Charlotte was concerned. I felt like I could look back with joy and gratitude on our life together – without the regrets. I wrote some about those ideas last February in an entry called “ Four Years Later.”

In learning that Charlotte has moved on in this part of her life, I found that, as I thought, I have moved on as well. I'm happy for both of us.

In writing this section, my computer locked up (a rare thing for a Linux system), and while I was waiting on it to right itself, I opened the book I'm currently reading: Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon. Written back in 1982, it details the journey around the United States of a man whose own marriage has just ended. On page 355 of the Fawcett Crest paperback edition I have, I read these words, which are so appropriate to my thoughts here, and are a good way to end this part of our travels together here:

I lost myself to the monotonous rhythm and darkness as past and present fused and dim things came and went in a staccato of moments separated by miles of darkness. On the road, where change is continuous and visible, time is not; rather it is something the rider only infers. Time is not the traveler's fourth dimension – change is.

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

Going To the City I Love

Joplin, Missouri. As I write this first entry of the month of June, I am in Joplin, Missouri, on my way to my beloved city of Dallas, Texas, where I will see people whom I love. It's the first time I've been back to The Great State of Texas since Terry and I quit teaming in April.

I will only have two days, but those will be hours I will cherish when I'm back in the truck on the road in my journey of solitude.

An unexpected but treasured part of this weekend will be that I will get to see my Daddy, who is working in Dallas next week, and will arrive on Sunday night.

And, even before this time off the road begins, I am already looking forward with anticipation my time off in July in Georgia with my family, whom I haven't seen since the end of February. That will also be the time my Mama comes out on the road with me for about 10 days right after that. I am looking forward to that as well.

Digging up my own history. I have said many times in this blog over the past two years that I have regularly kept a journal of some kind since 1976, when I was 11 years old. For the most part, except for looking up something in particular as a reference, I have not read those old journals since they were written.

After my recent reunion with the children and grandchildren of my heart in Dallas, I was curious to remember the history of my ties to them – how it began when I first met them in 1985, and how it grew and continued over the next few years as our lives became intertwined in ways I never could have imagined.

Reading those old entries from over 20 years ago brought back in vivid detail parts of my own life, and my life with these people (and others), that were shadowy images at best, and forgotten in the mists of passing time at worst.

In addition to rehearsing the story of my connections with those to whom I have been reunited recently, there is the history of other connections which helped chart the course of my life then, and to the present. In those pages are my friends from those days – Billy, Greg, and the beginning of my friendship with Terry. Others who were there have disappeared from the pages of my life and I wonder where they are and how they are – who they are after two decades have spanned.

Billy, my first friend in Dallas, and the one with whom my connection has been most persistent over these long years, and whom it was my joy to be able to visit in April, was a light in a dark place for me so many times during those years when I was so young. We used to have lunch once a week in those days, and there was a time when my kids were in a dangerous situation (indeed, more than once), and when my care for them was almost overwhelming to me as a young man in ministry. When my eyes failed and my faith flagged for want of hope, Billy always encouraged me and strengthened me as he listened to me, counseled me, and prayed with me. And, in the remembering, I am encouraged even now. There is no better man in this world than my friend Billy D. Thanks, Billy. Your friendship continues to bless me even as I write these words.

There is Greg also from those pages I have dusted off to read with joy. We went to school together, studying theology and the other things that were necessary to prepare us to do what we felt we were called – destined – to do. Most of all, we worked together, first in ministry together and then afterwards at a juvenile detention facility. He lives in those pages, and ever has in my memory and heart, as one of the best friends I've ever had. I do not think I wrote an entry in those days in Dallas in which he was absent – in matters great and small, Greg was there when many people would not have been. In the time I'm currently reading of – toward the end of 1987 – Greg and his wife Donna opened their home to me (even though they had two kids and very hectic lives) and I lived with them for a time. Such friends as they were to me are a rare gift, to be remembered with joy.

Reading so much of Greg and Donna, whom I hadn't seen or spoken to in many years, prompted me to try to contact them – and it worked. We caught up with each other and it was pure manna for me to renew (to whatever extent) those ties with people who meant – and mean – the world to me.

In uncovering these artifacts of time past from my own history, it has been interesting to discover that in the process of reading mere words I wrote so long ago, I am coming to know the person I was and the person I have become a little more clearly. As I gaze through the prism of the past 20 years of experience, I find myself reinterpreting and reintegrating into my present those events, memories, struggles, and successes hidden in those pages.

And I grow, learn, laugh, and am somehow more whole than I was before.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Blood Meridian. No Country For Old Men. All The Pretty Horses. The Orchard Keeper. I have Terry to thank for introducing me to the incredibly beautiful and haunting writing of Cormac McCarthy (which he did with Blood Meridian ). Reading his rhythmic prose is more like reading poetry, evoking images and emotions like almost no one else I've ever read.

His writing is brutal in its beauty, and his stories are perhaps not for the faint of heart or for those who like clearly laid distinctions of black and white dimensions. If you saw the excellent movie, No Country For Old Men , you have an idea what I'm talking about.

That said, I have just finished listening to The Road , for which McCarthy won the Pulitzer Prize in 2007, and I would say that it is one of the most profoundly moving and abjectly frightening books I have read (or listened to in this case) in a very long time. It is a parable of apocalypse, loss, and survival. What do you have when there is nothing left? Who are you when who you were is taken away in violent upheaval and loss?

Like Annie Proulx, Cormac McCarthy is worth reading simply for his use of language. He is a craftsman with no peer for economy and imagery of words.

I recommend The Road with pleasure. Fasten your seatbelt – but do take the trip.

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

Allan

Solo

Currently. As I write this blog entry almost three weeks later, I'm in West Monroe, Louisiana, on my to Indianapolis, Indiana. In the past three weeks (minus a couple of days), I have settled into a routine of driving solo once again, and I'm enjoying it.

It took a while, but the past couple of weeks (or so), I've been getting some decent miles. Not great, but in the current economy for the trucking industry, it's about what I can expect for the immediate future.

I haven't been out west or to Texas, but I haven't been to the northeast or New York City either, so I'm not going to complain. A couple of weeks ago, I had delivered a load to Corinth, Mississippi, and my next load was to pick up in Byhalia, Mississippi, and it was going to Corpus Christi, Texas. Corpus is the only large city in Texas I've never been to – I've been close going on one of my favorite drives from south Texas up toward Houston on US 77. I was excited about getting to go there.

I arrived to pick up the load in Byhalia and the folks couldn't find the load. I called Schneider, and found out that the load had also been sent to another driver and that driver had already picked it up. So I had to settle for going back to Corinth and picking up a load going to Sturtevant, Wisconsin.

At least it wasn't New York City.

From a mileage standpoint, the past couple of weeks, as I said, have been okay. The first week I was out (which was when I last wrote in this blog), I only netted about 300 or 400 miles because of having to pick up my truck in Indianapolis. The next week, I netted something along the lines of 1100 or 1200 miles.

Just to contrast, when I first started driving a truck in 2005, my average weekly miles that year were about 2875. When I was driving solo last year (from January to August), I averaged about 2200 to 2300, until last July and August when the bottom fell out and I was averaging about 1500 or less.

Last week, I netted about 1400 paid miles, and this week (thankfully), I'm pushing something along the lines of 2100 perhaps if my reckoning is correct. If I can net an average of about 2000 miles a week, I'll be okay. Not comfortable, not able to really save anything, but enough to pay my bills.

The past month, I've gone through the single worst financial crisis I've had in at least 15 years. Two weeks in a row, I had to ask my Mom for help. That was difficult to have to do – but she was able to help me, and was very gracious about it. It's going to take a while to get things back where they should be, but a few 2100 mile weeks will at least help in that regard.

The reason I mention all that trivial detail about the mileage is to illustrate just how directly the economic environment affects this job. The economy will improve, and the days of 2500 mile weeks will return, I believe. But it is going to be a while.

I hope the clumsy efforts our government is making to “help” do not extend the downward cycle longer than it would have lasted. The rationale for what the government is trying to do (prevent things from degenerating as badly as they might if nothing were done) is laudable, perhaps, but as is the case any time government is involved in anything, it's more likely to make things worse and not better.


A Life Alone. With Terry gone, I have gone from being around another person 24/7 to being utterly, completely, absolutely as alone as it would be possible for a person to be short of being isolated in some location completely devoid of other people. Yes, I'm around other people in truck stops, at Schneider terminals, at places I pick up or deliver loads – but there's no connection to those people, except perhaps in passing. I talk on the phone to people (my Mom is the one person I talk to every day, and I am thankful for that connection), but that does not remove the sense of being disconnected in most ways from the rest of the world.

That may sound sad or negative to you – perhaps it would be so for you – but for me, it is a warm, comfortable, familiar place. I move quietly into those rooms of my inner life which have largely been vacant when I've been teaming or living around others (like when I lived in Rome with my grandmother a couple of years ago). I write more, journal more, read much more, think more deeply and more significantly.

Reading the book Solitude recently helped me to quantify and appreciate some of the elements of a rich life alone which I was aware of but hadn't labeled. Perfect timing for that book.


Terry. I have spoken to Terry a few times. And I have enjoyed it. He's adjusting to life off the road.

Vital connections. I will take a short hiatus from my solitude in two weeks, the weekend of June 13 and 14, to see the people I love in Dallas. And, then, July 11-13, I will see everyone in Georgia for the first time since February. Following that, my Mama comes out in the truck for ten days or so.

I look forward to those times and will treasure them afterwards in those quiet hours when I lay in my bunk at night and consider how very blessed I am to have the people in my life that I do.

Random bits. Part of my routine, if I have a run that allows me to drive most of the day, is to listen to the Book Radio channel and when I'm not listening to that I usually listen to whatever music of my own I'm in the mood for. Lately, also, I've been enjoying very much the Grateful Dead channel on XM – 24/7 Grateful Dead. Good driving music.

Right now I'm reading, among other things, the first prequel to Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry titled Dead Man's Walk.

At this second, I'm enjoying listening to the music of Viktor Krauss (Alison's brother).

With that, I will leave you for the present.

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

A Parting and A Reunion

Currently. I am at the Schneider facility in Seville, Ohio, just south of Cleveland, waiting until I can deliver the load I've got in the morning. I'm in my first week of being on the road solo after Terry went off the road to move to Arkansas a almost 3 weeks ago.

This may be a rather long entry, depending on how much of what's been on my mind to write actually makes it through the keyboard to the screen. I'm mostly going to talk about Terry's leaving and about my own special reunion with people that are as precious to me as any in the world.

The Parting. The last few weeks on the road with Terry were simultaneously a mixture of joy and sadness; on the one hand, I was trying to savor every moment, treasure every experience we had together during those last runs together; at the same time, most of the time, those happy thoughts would turn to sadness as I thought, “this is the last time we'll come through here as a team” or “next time I come here, I'll be driving alone.”

On Wednesday, April 22 ^nd , we pulled into Dallas with our last load. We spent most of the day cleaning out our truck we've had for two years. Terry loaded all his stuff into his pickup, and I moved all my things into the storage unit we've had since last year in Dallas.

Those last moments before Terry left were sort of anti-climactic in that we were both distracted with trying to get all our stuff situated; Terry was anxious to get on the road to his new life in Arkansas, and I was focused on a reunion with people I love in Dallas.

We ate a last meal at Whataburger, one of our favorite places to eat in Texas, and then, in a moment, he was gone; I was alone, the past two years already fading into memory to be treasured for time to come.

Parting Post Script. When I finally got back on the road exactly two weeks after Terry and I went our separate ways, my first load took me from Dallas to Little Rock. How fitting on so many levels for my first load to take me right to Terry's back yard. We got to spend a little time together last Wednesday evening, enjoying a meal, and then sitting in my truck – for a second or two, it seemed almost like old times.

Terry is doing well, adjusting to his new life in Arkansas with his typical grace. He's adjusting to his new job, as well. All in all, things are going well.

He has mentioned his possible intention to write a final entry for this blog at some point. I hope that will be forthcoming in the near future. Stay tuned.

Happy Reunion. As I have mentioned in this blog before, I spent some of the happiest years of my life living in Dallas from 1983 to 1991. And I have never stopped feeling like Texas, and especially Dallas, were still home in many ways to me.

When I lived in Dallas, I had many friends and acquaintances, but none more special or close to me than a woman and her kids whom I first met in March 1985, when I was in ministry working at First Baptist Church while I was studying theology in school. From the time I met them, they were like family to me, and Rosa's kids were as much my own children as if they had been my own flesh and blood. They were, for all practical purposes, my kids, and I called them so.

When I left Dallas, and them, in 1991 to move to Chicago, I always thought I'd eventually come back to Dallas to live. Instead, I stayed in Chicago at JPUSA for several years, fell in love with my beloved Charlotte, moved to Florida for 10 years, never seeing Dallas or these people I loved during that time.

And, in those days before the internet and cell phones, it was almost inevitable that we would lose touch over the years. And so we did.

Then, in 2002, when I was at the lowest point in my life, having been sick, and losing my faith in God, my marriage, and all that I held dear, I somehow was reconnected to them, and for a glorious, too-brief, two weeks in December, 2002, I was home with them again. That time with them may have saved my life.

And, after 11 years, nothing had changed. Oh, the kids had grown up and had kids of their own, but for us it was as if we picked up right where we left off in so many ways. I was still their Allan and they were still my kids.

Sadly, I lost touch with them again after that when I went back to Florida. Until about a month before Terry and I were going to quit teaming together. I got a message through MySpace asking if I was the Allan who used to know so-and-so.

And, during the past weeks, we have passed through Dallas a few times, and I've gotten back in touch with my family in Dallas, to my eternal joy. And, after another six years and more, I find that things are the same as they were: my place in their hearts and their place in mine remain unchanged over time.

So it was that when Terry decided he was leaving the road, I decided to take some vacation time for the first time in about seven years, and spend time getting to know these people I love again. It was a wonderful time, and I not only spent good time with my kids and their kids and their mom, but I also saw others dear to me that I haven't seen in years or months: Stretch and Orie (I met Orie and her two daughters, who are as my own girls also, the very same time I met the others; Orie and her girls lived upstairs in a duplex and Rosa and her family lived downstairs; how ironic that I met them at the same time and have retained or reclaimed those ties over the years); my cousins Chris and Deb and Maegan, whom I last saw on my trip to Texas in 2002; and my good friend Billy D., whom I have seen several times over the past few years up in Paris, Texas.

Words fail to convey the significance of these people or this reunion to me, and its possible implication for my own future. For the first time since driving a truck, I am seriously considering moving back to Dallas, something I always thought might happen at the right time someday. If my finances didn't keep me chained to road right now (which chains are welcome to me, since I still love being on the road and doing what I do), I would without hesitation do so now.

I will have more to say about all this at the proper time.

On the road solo. I thought I'd never get on the road solo. For a month I was trying to work out with Schneider two simple details: getting assigned to a new dispatcher and finding out whether I'd get to keep our old truck or would be getting another. Even after I was supposed to be back on the road, these two issues were still in play. If that was the kind of experience I'd had with Schneider regularly, I would have left a long time ago. Thankfully, my experience has usually been better, and it usually seems like someone other than Moe, Larry and Curly are running things in Green Bay.

Finally, last Tuesday, I learned that I will be on a dispatch board in Charlotte until they move me down to a board in Atlanta. And I would be getting a different truck. I was put into a temporary truck in Dallas, which I took to Indianapolis, where my permanent truck was waiting for me. So, in three days, I moved all my stuff into and out of two trucks.

But, my new truck (a 2006 straight-shift, an adjustment after two years in our 2007 automatic) seems to drive well, it's in decent shape from what I can tell, and it sleeps good. It's a place I can stay for a while.

Reading. It is appropriately ironic that the book I'm reading right now is titled simply Solitude by Philip Koch. I'm enjoying it a great deal.

“ Mad” by Ne-yo. One thing that being around my kids and grandkids in Dallas brought about was more exposure to hip-hop and rap music than I normally am around. Hip-hop and rap aren't my favorite kinds of music, but one song by hip-hop artist Ne-Yo has quickly become one of my favorite songs.

I link to a video of the song with lyrics that's on YouTube here: “Mad” by Ne-Yo.

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

Allan

Changes: The Lonely Road

A New Season. With equal parts happiness and sadness, I must write words that have been possible for some time, but certain only now: Terry is leaving the road and planting himself firmly in a new chapter of his life in Arkansas with the woman he loves.

So it is that, in about three weeks, what we began as a journey together just over two years ago will be over, and we both move on to different roads once more. In that two years, we have traveled over 420,000 miles, had lots of adventures, laughed a lot, put up with a lot, and learned a lot. Our friendship of almost 25 years is stronger and more mature than ever, and we part with an appreciation of those things we have come to know in one another.

This blog has its genesis in the journey we began together, and, just as when we stopped teaming in December, 2007, until we started again in August, 2008, it will continue in some form as my own journey.

What I will miss most about teaming. I will most miss the conversation, reflection, sharing, and discussions we have every day. We have both come to value and enjoy sharing those times. Over the past two years, we have rarely had a day pass without talking to each other, even when we weren't teaming. Now, our contact will be more measured, less free, of necessity.

I will also miss having someone in the truck with me during those awful winter storms like we were in last December; I will miss having someone who can spot for me during a tough back, or who can help when I'm in a tight situation.

I will miss our shared experiences – going to play pool in a local pub; going to a movie; eating a meal together.

These I will miss, and more.

What I look forward to driving solo again. Sleeping while the truck isn't moving. Being able to listen to books on tape or XM radio again. Having more time to read or use my laptop at night. Being able to bring my Mama on another trip, and maybe others as well.

More roads I love next time. Just as Terry is entering a new season of his life, so my own life has led to a significant fork in the road, some of which I will share here as the months progress.

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

Allan

The Journey Continues

Currently. As I write this entry, I am in the Schneider OC in Gary, Indiana, just outside Chicago. We delivered a load to Romeoville, Illinois, this morning, and our next load just a few miles from here will not be ready until 5:00 pm. The good news is that we are heading to Laredo, Texas! That's always welcome news.

The past couple of months. The main thing to say about the last couple of months is that they have been better than December and January were. December and January were the two hardest months for either of us since we've been driving a truck. February was much better, much more normal.

Our truck has been running okay, we haven't been shut down due to winter weather, and our miles have been decent in spite of the fact that the economy has noticeably affected trucking, including Schneider, in a major way.

Other things to note in passing:

• We officially passed the 400,000 mile mark in our truck since we began teaming in March, 2007; can you imagine going 400,000 miles in two years?

• As of last month, I've been driving a truck now for four years – and I still love it.

New Year's Projects. Shortly after the new year began, I decided to begin a couple of projects to give me something to focus on for the next year that will contribute to my personal growth. I decided to apply myself to learning about classical music, and become more familiar with it than I have been before (which is almost not at all); I also decided to begin studying Spanish again. When I lived in Dallas, and worked with Hispanic families, I began to learn Spanish so I could communicate more clearly with people I worked with. I never learned a lot, but I knew enough to be able to hold basic conversations and be understood.

I'm making slow progress with both of them, but I'm learning, and enjoying it.

Reading. I recently finished Confederacy of Dunces and enjoyed it a great deal. Then I read the first John LeCarre book I've read since the 1980's, The Secret Pilgrim . It was excellent, and has whetted my appetite to read more of his work that I haven't read. I'm currently reading a book in the same vein by Len Deighton, XPD.

Roads I Love. This topic will be sort of an ongoing series because I anticipate writing more than you could comfortably read in one sitting (but that's never stopped me before, has it?).

Introduction. When I was first considering driving a truck some six years ago, I came across a great web site that was designed for people like me interested in possibly driving. One of the things on that web site was a video called A Mistress Called the Road . I ordered the DVD and watched it, and it helped me decide driving was for me as much as anything else.

You can view clips from the video here if you are interested: A Mistress Called the Road.

The idea of the road being a kind of mistress is intriguing to me, and that's how I think of my relationship to it at times.

There have been scores of books written about being on the road, about love of the road, but the one I've read and enjoyed most recently is simply called Roads by Larry McMurtry. I commend it to you.

Most of the roads I love are out west. And, of course, the roads I love most are in The Great State of Texas. That's where I will start.

First, though, I must say that I am a Georgia-bred boy, my roots are there, my family is there, and those roads, and that place, especially the mountains of northwest Georgia, will have firm hold of a special place in my heart. Though I left as a young man, and have been gone most of the time since, Georgia has never left me.

Now, to the roads I love most in my adopted home of Texas, where I lived for the better part of ten years, and where many of my fondest memories are rooted, where I love to take the Lonesome Dove Xpress more than anywhere else.

Texas. I lived in Dallas in the 1980's and early 1990's. And, like a moth to a flame, I am drawn there even now. There is nowhere I'd rather go in Texas than that beautiful city, though it has changed so much since I lived there, I scarcely know parts of her. But her voice in my ear hasn't changed.

Laredo to Van Horn. But, for pure driving pleasure, moving that big truck down the pavement, communing with my mistress the road, I have to go south and west, down to Laredo. From Laredo, if you take US 83 north up to Eagle Pass, then get on US 277 up to Del Rio, you get on US 90 west and follow it all the way to Van Horn, where US 90 meets I-10, 100 miles east of El Paso.

Hugging the Mexican border a good part of the way, you pass through some of the most desolate but beautiful parts of this wonderful country we live in. Huge, isolated ranches have been carved out of this wilderness, and the people have to be some of the most enduring ever to visit this planet.

This is the area that is the setting for the novel and mini-series Lonesome Dove and it is where infamous Judge Roy Bean ruled his territory “west of the Pecos”.

No drive is more intoxicating or relaxing or mesmerizing to me than this one.

Laredo to Pharr. If I take US 83 the opposite direction out of Laredo, again following the Mexican border through badlands and small towns that resemble their Mexican cousins as much as anything north of them, you come eventually down to Pharr, McAllen, Harlingen, and Brownsville, Texas.

If I had to settle down anywhere in the world at this moment, I would choose this southland of Texas to make my home. And, one day, I might just do that, if I can stand to let the road go her way – if she lets me.

Brownsville to Houston. From Brownsville, taking US 77 and then US 59, the road takes you north, close to the coast, and, finally, to my least favorite part of Texas, the city of Houston. But the road there is one of my favorites.

I will never tire of Texas or these roads in Texas.

So ends the first of several musings on my favorite drives. I hope you will join me next time.

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

Allan

Four Years Later

Note: I originally wrote this entry as a letter to Charlotte. I never intended to send it to her, but thought it was a good way of putting into words the things I was thinking about on this day – four years later. As it was originally written, I think it's perhaps one of the best pieces of writing I've done in a long time.

I read the rough draft to Terry, and he offered the opinion that if I left it in its original form (addressed to Charlotte, but shared with all of you), it would prompt different reactions than I intended, especially for those who don't know the context out of which it is being expressed.

He suggested making some changes or at least providing some context in the form of an introduction or explanation.

I benefit now from his wisdom as a writer and friend – indeed, every day it is so.

I will write more after.

Four Years Later.It was four years ago today that she and I, with many tears and much travail, walked into the Lake County Courthouse and ended our marriage of ten years.

For a long time, thinking of this day only brought pain and regret. Now, it prompts other thoughts. And, when such thoughts come, I must write. So, now, I write.

It is perhaps fitting that, having begun as friends, our friendship is what remains after all. I treasured that friendship in the beginning, and treasure it now.

I am glad that four years later, we have both moved past the hurt and pain of our parting, and I think that in very important ways both of us are better, stronger, more whole as people than we were four years ago. We have both found some level of happiness and contentment, and for that I am thankful.

As I think about this day, I think not so much about our separation and the ending of our marriage as about the ten years we had together. And I think about it with joy.

She was my love of a lifetime, and in our ten years, I loved for a lifetime. I seek no other, can imagine, no other love.

Thoughts of that time bring small remembrances from the treasure house of my heart where such things are stored.

I remember her laughter, and how it brought joy to my heart to hear it. I remember making her coffee every morning so she could wake up slowly while watching HGTV. I remember our Thursday nights watching “Friends” and “ER”.

I remember our Friday night date nights, especially those that found us over at Mom and Dad's playing gin rummy.

I remember cooking breakfast on Saturday mornings.

I remember her thrill at finding a treasure at the thrift store, a yard sale, or the flea market.

I remember her touch, her smile, her kiss, her love. I remember the way she felt in my arms. I remember how right the world was lying next to her, snuggling on those rare cold nights in Florida.

I remember, and am glad.

The end of the matter is this:

Four years later, I still miss her.

Four years later, I still love her.

Four years later, I remain, and ever shall be, though time itself should cease and fail to mark the span since we parted, truly hers.

Postscript. Even those who know me well, and are familiar with the history of Charlotte and our love, might be asking themselves why, if I still love this woman so obviously four years later, do I not get on the first plane to Florida to tell her these things, get off the road, and go back to Florida, where, you might think, I evidently belong.

I only say to you three things:

• Loving someone, no matter how much or for how long, is not enough to make being together possible. You already know this from your own experience. It is as common a theme in human experience as anything else, and that fact is reflected in the greatest literary and dramatic expressions of the past five thousand years and more. So it is with us.

• As I wrote, I have moved beyond focusing on the pain and regret of the past, and am able to treasure the wonderful, good, and perfect things about Charlotte and our magical union. That's not the same as saying I want to rewind the clock, or that it would even be possible.

• I say often in this blog that I am more content, more whole, more satisfied with my life – the choices I've made and taking the responsibility for those choices – than I can ever remember being. That is true. And a part of that present life are those things I treasure about my beloved Charlotte as I mark this day. Be glad with me that it is not marked by remembering the pain and regret, but instead by a celebration of all that I will forever cherish about this most wonderful woman I've ever known.

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

Allan