Lonesome Dove Xpress -- The Reunion Tour

First – follow-up to last blog entry. The Monday after my adventure in Long Island which I wrote about at length in the last entry, I learned from my dispatcher that Schneider has already classified what happened as a “non-preventable” incident. That just means that they believe I did all that I could reasonably and safely do in the situation, and what happened was not due to some error I made. I think it helped that I wasn't issued a citation by the police, and the fact that the utility company employees repeatedly told me that the line was not legally as high as it was required to be. Still, I breathed a sigh of relief to get that good news.

How quickly things change. That same Monday, Schneider sent a message to all the drivers. It basically said that they were offering a $2000 bonus for drivers that would become team drivers. That got my attention – and Terry's.

We began to talk about the possibility of getting back together to team again. We talked extensively for a couple of days, got the details on what it would involve, and then made the decision to reunite the Lonesome Dove Xpress.

The money was the primary reason we began to talk about it, but the more we talked about it, the more we both realized that we missed the good things about teaming. We decided to team for six months, see where things are, and then take it from there.

You know from reading my blog entries (if you have) over the past few months that I have been content being a solo driver; but, it is also true that I have always missed certain things about teaming.

Over the past two or three months, as the economy where freight is concerned has softened even more, I have noticed a change in the miles I'm driving each week, which, of course, has impacted my net pay. I'm getting more live loads and unloads, shorter hauls (as far as mileage is concerned), and I'm waiting longer between load assignments in certain areas of the country where freight is softer.

The end result of all that is that in the current economic and freight environment, the incentives and advantages of teaming are even more pronounced than they normally are. The $2000 bonus just makes that even more true.

By teaming even for six months, I can easily, with no effort, increase my gross earnings by at least $10,000, and possibly more.

And so, Terry and I are both slowly making our way to West Memphis where we will meet up, settle ourselves back into our truck, Lorie (which I've continued to make my home since we quit teaming last December), and hit the road together once again.

The Lonesome Dove Xpress rolls on.

Another advantage to teaming is that we will get to spend more of our time driving in the places we love – out west, and most especially, the Great State of Texas, my true home if my heart has one.

Just as this blog changed when we quit teaming, so will it change again as we hit the road together. Stay tuned.

The load that wasn't. Last week – I forget the exact day without looking at my load book – I was in South Carolina (after Long Island and New Jersey, it was so good to be back down South), and I was sent down below Myrtle Beach to Georgetown to pick up a load at a steel mill there. When I got there, there were three other orange trucks there also. We were all heading to the same place in Missouri.

Two of the drivers had already been loaded and I was about halfway loaded when someone came out on the dock and told the loader to stop. There was a problem.

I had no idea what was going on.

One of the other drivers came over to my truck, and told me that all four of our loads were bein cancelled. Shortly after he told me that, sure enough, a message came over my satellite receiver that just said: “Load XXXXXX has been cancelled.” That's all. No other explanation.

The two guys who had already been loaded were already out of the gate, and had to turn around and come back in to be unloaded.

The bad thing was that even though Schneider told us drivers the loads were cancelled, the people at the steel mill didn't know what was going on or why. Oh, the manager of that shipping department was angry, understandably so. It took them literally almost three hours to get it sorted out.

All four of us finally got unloaded, and we were all out of hours to run; there was no truck stop anywhere near Georgetown, so we all just parked on the side of the little road that ran beside the steel mill. It was a safe, good place.

While we had been waiting to find out what was going to happen at the steel mill, all four of us had stood around talking, joking, laughing.

One of the drivers, a guy from Houston who has been with Schneider 19 years, was particularly entertaining. While we were all gathered around talking at first, he began to talk about how unfair he thought it was that Schneider requires drivers to wear safety footwear (which they provide) but the office workers don't.

He was working himself up into a frenzy that the best tent-revival evangelist would have been envious of. He would raise his voice and waggle his finger to make a point.

A couple of times, he'd be lost in the inspiration of the moment, and he'd get right in another guy's face, finger pointing into the air, eyes blazing like a mad trucker-prophet, voice thundering from the Mount about how he should be able to wear flip-flops if he wants to, and then, “Am I right!?! Am I right!?! Am I right!?!”

“ Can I get a witness?!?” Like that.

Only, the way he said it, it came out like: “Amiright, amiright, amiright?” No space between the words, just a liturgy that would surely have resulted in lots of pledges to “The Mad Trucker-Prophet Hour” if it were on TV.

Maybe for each pledge, the giver would receive a pair of flip-flops.

At any rate, once we were all unloaded, and parked for the night, we decided to walk up to some place to eat. It was raining steadily, but not enough to hurt if the place was right up the street like a couple of the guys said.

It was up the street alright – one and a half or two miles if it was an inch.

By the time we got there, more wet than hungry by then, our main object was to get dry.

We ate, and enjoyed just talking, listening to the Trucker-Prophet dispense his roadly wisdom, and laughing a lot.

I had decided that if there was a taxi in Georgetown (which was never certain), I was going to ride in it back to my truck. It was really raining hard then, and I wasn't going to get back in my truck totally deluged if I could help it.

While we were waiting in line to order, a tall young lady in front of us heard me (she was about 6 foot 5, and would have made a great roller-derby girl from when I used to see it on TV back in the 70's), and said, “If you want a taxi, it's . . .” and gave me the number from memory.

Definitely a young lady who's out on lots of Saturday nights in Georgetown.

We called the taxi, and the guy came right over. All four of us rode back.

This is such a cool job – the interesting people I get to come across just make my life more enjoyable.

Other things. There is much I would write, but I am constrained by your own perseverance and patience, Dear Reader.

I would write of the things I've been reading, of the current political entertainment, the fact that I'm still making (slow) progress in my writing for my current short story, of life on the road.

Those words must wait for another time, another place along the road.

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . watch for the Reunion Tour coming near you . . .

Allan

"You're Doin' A Great Job!"

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just a normal load, like hundreds of others I've had. The only thing different about it was that it was going to a little place out on Long Island: West Babylon, New York, about halfway out on the island, 35 or 40 miles from New York City.

Not very many truck drivers like driving around New York City, or over in New Jersey. My biggest concern about this load was that I would get out there, and would have to wait for a while to get my next load. And there just aren't many places a big truck can park up here. And there are so many low bridges and restricted roads that if you make a wrong turn in a truck, sometimes it can be a big problem.

So, yesterday morning, I left the truck stop I'd stayed at Friday night in New Hampshire, and was making good time on my way down to New York. I didn't have any problems getting through the City, and the drive east out across Long Island on the Long Island Expressway was lovely.

Where is this place? From the Long Island Expressway (aka the LIE), my directions were pretty straightforward: get off at exit 51 on State Road 231, go south all the way to the end of the road, and then take the Montauk Highway (State Road 27A) west.

Then all my directions said were: “See facility.”

Well, when I read something like that, it sounds like when I make the turn on to the Montauk Highway, I will see it right away, and it will be something I can see from the road.

According to my GPS, the address for this place was about a mile and a half up the road, so I knew my directions were wrong. So I drove on down the road, paying attention to the addresses so I'd know when I was getting close. When I was in the right block, I couldn't see the place. There was a big shopping center, but there was no “Stop and Shop”, the grocery store where I was delivering this 46,000 pounds of bottled water I'd picked up in Maine on Friday.

I slowed down even more. Where could it be? You can't just hide a grocery store, can you?

I saw an address that was higher than the one I was looking for, and I thought I had passed the place, even though I sure hadn't seen a grocery store.

Things go bad. Just then, I spotted an abandoned car dealership that had a huge, empty lot I could easily turn around in. So I pulled in there, and got turned around. No problems.

Yet.

I called the number I had for the store, and talked to someone, told them where I was at, and that I thought I had passed their store. I told them I was in an abandoned car dealership parking lot, and that there was a big shopping center with a Big Lots store in it that I had just passed.

“ Oh, you're real close,” she said. I just needed to turn around, and come back down the highway to the next traffic signal, turn there, and they were right there. They were waiting on the water I was bringing, because they would run out of their current stock soon.

Sounds simple. I put the truck in gear, and headed out of the parking lot the same way I had come in – remember, when I'd come in that way, there were no problems. I wasn't expecting any on the way out.

This is a four lane highway, the main highway through West Babylon, so I'm watching the traffic very carefully. Lots of people were out and about, shopping, running errands, whatnot.

When the traffic light just east of me turned red, it cleared the traffic coming from that direction, and there was nothing coming from the west. I look left, right, left, right, still clear.

I start to pull out into the highway, thinking, “Man, I'm almost there. Got it made.”

I was across the first two lanes, and I hear this awful racket and hear something hit the back of my truck, between the truck and trailer.

I looked in my left mirror just in time to see a huge wire come down from the pole.

My thought was that I had snapped the wire, and I needed to get across the road, stop and call the police.

It gets worse. As I'm thinking I need to get across this road, suddenly my trailer brakes lock up, as I am literally straddling across four lanes of this major road, and I can't go forward or backward.

From the time I started pulling into the roadway until my truck lurched to a sudden stop was about five seconds.

Of course, a few seconds later, four lanes of traffic is coming at me, from both directions. And these people can just see this huge orange truck blocking the road.

I soon learned what had happened: somehow, even though I was able to go into the parking lot, coming out, the right corner of my trailer snagged on this huge telephone cable, and pulled it loose, along with it's steel-cable support wire. They both fell between my truck and trailer. The main line (about three inches in diameter, the main telephone and data connection from one side of town to the other) did not break, even though the smaller steel support cable did.

What they did do was fall on my air lines for the trailer brakes, and the big wire went under my right side rear tires, wedging between the brakes and the truck frame. And as it did this, it pulled my brake lines back under the trailer, toward the fifth wheel (the part of the truck the trailer connects to), and they immediately snapped under the pressure, locking the trailer brakes.

Meeting the nice people of West Babylon, New York. Of course, sitting there in the road, blocking traffic, unable to move, I didn't know what had happened. Only that it was not good.

As quickly as I realized I wasn't going anywhere, I called 911. I told the operator as much as I could – I'm in a truck, knocked a line down (at first I thought it was a power line, and might be live, so I didn't dare get out of the truck to look around), and needed the police right away. No one else involved, no one hurt, but I can't move my truck, and I'm blocking all four lanes of Montauk Highway.

Meanwhile, the people who were blocked, were going around behind me through the abandoned parking lot I'd just come out of.

It only took about five minutes for the Suffok County Police, and the West Babylon Fire Department to show up. A few minutes later, someone from the local electric utility was there.

Later, I found out that it wasn't an electric line that had come down, but a telephone line, so before long, someone from Verizon, the local phone company, was there.

I have to say this: I was amazed at how quickly and efficiently the police got things under control, re-routing traffic, and taking care of things. Of course, the fire department left when they saw everything was as it was – no live wires, no fire, no injuries.

Another thing that struck me about everyone on the scene of this little excitement I had inadvertently created: everyone I dealt with, throughout the entire episode, was nice, professional, courteous, and that made the situation much less stressful for me.

After meeting all these Long Islanders, I might have to re-evaluate my prejudices about how rude people up north are. These kind people were as nice as anyone I have ever dealt with down south.

“ You have to use someone from our town's list.” Of course, the first thing the officer I initially spoke to wanted to do was to get my truck out of the road. I told him my brakes had locked up, and I couldn't move. We didn't know at that time exactly what had happened.

I told him I'd call my company's maintenance number, and they would send someone out to get the truck moving, or have it towed.

I got on the phone with Schneider Maintenance, told them what happened, and the guy kept me on the phone while he contacted a towing service nearby. The guy from the towing company got on the phone, and he was from a nearby village there on Long Island. He told me something I'd never heard of, couldn't believe: he would not be allowed to come out to help me because his company was not on West Babylon's “tow list.”

Before he would come out, he wanted me to ask the officer about it.

I told the officer what he'd said, and the officer said that was right. Just anyone couldn't come out; it had to be a company from the town's approved list.

I told the guy from Schneider what they said, and told them that the police would call someone out from their list.

Here's the way it works (as I understand it now): every town has a list of approved towing companies who are allowed to respond to accidents and other needs. The towing company pays lots of money to the town for the privilege of being put on the list. And they get a monopoly on providing services.

What this means is obvious: it's like breaking down in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere, and there's only one mechanic. You are at their mercy.

So, these towing companies can charge whatever they want for coming out. And, my company, Schneider, who could have called someone else and paid a lot less, gets ripped off.

So, even though everyone was nice, this little incident just reinforced my stereotyped notions about this part of the country. If this isn't a racket, I don't know what is.

Back to our story. So, the police called someone from their approved list, and that was how I met Brad, from Roll Rite Towing. Brad was a big, burly man, tatoos on his huge arms, a thick New York accent, very brusque way of speaking. And one of the nicest people I've ever met.

By the time Brad got there with his huge tow truck, the phone people were there, and I knew a little bit more about what had happened. I knew the cable wasn't broken, but was stuck underneath my truck, and that the brake lines to the trailer had broken.

The phone company guys didn't want to cut the cable because they would knock out phone and data service for several thousand people.

So their plan was to try to get the cable loose from the truck, lift it back up over the truck so I could move, and then restring the cable.

It sounds simple. But it wasn't.

I had pulled the wire down at 12:45 pm. The wire finally got loose from the truck about 5:30 pm. And my truck blocked the road the whole time.

So I got to know those people from the Police Department, the crew from Verizon, and Brad, better than I would have wanted to under these circumstances.

“ You're doin' agreatjob!” Right across the street from where I had blocked the road was an assisted living center. Looks like a nice place.

After I'd been there about two hours, I was standing on the sidewalk, watching everyone work, waiting on hold to talk with someone at Schneider on my cell phone. From the assisted living center, I noticed this really elderly lady with a walker – she must have been in her mid-80's at least – slowly shuffling up the sidewalk toward where I was standing. Behind her was a slightly younger woman, walking slowly.

As they came near, I moved off the sidewalk on to the grass so they could get by more easily.

I learned from hearing their conversation that they were going to the bank that was right next door.

As the second lady passed me, she broke off her conversation with the lady using the walker, looked over at me, beamed a huge smile at me, and in a sweet, thick New York accent, told me: “You're doin' a great job!”

That was all. Then she went back to her conversation with the first lady.

I was still on hold with Schneider, but I couldn't help it: I laughed out loud.

That lady had no idea who I was, what I was doing, had no idea I was the truck driver who had caused all this mess. But I guess I looked official standing there with my phone, so she figured I must be in charge of getting everything straightened out.

It was hilarious, and it made my day. It made this very stressful situation much less so. I told all the other guys working what had happened, and we all laughed about it.

Finally! After over five hours of hard work by the police officers, the crew from the phone company, and Brad from the towing company, the phone cable was extricated from my truck, my brakes were fixed, and I was free!

I wasn't sure whether the officer would give me a citation or not. But he didn't.

I was told during the day that the same thing had happened not long ago. I was also told several times by several people that the wire was too low, that it wasn't at its legally required height, that if it had been, this wouldn't have happened.

What I still haven't puzzled out is why there was no problem at all when I went into the parking lot. It's almost like someone lowered the wire while I was turning around.

What's even worse is that I hadn't passed the place I was going to in the first place, and if I'd had accurate directions, I would have been able to get to the place I was going – less than two blocks further up the road. It wasn't directly on the street, but sat away from the road several hundred yards.

I had talked to the store manager several times during the afternoon to let him know what was going on.

I had also talked to more people at Schneider and officials from Suffolk County than I can count from memory, repeating the same story over and over, adding details as I found out more about what had happened.

And everyone I spoke to was nice.

Out to see the show. Not long after I saw the lady with the walker and her friend who thought I was doing such a great job, one of the guys from the phone crew who was up in a bucket trying to get the cable loose from the truck yelled out to everyone to look across the street.

Over there at the assisted living facility, lined up out front watching everything going on were eight or nine people in wheelchairs or other chairs like they were in front row seats at a huge concert, or in courtside seats at a basketball game, or prime box seats at the opera. They were just smiling, watching, being entertained.

We all laughed and remarked about how it was probably the most excitement they'd had in years.

But it was so sweet to see them all sitting out there. My heart felt better just seeing all of them sitting out there. And it got my mind off myself and my thoughts about this whole situation.

In the end. As I said, the cable finally got untangled, my truck got loose. I didn't get a ticket from the officers.

Brad's company got a check from Schneider for – unbelievable -- $3200.

When I drove back through there early this morning, the road was open, the cable was up – higher, I noticed – and things were back to normal. There was no one sitting in front of the assisted living center.

I finally made it to the grocery store, they got me unloaded, and they were nice enough to let me take my break right there, so I didn't have to find a place to park.

Brad. The tow truck driver. The one whose company (it wasn't him personally) ripped off my company just because they could. We had talked all day, shooting the breeze, talking about trucking, life, and we had gotten to know each other a little bit.

About 9:30 last night, after I was unloaded, and about to lay down to sleep (you can imagine how tired I was after all that excitement), this car comes to the back of the store and pulls up beside my truck.

Who could this be? Some security guy trying to run me off? But the manager said it was okay for me to stay here.

It was Brad. And his wife. He came over to the truck.

“ Just checking on you,” he said. “Making sure you're okay. You need anything?”

“ No. I'm good,” I told him. I thanked him for his help, told him it was real nice meeting him.

We shook hands. He said good night, got in his car. As they pulled away, he and his wife both waved at me.

Next time I talk about how rude northerners are, will you remind me about Brad? And the Suffolk County Police? The Verizon guys? And a little old lady who had said, “You're doin' a great job!”

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . and keep “doin' a great job” . . .

Allan

From Binghamton, New York: Hello

Binghamton, New York. I'm sitting in the Wendy's restaurant in the Pilot truck stop in Binghamton. I started the day in Findlay, Ohio, this morning, and in the morning am continuing on to Brattleboro, Vermont. Every time I come up to New England, I enjoy the scenery, curse the four-wheelers who don't know how to drive or are rude (a quality you don't have to special-order up here; it comes standard delivery at birth, I believe; there are some exceptions, but you could tell blindfolded if you were in the north or the south after 10 seconds in most places), and pine for the roads I love most: Texas and the wide open West. It seems ages since I've had a load out west, though they did tempt me with my first load after my last time off: a load to Dallas.

This load I'm on now is an excellent example of just how much variation I can have in my work schedule in a very short time. I picked up this load yesterday afternoon in Leipsic, Ohio. By the time I got to the interstate, in Findlay, it was late afternoon, and the time most truck stops in the north and east begin to fill up. So I scaled the load (to make sure that my weight on all my axles was within legal limit – it was) and then shut down for the night. I was about 720 miles from my destination in Brattleboro and I have to be there at 7:00 am Thursday morning.

I had to plan to start my day early enough today to finish early enough to be able to start driving at 2:00 am Thursday morning. Truck drivers always have to keep in mind the fact that our lives are governed very strenuously by strict rules concerning how many hours we can drive, how long our break must be, and all kinds of variations.

Getting here at 4:00 pm today (which I had planned on, hoped for) will allow me to start driving exactly at 2:00 am in the morning. Can you YAWN wide enough for that? I don't usually love starting that early, but I like doing that much better than driving late. For some reason the darkness of the early morning doesn't affect me the way darkness of the evening does as far as my fatigue levels driving. It's probably because all of my life I have, by nature, been an early morning person.

At any rate, if I leave here at 2:00 am, I should be able to make it to Brattleboro about 6:30. The place I'm going to is a grocery warehouse, which means that I will likely be there all day long. Some grocery warehouses routinely take 12 hours to unload a trailer – and I have been to none that take less than 6 or 7.

At the end of that time, I will be close to the limit of hours I could work before having to take a break, so I just told Schneider I'd be available next at 7:00 am on Friday. That way, whenever I'm done at the grocery warehouse, I can take my break, and not get stuck rushing to try to pick up my next load, looking for a truck stop where there isn't one (there aren't very many good places to park a truck in the northeast), and then getting stuck on a night driving schedule for a while.

Perhaps that was boring to you, but I just thought this load was a good illustration of a time when I have to work very weird hours.

Changes at Schneider. Monday, while I was getting a load west of Chicago, in Aurora, I got a message over my satellite from my dispatcher to call him when I got a chance. Of course, that's like in school when they call your name over the intercom to come to the principal's office: I started wondering what in the world was wrong.

When I called, my dispatcher, Steve, who used to be a driver, and with whom I've had a great relationship the past few months, told me that he's leaving to go back on the road driving because the money is better. I will miss him, but am hopeful that my new dispatcher (Marcia) will prove a good fit for me going forward. More than any other single factor of driving a truck, I'm convinced that it's the driver's relationship with his or her dispatcher that either makes this job a joy or a tremendous challenge.

Happy Family News. I spoke with one of my cousins yesterday and got caught up on some news about folks in my family, some of it not good. There are several situations in my extended family that are heartbreaking to me.

However, this afternoon, just after parking here for the night, I got a call from another of my cousins, Dewayne, who told me that he and his wife, Carla, are going to be welcoming a baby into their family. Great, good, joyous news, especially for a couple who has been wanting another child for quite a while (they already have a son, precocious and delightful, Jacob, whom I call Fish Boy – but that story is for another time, perhaps).

Congratulations to you (whether you ever read this to know I wrote it or not)! Your news brightened my day.

Terry. Terry has been on vacation for a week. He has decided to get out of the Home Run program (a program Schneider has that allows drivers to be out on the road for two weeks and then home for a week) and go back on the road on a more regular schedule. Being off one week out of three just doesn't work as well where finances are concerned. He's also considering other options, including working more locally.

Should he leave driving over the road altogether, I will miss our daily talks about all things trucking. It will probably be the closest thing I felt to being lonely in a long, long time.

Writing. As I mentioned last time, I've been writing more regularly working on one of the stories that will form a collection when I'm done. I am gratified that just a few days ago, I finished the first part of a three part series in that collection, that may well turn into a novella before it's done.

When I say I “finished”, that only means that I finished a rough draft, which is akin to getting the framing done on a house; the basic structure, the skeleton, is there, but it is far from being complete. But even getting to that point is a milestone I mark with celebration, because it means that I'm writing creatively again, and am enjoying it very much.

Tonight, I'm planning to start on the second part of the story. Hopefully, it won't take five years to get a rough draft done.

Books, books, and still more . . . well, you know. As I alluded to in the last entry, I'm enjoying reading more books (and I'm including audio books I hear on XM radio or on tape in that) than at any period I can remember in my life. I was reading that huge Life of Johnson for so long, now it seems that the books I'm reading now are almost too short.

Since finishing the biography of Samuel Johnson, I've read the following books (with a rating of 1 to 5, with 5 being the best):

The Year of Living Biblically – 4 – a very entertaining and engaging (at times hilarious) book about a man's desire to follow the precepts of the Bible literally as much as possible for one year.

At the Mountains of Madness and Other Stories – 4 – these stories by H.P. Lovecraft were some I hadn't read before. I always enjoy Lovecraft's writing. He's so creepy!

Dive From Clausen's Pier – 4 – a wonderful story by Ann Packer that I had heard part of on the radio, but missed enough that I bought the book so I could read the whole thing. The premise of the story is this: a young girl, Carrie, is engaged to her first and only sweetheart, Mike, but for months has been feeling uncertain about the relationship, and is considering breaking things off. However, one day at the lake, her fiancé dives off a pier into the lake and breaks his neck, paralyzing him. Now what does she do? Does she put aside her own misgivings from before out of duty to Mike? Or does she go ahead and follow her heart, wherever it leads?

Running With Scissors – 4 – a memoir about the boyhood of Augusten Burroughs, who has a tragic childhood (that is tinged with hilarity nonetheless), but manages to overcome his obstacles through making choices and taking responsibility (my own mantra for my life). It is worth reading to get to know the Finch family, a really crazy family of a psychiatrist he lives with for a time. It is quite graphic with some depictions of sexual matters, so those squeamish about such things, beware.

Currently reading: House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III, whose father, Andre Dubus, wrote a book a short stories I very much enjoyed several months ago.

Their Eyes Were Watching God – 5 – heard this one on XM. It's by Zora Neale Hurston, written in the 1930's. The audio book was read by the very talented Ruby Dee. As a matter of fact, if I had my preference, I'd hear this book rather than read it just because of the great job that Ruby Dee does on it. But, however it's read, it's a classic by any measure.

A Farewell to Arms – 5 – this Ernest Hemingway classic is one of my favorite Hemingway novels. If you haven't ever read it, or haven't read it since it was assigned in high school or college – what are you waiting for?

Other books I'm currently listening to, either on XM or on tape: Villette; War and Peace; Hannibal Speaks; The Island of Dr. Moreau; The Painted Veil; The Runner; and The Namesake.

On my Palm, I also have books, which I read mostly after I lay down for bed. Currently, I'm very slowly making my way through Homer's Iliad . I just finished The Epic of Gilgamesh last week. First time I'd read that.

The question might come: how can I keep up with so many books at once, or so rapidly?

Answer: I'm a truck driver; what else have I got to do besides count the number of white lines on the interstate driving through each state?

If you hate reading or books, this must seem the most useless blog entry you might imagine. It's a good thing you can skip what you want to, isn't it?

And that, my friends (a phrase that has probably been trademarked by John McCain), brings us to the end of this ride. Thanks for coming along. I look forward to our next little journey together.

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

Allan

Perhaps the Shortest Entry Ever

As I write this blog entry, I'm currently in Raphine, Virginia, at White's Truck Stop. It's one of my favorite truck stops, and the restaurant here has some of the best food I've found on the road. They have a motel here also, and I opted to fork out the money for a room so that I could get out my laptop and do some writing without any distractions, and also to keep from idling the truck so much to keep it cool.

Every quarter, if I meet certain performance measurements, including keeping the idle time of the truck below a certain percentage, I'm eligible for a bonus, and it can be several hundred dollars. So, occasionally spending money on a motel room is an investment of sorts to help me maintain my level of performance. And sometimes, it's just good to get out of the truck for a little while, especially since I'm on the road for two months at a stretch usually (at least).

Tomorrow, I'm picking up a load west of here, in Covington, Virginia, that delivers Monday afternoon in Concord, New Hampshire.

My driving since the last time I wrote has been easy for the most part, and I've mostly been places I like to drive (mostly in the south, the southwest, and midwest). This is the first time I've had to go to New England since I was in Connecticut a few weeks ago.

Florida. Since the last time I wrote, over the weekend of July 4 , I took several days off to take a trip down to my Daddy's with my sister and her family. We had a great trip, and enjoyed every minute of our visit, except for Cindy's two girls getting sick at one point. Probably the most enjoyable part of the trip for me was the extended time we all just sat around the table in the house playing the card game Rook , which my family has played since my earliest memories. It had been a long time since we'd done that (I think the first time that we had done it since Cindy and I have been adults), and it brought back a lot of good memories of Rook games from the past when I was a kid, watching all the adults play, sometimes all night long.

Reading. I am probably enjoying reading more books than at any time I can remember as an adult, and that is one of the reasons I'm so thankful for the job that I have. It allows me time to listen to books on XM while doing my job of driving, or books on tape (which I've started buying or renting for the first time in my life, and I'm loving listening to them now that I have started), and time to read regular books when I'm not driving.

I won't list everything I'm reading or have read since last time as I do sometimes, but I can't remember a time in my life when I've enjoyed this part of my life so much.

Writing. As long as I have been able to read, I have been writing as well. More at some times than others, but always regularly, even if it was just writing in my journal.

A few years ago, I started working on a collection of short stories loosely based on the stories that my grandmother always told about our family. I wrote rough drafts of three stories, and had started on a fourth, but hadn't written anything new since 2005.

Several weeks ago, I opened up that story I had started back in 2003, and started working on it again. It's basically the story of how my great-grandfather and his brother left the area of south Georgia where their family lived around the end of the 1800's, and moved up to northwest Georgia, around Rome, where my family remains in large part til today.

I'm pleased with what I've written so far, and in some respects I think it's some of the best writing I've done in a long time. I don't know if I'll ever finish the collection of stories, and if I do, I don't know if they could be published, but I'm enjoying the process, learning and growing through it, whatever becomes of the stories ultimately.

Terry. I cannot write this entry without a word about Terry. I haven't seen him in what seems a long time (though it's only been a couple of months I think), but we talk regularly. Terry is doing well for the most part, but is in one of those times all of us go through occasionally when it seems that major decisions must be made that will potentially chart the course of a life for the near future. We all come to those places where two roads diverge in the wood, and we must choose the course to take.

Looking back over my life at my own diverging paths, I'm glad for most of the roads I've taken, and particularly the ones that led to this life I'm enjoying now, driving around this beautiful country in a big orange truck.

Believe it or not, that is all I will write for this time. It may hold the record for the shortest blog entry I've ever written. And perhaps you have been able to read all the way through in one sitting.

Thanks for coming along with me on these periodic journeys. I always enjoy your company.

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

Allan

Good Evening From Atlanta

Hello. Well, it's been a little while, hasn't it? I hope you (whomever you are) have been well. Sometimes I wonder who you are, you who reads this blog. I know a few people that read it; by any measure, those known and unknown to me, number very few. We have a cozy little community here – and a quiet one. Even if no one ever read it, I would write for myself, just to write. As I have since soon after I learned to read and write. The earliest writing that I have presently is from 1975, when I was 9 or 10, in about the 5 ^th grade. I started keeping a regular journal in January, 1977, when I was 11.

That first entry was written at my grandmother's house and the main topic was a book I had just checked out from my elementary school library called Your Dating Days by Paul Landis (written in 1954, so it was already over 20 years old – written more for my parents than my generation, but it still had some good information and guidelines in it). I was somehow obsessed with the idea of dating and marriage at 11 years old. It didn't even have an object – I didn't have a crush on anyone at that time, and wouldn't until later that summer, when I had a crush (along with my two best friends) on my sister's best friend, Tammy. Though I wrote a lot about her in that first journal, she is a mere footnote in my memory, unlike my previous objects of innocent affection, Myra and Karen (whom I wrote about on Valentine's Day).

And not that much has changed, perhaps: I still read books, and write about them some; I still journal; and I am still interested in women, though not in dating or marriage; I think I've been cured of that part of things.

As I write this, I am in Atlanta, on my way to Greensboro, North Carolina. Wednesday is my last day of work before a few days off. On Friday, I'm supposed to go with my sister, Cindy, and her family down to Florida to visit our Daddy for the weekend. I am looking very much forward to that.

I delivered a load to Pensacola, Florida, at the Naval Air Station there. That's where I was born (in the U.S. Naval Hospital, which has since been torn down) 43 years ago. I don't remember living there because we moved when I was only a few months old. But it was still cool going back to the place I was born.

One note before moving on to whatever else I will write: thanks for the kind e-mails and comments on the phone about the entries I wrote for Mother's Day and Father's Day. I am overwhelmed with gratitude when I consider how fortunate I am to have the people in my life that I do, family and friends. That, and the fact that I have a job and lifestyle that I love, the fact that my life is as simple as it's ever been on every level, and I can truly say that I have everything in life that I want which truly matters. If I lived not another day, I would be content knowing that I have lived as full a life as anyone I know, and am presently as happy as I imagine it could be possible to be.

Terry. I saw Terry in Dallas when we were both passing through there (he was on his way up to Iowa, and I was going up to northern New York state). We had a good visit, even though it was too short, as always. And we continue to talk most every on the phone. Some days I think we both miss our teaming days. I am looking forward to our trip down to Florida in the fall with our good friend Van.

People on the road. Being on the road can be a very isolated, solitary (I won't say lonely, because I am rarely lonely) life. But sometimes, just in the course of being in a place, it's possible to meet some very interesting people.

Sometimes when I'm in a truck stop, especially when I'm eating in a restaurant, usually reading my current book, I will just listen and watch. Truckers can be very talkative in places like that, especially with other truckers around; and most truckers are very opinionated, so sometimes the conversation can turn into a very loud debate about something. It's fascinating, entertaining, and educational.

Roanoke, Virginia. A few weeks ago, I was in the TA truck stop in Roanoke, Virginia, inside the restaurant eating one evening. When I first got there, armed with my book on Samuel Johnson's life (which I am still reading with great enjoyment and fascination), there were a couple of drivers sitting up at the bar area. These two guys began to talk about politics. After about 30 minutes, about 6 or 7 other guys had come into the restaurant, and several of them were getting into the fray, expressing their opinions, debating, trying to score points. I quit reading and just listened.

The topic somehow had turned to the minimum wage, and whether it was right to raise the minimum wage, or even have a minimum wage. One guy commented that people who worked in the restaurant there at the TA didn't even make minimum wage, and had to survive on tips, and talked about how hard it is. The servers and the cook had heard all this talking, but hadn't really said anything.

The cook had come out of the kitchen in the middle of the talk about the minimum wage, and told one of the most vocal guys sitting at the bar that “I wish I made what you made.”

The big trucker retorted loudly: “ If you want to make what I make, learn to do what I do.”

The cook: “Well, hell, I guess I could learn to sit around and talk real loud pretty easy.”

And that shut the loud driver up.

I couldn't help it; I hadn't gotten into the conversation – it was too much fun to listen – and I was sitting over in a booth across from the bar by myself, but I laughed out loud.

New Milford, Connecticut. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had a load to deliver to a Kimberly Clark plant in New Milford, Connecticut. That area is beautiful, but there isn't a truck stop near there. When I delivered, I was almost out of hours to run that day, and they still hadn't sent me my next load. Kimberly Clark didn't have any trailers available, which was a good thing, since it's much easier to find a place to park a truck without a trailer.

I couldn't stay at Kimberly Clark, so I didn't know what I was going to do. I saw another driver sitting across the street in a trailer lot, and the security guard told me he was in the same situation – needed an empty trailer, and Schneider hadn't told him where to go get one. When he saw me pulling back on the road, I guess he was hoping I knew of a place to go, so he pulls out right behind me.

Two orange trucks driving aimlessly down the road, not having any idea where to go. When I got back to the main road, I turned right, because I'd come in from the other direction, and knew there wasn't a good place to park that way. There was a Walmart, but it was real crowded and wasn't a good place for a truck, even without a trailer. And many Walmart's don't let trucks park there anyway, especially up north.

About a mile up the road, on the left, there was a state vehicle maintenance shop, and a place where they store salt and sand for use on roads in winter. And sitting on one edge of a large lot to the side of the place was a single truck – and it was orange. I thought, well if one orange truck can park there, maybe it won't hurt if two or three park there. So I turned in there. And so did the guy following me.

The guy already parked there had been there since Saturday, and was taking his 34 hour break, so he wouldn't be leaving until Monday morning. There had been another guy there when he was looking for a place who had already left. So this empty lot at the state maintenance yard turned into a Schneider parking facility for a weekend.

The guy who had been there was from England – Wayne was his name; the guy who was following me was from South Carolina, and I have forgotten his name. We three just stood around talking all afternoon. It was great! I especially enjoyed talking to Wayne, hearing about his experiences and his impressions of living in the US for a year. He had driven trucks in England for 17 years.

He met his wife through an online dating site; they began to e-mail each other, then call one another, and finally after about six months, he came to the US to visit for about 3 weeks. He told me he thought: “If it works out great; if not, I get to spend 3 weeks visiting the US, so there's no way I could lose.”

It did work out: they have been married for 9 years. They lived the first few years in England, and have lived here in the states for a little more than a year. And he's happy driving for Schneider.

In the evening, we walked across the street to a pub, and had a nice meal and some more conversation.

Shortly after that, we all went to our trucks for the night. And the next morning, we all went our separate ways.

Appleton, Wisconsin. I delivered a load up the road in Neenah, and was out of hours to run for the day, so I went down the road to Appleton, where there was a small truck stop. I hadn't been there too long when another Schneider truck pulled in and parked near me.

He walked over and introduced himself: John, from West Virginia. He was going into the restaurant to eat, and wanted to know if I would join him. I did. And met one of the most interesting people I've talked to in a long time.

We talked easily about Schneider, life on the road, trucking things. And then, slowly, the reach of conversation expanded, and I learned that John had some very atypical opinions about most things in the world. It was fascinating to listen to – it was like listening to an episode of the great radio show Coast to Coast AM .

He was full of ideas about conspiracies, so much so that he could have been tapped for source material for an Oliver Stone movie. He told me about hidden knowledge that the ancients had, scientific and technical knowledge that are beyond even what we have today that supposedly primitive peoples had access to.

I asked questions, gently suggested logical objections to some of what he said, but mostly just enjoyed listening to him talk. It was fascinating. He was very intelligent, had read a great deal when he was younger, and much of what he said made sense in a funny kind of way. It provoked lots of thought, and certainly made me ask myself why I hold some of the ideas that I do – where did they come from, why do I think this way and not that way, that kind of thing.

One thing John brought up quite a bit in his conversation was the fact that some documents had been discovered at this place in Egypt known as “Ben Ezra”. There were documents hidden there and discovered that reveal that the people of ancient times knew all kinds of things about science, astronomy, medicine, and technology that we thought we (i.e., modern man) had discovered or invented.

“ Why,” I asked, “if this stuff was found, doesn't everyone know about it? That is something that would certainly be amazing on many levels.”

He said that it was purposely being hidden, kept secret, because “they” (whoever that is) didn't want that information to get out.

When I got back out to my truck, after we had parted company for the night, I looked it up to see if there was any information on it. I mean, if it's a secret that's being kept, someone had to find out – I mean John knew about it. How did he know? He wasn't part of the conspiracy (although being a truck driver would be an excellent cover for someone secretly controlling the world), so how did he find out? He was vague about this when I asked him.

I did find some information on Ben Ezra: it's a Jewish synagogue in Cairo, that was purchased from a group of Coptic Christians. And it's true: in the 1800's, hundreds of thousands of manuscripts and manuscript fragments (written in Coptic Hebrew) were discovered. But they didn't contain secrets of ancient knowledge or forbidden lore; they contained records of the culture which produced them.

Valuable they certainly are. Interesting, yes. But the stuff of whispers in dark corners by a select few in the world? No.

I don't relate that to illustrate that John was wrong about something he really believes with all his heart to be true, but to say that some of the people out here on the road driving these trucks are just fascinating and interesting people. And I enjoy meeting some of the them from time to time.

Politics. Well, one of the most interesting and historic primary races is finally over, and it's down to John McCain and Barak Obama.

I will vote for John McCain. I hope he wins. I really do.

But I don't believe he will.

Here's my take on things: the Republican party is in disarray, unmotivated, still reeling from their well-deserved losses in the 2006 election. John McCain will bring some conservatives and evangelicals out to vote, but not in sufficient numbers that he needs to win the election. McCain will also appeal to independents, but even if he gets all that vote, I don't think it will offset the numbers of Republicans who will not even vote.

The Democrats are breaking records in every state so far this year for turnout and excitement; they are excited, motivated, and will be united (in my opinion) by the time of the November election. They have an exciting candidate, the negative motivation of dislike for President Bush (and wanting avoid what they portray, falsely in some ways I think, as a third Bush term with John McCain), and the momentum of keeping a majority of seats in Congress (probably increasing their majorities).

I have a good friend in Florida from my stockbroker days (the only person from those days I still keep in touch with), David, who thinks I am wrong: Obama, he says, has too many negatives, and a lingering resistance among many areas of the country to actually vote for a black candidate, no matter how qualified or charismatic he may be. He thinks that will trump any positive momentum the Democrats have behind them.

The only sure way to tell is to probably search the tablets at Ben Ezra.

Reading. I'm still reading, and enjoying very much, the biography of Samuel Johnson. I'm not too far from finishing it. The more I read it, the more reading it is like eavesdropping on conversations between some of the most influential thinkers and writers of the 18 ^th century in England. I learn something every time I read.

I'm also still enjoying very much listening to several books (six or seven) on XM radio every day.

Ah . . . driving down the road listening to books. Life doesn't get much better than that for a bibliophile.

Music. I don't know why this is on my mind this night, but it's there, so it comes out through the keyboard. I have been listening to more current popular music the past few months than I have in many years.

What has amazed me is just how much good, very good, music there is coming out from some of these singers and songwriters today. Someone my age tends to view modern music as somehow less golden than the great music we might have grown up with, just as we tend to view young people as somehow missing some inherently good qualities that we grew up with. “This young generation,” we say, before indicting them on some charge of inadequacy.

But there is some very good music out there, and I'm enjoying listening to it very much.

There's nothing that I've heard that will replace my deserted island music selections, but there's some that's close.

Big Rig : The Movie. A few weeks ago, on the public radio show “On Point”, there was a guy on, Doug Pray, who produces documentaries. He was talking about his latest documentary about the amazing Paskowitz family, who lived a nomadic life of surfing and traveling, with Mom and Dad and 9 kids!!! I was fascinated with the story, and it was also mentioned that he had also made a documentary about truckers called Big Rig.

I ordered it from Amazon, but before long I started seeing it at truck stops, so I cancelled the order on Amazon and just bought it and watched it. It was great! If you are a trucker or are interested in trucking, it's a great movie with some fascinating stories of interesting people.

Click the link above if you are interested in more info.

Well, that's about all for this episode. Thanks for riding along for the last few miles. Be well.

Until next next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . .

Allan

The Hero

The day my Daddy saved my life.It is October, 2002. I am in my house in Eustis, Florida. My precious wife, Charlotte, is at work. I am alone. For the past year, I have been sick. Like some horrible, perverse, cosmic joke, my body's immune system, normally my defense against illness, has been fighting against itself, betraying me like some Judas delivering me to my tormentors.

In the course of that year, as I have fought an unknown enemy, I have in turn lost my career as a stockbroker, my faith, and the happy exterior of my marriage has crumbled before my eyes, leaving an empty husk. I am angry. Angry at God. Angry at my wife and myself because our marriage has suddenly turned in against itself the same way my own immune system has sold me out. Angry at what has happened to me – I'm only 36 years old! This isn't supposed to be happening to me.

But it was. And I was powerless.

By October, thanks to a wonderful doctor I finally found after much searching, some of my physical symptoms were improving somewhat. At the same time, all I could see were the ruins of what had once been my life, taunting me, tormenting me.

I have settled into an angry despair, and all I want is to die. I hope this stupid illness will just go ahead and finish what's it's started.

If it doesn't, and it gets too bad, I wonder if I will do it myself.

This October afternoon, I am in such physical and emotional pain that all I can think about is that hidden in my desk, unknown to Charlotte, is my loaded pistol. All I have to do is get to the desk, open the drawer, and this pain can all be over. It is a selfish thought, one that causes me to cringe as I write these words; but it is the only thought I could conjure that day.

Except this one: my Daddy, who works all over the country, happens this month to be working in Orlando, about an hour away.

So instead of opening the desk drawer, I pick up the phone. I get his voicemail, and leave some message that I hope sounds casual that “I was just hoping to talk to you, that's all.”

I am in such pain, I can't even manage the clarity, or perhaps the courage (perhaps a perverse description of such an intention), to make it to the drawer. I remain in bed, where I have been much of the past year, curled up with my pain like a secret lover.

Half an hour later, my Daddy's truck turns into the driveway, and he is at the door, not even bothering to knock before coming in. If it had been locked, I think he would have walked through it.

His son is in trouble. And he has come.

He comes to me, wraps his big arms around me, tells me he loves me, that he is here, and I'm not alone any more. Everything will be okay.

We talk, and all the angry, bitter, despairing thoughts that I have been hiding away like a treasure come out in a torrent. And my Daddy listened. And, no matter what I told him, his only response was that he loved me, and he was there for me. No matter what.

After that day, no matter the pain or struggle, I never thought of the drawer again. Not long after, I sold the gun.

I began to get better, and eventually made a full recovery. It took several years to pick through the wreckage of my life, trying to salvage the good, purge the bad, and begin again.

And over that time, my Daddy was there whenever I needed him. And sometimes, especially in those dark days when my marriage was over, it was daily.

And over those days, he saved my life.

“ Hero.” Sometime after that awful October day, I got my Palm Pilot out, and went to my address book, and found the entry for my Daddy. In the address book, there were places in every entry for business information, like “Company”, “ Title”, “Business Address”, and similar things. In the space where it listed “Title”, I put this in for my Daddy: “Hero.” It remains so today.

Over the span of my 43 years, I can never recall one time I have seen my Daddy that he didn't hug me and tell me he loved me. There was never one phone conversation that did not end with: “I love you, son.” “I love you, too, Daddy.”

I talked to him yesterday. And it was the same.

And the more time passes, the more I am convinced that's why I picked up the phone instead of the pistol that day so long ago.

“ What manner of man . . .” His name is Quinton. I call him Daddy. He is tall, a little over 6 feet, barrel-chested, a man's man. He is a man who can walk into a room of strangers and be at home; in minutes, he is talking with someone as though they have known each other always. He is expressive, not afraid to display his feelings. And, perhaps most of all, he always let his children know he loved them.

Several weeks ago, the last time I was in Rome, and Cindy and I got to spend that wonderful time together for the first time in a long time, we talked of many things. We talked a lot about our parents. And how, at the most critical junctures of our lives, they were there for us.

I told her this story. And she told me her own story, of how, when she was at the darkest place in her life, Daddy came, hugged her, told her he loved her, and everything would be okay.

And, as we told our stories, with tears, I think we both realized it: he was right.

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . and tell someone you love them and everything will be okay . . .

Allan