Random Thoughts From the Road

Hello. It's been a while. As I write this, I am sitting in the Wendy's restaurant inside the Pilot truck stop in Augusta, Georgia, off I-20, right on the state line with South Carolina. There is much on my mind to write, but I don't know what will make it in the final cut.

I delivered a load to Grovetown, Georgia, just up the road, this afternoon, and in the morning, I'm picking up a load over in Beech Island, South Carolina, that is going to New Milford, Connecticut. Those of you who know me or who have been reading this blog for a while {crickets chirp into the silence} know that I am not fond of driving in the northeast; on the other hand, it's been months since I can remember being in New England, and it should be cooler than the summer heat that I've been in for a while now.

Actually, over the past couple of months, I've gotten to spend most of my time in areas that I enjoy driving, so that's been nice.

One cool thing that happened recently was that the Friday before Mother's Day, I had a load from the St. Louis area going to Villa Rica, Georgia, and my route took me right through Rome. So I was able to see Mama and Cindy and her family, and we all got to go out to eat at a nice restaurant for Mother's Day. That was special to all of us.

The next day when I was in Atlanta, I wrote the last blog entry about Mother's Day.

Visiting Rome. This past weekend, I took some time off to see my family in Rome. As always, it was too short, but I got to spend some good time with people I love.

Mama and I spent a very special afternoon together on Monday. We went down to Kennesaw, ate at one of my favorite restaurants there ( Rafferty's), did some shopping (I got some new shorts I needed and bought the first season of The X Files ), and then went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. We both enjoyed the movie, although, for me, it was more about remembering the first movies in that series. If I wasn't a fan of the previous movies, I wouldn't have enjoyed it nearly so much.

Sunday night, I was planning to spend the night at my sister Cindy's house, and was looking forward to spending some good time with her family. On my way down there, my cousin Kristi called me. She had been at the hospital all day with her husband, Bobby, who had fallen off a truck at home. They determined he fractured his back, and were sending him to a hospital in Chattanooga that could better evaluate and treat him.

She needed to go, and wasn't in very much condition to drive. I was able to take her. Since it was going to be very late when I got back to Rome, I called Cindy to see if she wanted to ride up with us. I thought that would at least give Cindy and me some time to visit. She did, and that very bad situation for my cousins turned into one of the best times I have ever had with Cindy.

It was the most time one-on-one we have had in over 20 years. I can't remember any time, except a couple of lunches we had when I lived in Rome back in 2006, where we've been together without spouses, kids, or other family around.

Those hours we spent driving to Chattanooga and back to Rome were moments I will treasure forever, and I think Cindy will, too. We just talked and shared about everything, things we haven't talked about in years, or perhaps ever. We told each other things about one another we hadn't known before (mostly from our teen years), and we talked quite a lot about our parents. Several times we both were verging on tears talking about times that both Mama and Daddy have helped us during the toughest times of our lives.

Cindy and I have always been close (especially since we've both been adults), but I think we are closer than we've ever been after that trip.

Bobby went home from the hospital yesterday after having had surgery to repair the fractures in his back. He will have some recovery time, but I think his prognosis is good.

I must also say that, even though it was a very stressful and traumatic situation for her, the time driving up to Chattanooga with Kristi was special for me also.

I spent some special time with my Nanny while I was in Rome, also. However, when I called her yesterday on the phone, just two days after leaving Rome to go back on the road, she asked me where I was at, and “when in the world are you coming home?” I told her it would be a few weeks because I was just there.

There was a confused silence on the other end of the phone. She had remembered just the day before when we talked. She didn't remember me being there at all. I assured her I had been, and she said, with so much sadness, my heart just broke in two, “I wish I could remember it.” I told her it was okay, that we had enjoyed a great visit, and that I would see her soon.

After I hung up, I just wanted to sit there in my big old orange truck and cry my eyes out.

I know this is part of the process of whatever form of dementia she is dealing with (it's not Alzheimer's, but is some unspecified variant of the group of brain disorders that are generally labeled dementia ), and it's happened before that she's forgotten I've just been to visit, but this time it just hit me full-force.

And, should the disorder proceed as it normally does, there will come a day when she probably won't even know who I am. I dread that day.

So much the more against that day will I treasure and store up in heart and memory the times we still enjoy.

I've already tentatively planned my times off the road for the rest of the year: the weekend of July 4 ^th , I'm taking several days off and Cindy, Shane, the girls, and I are going down to visit my Daddy. I'll have a day or so before and after the trip in Rome also. In September, Terry, a mutual friend of ours in Florida, Van, and I are going to spend a few days on the beach in Jacksonville, sort of a reprise of a similar trip we took in February, 2007. And I will take my week of vacation in Rome the week of Thanksgiving in November.

Terry. In the past few weeks, I've gotten to see Terry once when we were both on a stretch of I-57 in Illinois, going in opposite directions. We had breakfast and got to visit for a little while. We talk on the phone every day when he's on the road (we don't talk very much the week's he's off the road), but there is still something special about seeing one another. We talk about different things.

Terry is doing well. He's on his way to Laredo with a load right now. He is considering seriously getting off the road completely in the summer, and getting a job locally in Arkansas, so that he can focus more on his relationship, which is progressing toward a more serious level. I will miss him being on the road (even though we're not teaming any longer, it still gives us a common connection because both of us are driving and can talk about things related to driving that we can't with anyone else), but I think it will be a positive step for him and his future.

Music on a deserted island. Most days during the week, I listen to a show on public radio called Soundcheck . A couple of weeks ago the topic was a new book ( Marooned ), a sort of sequel to an earlier book from the late 1970's, which asks prominent music critics if they were stranded on a desert island, and could only have one song (or perhaps album), what they would choose and why.

That got me to thinking along those lines, just for trivial pursuit driving down the highway (truckers have lots of time to think, you know): could I narrow my music down to one CD if I had to? As I look at my Winamp player as I write this, I currently have over 8000 tracks in my music library. How in the world could I narrow that down to a single album or song?

Pretty quickly, I narrowed the choices down to the four albums that have meant more to me at various times in my life over the past 30 years than any others for various reasons. They all remain among my personal favorites of all time, even though there was a time when each of them was more prominent in my musical life than they might be now. They still get lots of airtime in the truck, though, depending on the mood I'm in at the time.

Those four albums, in random order, are: Lonely Runs Both Ways (Alison Krauss); 20 Years Live Concert (Resurrection Band); Appetite for Destruction (Guns 'N' Roses); and Just A Game (Triumph).

Favorite songs from those albums are: “Gravity” (Alison Krauss), which describes my life at the present time more than any other song I've ever heard; “Where Roses Grow” (Resurrection Band), which is my favorite Christian blues/rock song by my favorite Christian rock band; it's great music even if you aren't religious; “Sweet Child O Mine” (Guns 'N' Roses); and “Just A Game” and “Hold On” (Triumph) round it out. All great songs for different reasons to me.

What would your choices be? What if you were stranded on a desert island (like Robinson Crusoe, or Tom Hanks in Cast Away ) and you could only have one or two albums to fill that desolate solitude?

It's trivial, but it prompts some interesting thought and reflection if you let it. You might find out something about yourself, as I have.

Reading. I'm still reading Life of Johnson , a biography of Samuel Johnson, who lived in England in the 1700's. What's fascinating to me is the depth of detail in the book. It's also fascinating to realize that Johnson was contemporary with so much significant history in Europe and America. Reading parts of this biography is like sitting down at the table having a conversation with Johnson about philosophy, theology, literature, politics, and culture. I'm loving it.

I'll be reading this one a while because I'm taking it very slowly and deliberately. I usually read and retain what I've read very quickly, but this book is prompting so much thought and reflection about its topics, I'm soaking in it, meditating on it, learning from it.

I'm still enjoying listening to the audio books on XM. Currently, I'm listening to: How the Irish Saved Civilization; The Emperor of Ocean Park; Casino Royale (the first James Bond book by Ian Fleming); Bless Me, Ultima; The Diary of a Nobody; Commentaries by Julius Caesar; and The Gods of Mars.

So long for now. I suppose that's all I feel like writing for now.

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

Allan

Mother's Day: Three Remarkable Women

As I write this, it is Saturday evening, the day before Mother's Day. And it seemed desirable to me to write about some of the women I would honor on that special day. Before I do, I should say that, though she is not a mom, and is therefore absent from this writing, without question, Charlotte is in a category of her own of the women I've ever known and loved. If you have read this blog very long, you already know much of what I still feel for the woman I was married to for 10 years.

Mama. Her name is Ann. To me she is Mama; or sometimes “Maw”, “Mammy”, “Mammykins”. She lives in the house where she was born. Her name is not in books, on the walls listing the famous; she has no star in Hollywood; but in the records that really matter and tell the true tale, she is famous, a woman of renown and virtue, having no equal. She is that Proverbs 31 woman, and it is true: “her children rise and call her blessed.”

I inherited my love of books and reading from my Mama, my curiosity for knowledge; I inherited many of the strengths I have from her, and learned some of the rest. It was my Mama who introduced me to faith when I was only 7, and for all the years since has modeled that faith as consistently as anyone I've ever met.

When Mama became a single parent when I was 9, and my sister was 6, I witnessed her devote her entire life and energy to her children, to make sure they were provided for, nurtured, and loved.

Over the whole span of my memory, I cannot recall one single incident in my life when my Mama did not do what she did with my sister and me in her mind; she never complained of the life she was missing out on, the fun she wasn't having, the relationships she opted out of, the vacation she never had. She just quietly did what she saw as her highest calling, and she did it supremely.

As I have grown older, especially in those months when I was sick, and during and after the sad end of my marriage, my Mama has been my friend, advisor and confidante. There were dark days when I first started driving a truck after things ended with Charlotte when I don't know what I would have done if it weren't for my Mama, patiently listening to me, and encouraging me.

One of the coolest times of my life was when my Mama came out on the road in the truck with me for 10 days back in 2005. We are planning a similar trip in the fall. I'm looking forward to it.

I talk to my Mama every day. Sometimes, we just talk about trivial things, but for me it is a vital connection. It's nice to know someone, somewhere, cares where I'm at and what's going on in my solitary world (and I am fortunate to have many such people, but there is no one else with whom I have that daily connection that always makes my day a little bit better than it would have been).

And, while not many people besides my sister and me know the truth of this unassuming woman, one day, I believe she will hear these words: “Well done.”

And then everyone will know.

A few years ago, when I was at JPUSA, I wrote the following poem for Mama for Mother's Day. I insert it here only to say that the words are still as true to me today as when I wrote them.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama! I love you!

05/04/93 Mother's Day 1993

As I gaze back

over the span of my life,

wherever I've gone,

whatever I've done,

I see touches of you.

Whatever forces have shaped

the pattern of me,

whether good or ill,

yours has been the strongest:

I bear the mark of you.

In some obscure place

at the very right time,

you introduced me to life,

with a squall and a scream:

I am a part of you.

When you met the Father

who changed your life,

I must have seen something

that caused me to yearn:

I knew Him first in you.

When came the time

you had to be

both mom and dad

to my sister and me,

I saw love live in you.

When I felt the stirrings

of God's call on my life,

you urged me to hear

and then to obey:

I heard God speak through you.

When my life is spent

and my work is done,

and the fires of judgment

test what is true,

I'll know the gold came from you.

Of all the stars that shine

in the sky of my faith,

yours has burned brighter

than all the rest:

I thank my God for you.

Cindy. My sister. One of my best friends. Mom to three wonderful kids: Justin, 22, serving in the Navy; Paige, 14; and Jordyn, 7. Married to a good man, Shane. She works with special-needs kids at a local elementary school in Rome. She's going to school at night to get her teaching degree. Her faith shines from her life like the sun, and inspires everyone who knows her, including her brother.

She amazes me with her determination, no matter the challenge or the obstacle; she keeps going when most people (including me) would have long since surrendered. And she does it with such grace, people who don't know her very well would think she doesn't have a care in the world.

Her encouragement and counsel have been strength and light for me during some of my darkest days. And no matter what kind of tough time she's going through herself, in whatever arena, whenever I talk to her, instead of encouraging her, I myself come away lifted up.

My sister is one of those rare people about whom it could be said that she makes the lives of all whom she touches better for having known her. I know I'm a better man because of her influence.

Cindy, you are an incredible woman, mother, and friend. I am honored to be your brother. I love you.

Nanny. It is hard to write words about my grandmother, since we are in the middle of that “long goodbye” that Ronald Reagan so eloquently referenced in his farewell letter to the nation when he learned of his Alzheimer's.

When I think about my Nanny, so many things come to mind that I don't know how to begin to express them. But, of all the things that could be said of my Nanny, perhaps the most important for me is that from my Nanny I learned more fully than any other human example I've ever encountered the truth of unconditional love. If you told me the sky was orange, I would sooner believe that fancy than if you told me my Nanny didn't love me.

Whatever problems and insecurities I have had in my life, I have never doubted my grandmother's love, and she has never failed in 43 years to tell me and show me that love.

I was blessed growing up to spend lots of time with my grandparents, so much so that even now when I think of what the word “home” means to me, I think of her house.

Other things come to mind when I think of Nanny: her telling funny stories that made me laugh, and usually they were stories that contained the kernel of whatever history of our family preserves today; I remember her strong faith and example of it to me over the years.

I treasure the memories I have of being at her house spending the night back when she worked second shift at a local carpet mill in Rome. She'd get home about 11:00, and I'd wait up for her if it wasn't a school night, and I'd have that special time with her. And in the morning, I'd wake up with her and my granddaddy Boe, and drink coffee. I remember sitting around the kitchen table playing the board game of Aggravation with Nanny, Boe, and Nanny's sisters Mary and Phoebe. I remember riding on the bus when the gospel quartet Nanny was part of would go out of town to sing at a church somewhere. I can still smell the fried chicken cooking in that magic pan that is the best food I've ever eaten in my life just because she made it.

Every day when I talk to her, she asks me where I am, and she asks me when I am coming home. She tells me she misses me so much. We always end the call much the same way: “I love you Nanny.” “I love you, boy. You'll never know how much. And I can't wait to see you.”

While millions of people pay millions of dollars for counselors and therapists to try to find that missing piece in their heart, I just call my Nanny and hear those words. And all is well.

Happy Mother's Day, Nanny! I love you!

Of all men, I am most blessed to have women such as these in my life.

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . and Happy Mother's Day . . .

Allan

Ramblings From the Road

Only two days later. What's this? Another blog entry only two days after the last one, and not two weeks later? Well, originally, I was only going to post some pictures, but it seems that some words are inside me that request expression. Put those thoughts in my journal or blog about them? Guess the fact that I'm writing this means I'm going the blog route.

Since last time. I'm in Gary, Indiana, as I write this. Last night, I stopped in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Last week, going west on I-90 through Minnesota, North Dakota and Montana, there were vestiges of winter remaining, and you know I also ran into some serious winter weather in Minnesota. On the return trip, spring was knocking on the door (though no doubt winter won't answer and will try to change the locks). By the time I got into Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana today, spring had obviously already moved in and made itself at home.

As I sit here in the Schneider OC in Gary, it is about 65 degrees outside, sunshine and clear skies. As a matter of fact, when I showered earlier, besides relieved expressions on those other people I was around, I was able to put on my jean shorts for the first time since I left California.

After I deliver in the morning to this place in Detroit, I'm going over to Woodhaven, Michigan, where Schneider has a small facility, to get some work done on my truck, including regular maintenance, and maybe repairing the grill damaged by Bambi (the deer I hit in our last episode in Montana). I'll likely be there for a day or two, so I might be staying in a hotel. Won't be sure until I get there and see what they say.

I'll be going to Rome to visit in about 3 weeks (a Saturday, Sunday and Monday), so I'm looking forward to that.

Play me a song. Just for kicks today (since I don't have anything I regularly listen to on Sunday mornings on XM), I cruised around some channels I don't normally listen to in order to check out some of the newer music in the pop scene. Some of it I didn't care for (mostly hip-hop that contained mostly rap), but I heard some really good songs also by some artists that were new to me (which wouldn't take much).

Three of the songs that were new to me, and that played pretty close together on the channel I was on, intrigued me because of some similarity of ideas in the lyrics. It made me wonder if some of the same people wrote or collaborated on those songs.

Here's what I'm talking about. The songs in question are “Our Song” by Taylor Swift; “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles; and “No Air” by Jordin Sparks (who was a winner on American Idol one year I wasn't keeping up with it).

In “Our Song”, there is a girl with her boyfriend riding in the car listening to the radio. She turns down the radio and says something to the effect that “we don't have a song of our own.” The boyfriend says that their song is the sound of the screen door slamming, them talking on the phone, meeting in the hallway at school – just the everyday things that make their relationship sacred and special to them. Very catchy tune with a good message.

The theme of having a song crops again in “Love Song”, with a different message (and of course, any message or thought I have from this song is just my own; yours might be different, or you might have none at all). The singer, a girl or woman, is talking to a guy she's met, or is perhaps in the beginning stages of some kind of relationship. She tells him that she needs room to think, breathe, get to know him, and wants him to quit pressuring her about being serious just now, or perhaps being so needy or clingy. She tells him she's not going to write him a love song just because he asks her to, or needs her to. Again, a catchy tune with a decent message (in my opinion).

The third song, “No Air”, has a similar metaphor to “Love Song” in the beginning lyrics of the song. The singer in “No Air” talks about how when the one she loves is gone, it's just like being without air to breathe. She misses him, and wants him as close as the air she breathes. In “Love Song”, it's just the opposite: the other person is smothering her, and she needs him to back off so she can breathe.

I don't know why those things stuck out to me, but they prompted thought. So I write.

I have been in a relationship with some mileage on the tread, one which travels through the flat, uninspiring (to some) plains of North Dakota more than the heights of the Montana Rockies, and at some point, after being married for a few years, and getting sick for an extended period of time, I began to bemoan the fact that much of the new shine was gone, there was nothing special about “us” any more. I was seeing the potholes in the road, hearing the engine of our marriage making sounds of wear and tear. I forgot that what made “us” who we were, in large part, were the very everyday things I grew to take for granted, even grew to be annoyed with.

And eventually I left.

And now, sometimes (less as the years go by), I miss the very everyday things that I realize are the treasure of what I cherish about those years.

Just so, as I have written about before in this blog, I have spent much of my life looking for the missing piece, the next big thing, waiting on God to come in to solve all my problems, remove all my struggles, show me what to do next. And, meanwhile, in the waiting, being unhappy or dissatisfied. Focusing so much on some destination that I forget that it's the trip that makes the destination worth getting to.

But, over the past few years, I've learned to make choices, take responsibility, and focus on the journey more than the destination. So much so, that my job and my lifestyle are about that very thing; now I do nothing but journey, and focus on it, most of the time enjoying it. The destination is always changing anyway (it always was, but I just didn't know it), so what's left but to focus on, enjoy, the journey?

And I am.

I have also been the person in the second song: needy, clingy, smothering. I wonder how Charlotte put up with me sometimes, especially in our dating days and early marriage. I cringe when I think of how smothering I could be. On the other hand, I have also been on the other end: writing love songs (or other songs) just because people asked me to, wanting to rescue everyone, save everyone, be the one who made everything alright. Wanting approval.

I was confronted with this very thing just yesterday. My sister is having problems with her computer, and she needs it to be working because she has college papers she has to turn in this week (I am so proud of her: she is, while working full time, and two kids still at home, getting her degree so she can teach; she inspires me. Cindy, if ever you read this, know that you are a shining star in my sky.). I know a little about computers sometimes, so she calls me to see if I can help. I can't, due in part to the fact that I'm not there to tinker with things myself. And I feel the burden – for her, for me. She needs to be rescued, and I am powerless.

Back in 2005, after I had gone to Rome for Thanksgiving, it became evident to some of us in my family that my grandmother was getting to the point that she shouldn't (or couldn't) live alone the way she had been. So, I decided, after much thought and prayer, to move to Rome, drive for a local company, and try to help however I could – mostly just being there. And I'm glad I did.

But, later, it became obvious that my being there wasn't really helping any longer; she needed more help than I could give. So, I began to think about coming back on the road, teaming with Terry, driving for Schneider again. That's where my heart was: being on the road.

It was so hard to actually make that decision, to admit that I was at the end of what I could do. It felt almost like failure. But, in coming back on the road, I was in some sense recognizing and embracing my own limitations, and the fact that I am not the elected or appointed Rescuer for everyone I know. And that's okay. Even good. I don't have to be everything, do everything, make everything okay for everyone else. It's not my job.

Sometimes, things just aren't my problem to fix, and people are not there so I can rescue them.

A lesson learned, being learned; part of the journey. A truck makes an interesting classroom sometimes.

Learning to love and hate in Chicago. I drove through Chicago today. It was beautiful coming in on the Edens expressway from the north looking at the skyline spread across the horizon in profile, going through downtown, driving out through the South Side on the Dan Ryan towards Indiana. Driving through in a truck, its weird in some ways to think that I lived there for several years of my life.

Most of my experience of Chicago is intertwined in the fact that I was living and working in the JPUSA community. They were good years that shaped for better the person I have become since.

I found love in Chicago, as I have told you before, when I met Charlotte, began dating her, got engaged, and later married (after we left JPUSA). I won't rehearse that whole history now.

I always think of JPUSA, my friends there, those years I had there, and Charlotte when I drive through Chicago.

But today, while driving down through the South Side on the Dan Ryan, passing through the 70's, for some reason, I remembered the day I came face to face with the starkest, most naked example of hate I had ever encountered, and have never since.

It was Christmas eve, 1991. I had only been at JPUSA and in Chicago a few weeks. It was my first Christmas in Chicago, the first away from Dallas. At the time, I was working the overnight shift at the shelter JPUSA operated for homeless women and children. After finishing my shift, I was using one of the shelter's vans to take some of the ladies and their kids to the homes of family members so they could spend Christmas around people they loved.

One of the ladies and her kids I took that day were going to visit some family (the lady's grandmother or cousin I think) who lived on the far South Side, down below 95 ^th Street. On the way there, I had to stop to put gas in the van, so I got off the Dan Ryan around 71 ^st or 75 ^th Street and pulled into a little convenience store.

The women from the shelter and her kids were black. I'm a white guy. That didn't matter at the shelter or at JPUSA. But it mattered when I pulled into the gas station on the South Side.

I had just started to pump gas, when I heard this shouting coming from a car at the pump across from mine. I ignored it at first; living in Chicago, in the Uptown neighborhood where JPUSA was, you learn to ignore noises that don't concern you.

But there was no one else around. I looked over at the car, and there were about 4 or 5 little boys – they were maybe 9 to 12 years old – with the windows cracked, yelling things. They were looking in my direction. As I sharpened my perception to pay attention to what they were shouting, I heard awful things.

They were shouting at me, at the woman from the shelter, at her kids. Hateful things, demeaning things, violent things. Things kids shouldn't even know about, much less be screaming.

I felt the most intense hatred I've ever felt personally in my life. I was scared. I didn't belong here, I thought. Forget the gas. I gotta get outta here.

And I felt hatred rising in me for those kids and their words. Things I thought were never part of me, the residue of growing up in a culture in the South where lingering prejudices and injustices remain, quietly below the surface. I began to think things, affirm things, that I would have sworn I didn't believe or espouse. I began to hate those kids as surely as they hated me. In my heart, I was yelling back things just as bad.

Nothing happened. I finished paying for the gas, and drove as fast I could get away from that awful place. Dropped the woman and her kids off, went back to Uptown, and enjoyed the rest of my Christmas. Forgetting that I had hated, and was hated.

As I write this, on the TV screen, on CNN, much of this afternoon's coverage has been focused on Barak Obama and Jeremiah Wright, and all the controversy swirling around the things that Wright has been saying, and how Obama is being affected by it and reacting to it.

Much of what Jeremiah Wright has said is very offensive, and I think incorrect. I don't believe that AIDS was created as a conspiracy against black people; I don't believe that what happened on 9/11 was a result of whatever various atrocities or evil the United States may have committed in the past.

However, beyond the sound bites and controversial statements, are words that haunt me, take me back to that Christmas eve on the South Side of Chicago, being confronted by hatred in some little boys and in my own heart.

Instead of focusing on the things that this one man has said that disturb or anger some of us, I wish (even hope) that as a nation we could perhaps be goaded to recognize and acknowledge the very real problems that exist as a legacy of much that truly was and is unjust and wrong. Some black people believe that things are as bad as they have ever been, that nothing has really changed since Martin Luther King, Jr., bravely tried to lead us to a different place, a promised land of dignity, equality, respect.

What if, instead of just condemning someone like Jeremiah Wright, we actually listened to what he had to say underneath some of his statements, and try to see the truth those words contain. There is truth there. It may not be your truth or my truth, and I may not like it, but it's truth to the people who have lived it.

How can I, who have never been black, who has never been denied anything because of my race or ethnic identity, know what it's like to have everything be affected by just being a certain color? Can I just write it off? Things are better, so those people should just take responsibility for their lives and quit kvetching about everything. Is that the answer? Some of us think so, evidently.

And things continue on, through the next news cycle, and we close our eyes.

And hatred finds root.

Shortly after that Christmas eve, I read the book that was just published earlier that same year, There Are No Children Here , about kids like the ones I'd seen in that car. I've never been the same. It's still relevant today.

Pictures from the road.  Some pictures from Montana.












And this is what my truck looks like after kissing the deer the other day.





So long for now.  

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . and miss the deer . . .

Allan

Where Spring Is Still A Rumor

Hello from North Dakota. I'm currently under a load that I deliver Monday morning to a place in Detroit, Michigan. This is my second time in the last few days to stay at this same truck stop (the Flying J in Beach, North Dakota, just on the Montana/ND line).

As I write, I'm enjoying listening to music by James McMurtry, son of Larry McMurtry, whose book serves as the inspiration on some level for what Terry and I started out to do last year as we started driving this truck around the country. James McMurtry was on a show on XM Public Radio I listen to most days called Soundcheck and they played some of the cuts off his latest CD.

Now the coolness of living with technology that we have today – last night, I stopped in Great Falls, Montana, not a large city by any definition. Two hours after I heard James McMurtry on the radio, I'm hooked up to the internet, buy his latest album on Itunes for $10, and I'm listening to the music on my laptop. How cool is that?!?

I never grow tired of being enamored of technology – every time I go online to pay my bills (it has literally been years since I've paid a bill by writing a check and mailing it), e-mail someone I love from the middle of nowhere (kind of like where I am right now), read blogs and newsgroups, I am amazed that, though I am more isolated and solitary than anyone I know in this life on the road, I am as connected in many senses as anyone I know.

You (and sometimes I do also) can pine for the “good old days” all you want; I am glad to be living in this place and time that in many ways that matter (and I'm not talking about technology necessarily now) is better than any time in history.

Back out west. Last time I wrote, I was on my way up to Bloomington, Minnesota (just south of Minneapolis), after being in California, getting to drive one of my favorite routes through Nevada, Utah and Colorado – ah!

I delivered last Friday. The night before, I shut down in Des Moines. As I headed north the next morning, south of Minneapolis, I hit the snow. Not just flurries, but mid-winter snow. Accompanied by wind and cold.

I was tempted to return my calendar for being defective.

By the time I delivered to Bloomington, I had my next load: picking up a relay load at a drop yard Schneider has in Blaine, Minnesota (just north of Minneapolis), and taking it to Sumner, Washington (just outside Seattle). Back out west! And going through Montana! And a lot of miles! Life is good.

The only problem (which wasn't a problem, but merely one of the situations that happens to truck drivers) was that the other driver (who was bringing the load from Battle Creek, Michigan, as far as Minnesota) wasn't going to be there until the next day.

I didn't have a trailer, so I used the opportunity to go up the road to a Target and Walmart, and got some things I needed or wanted. That was a nice diversion.

Saturday about 10:00 am local time, the other driver got there with the trailer. It was still snowing, but as I went further west, by the time I got to Fargo, North Dakota, the snow was supposed to clear up.

I get rolling, and am taking it easy because there's snow and ice on the road, it's snowing, 31 degrees, and there's quite a bit of traffic.

107 miles from Fargo. Cool. Maybe I can make it as far as Bismarck before shutting down.

Uh-oh. What's this? Sign up ahead, one of those flashing signs you see around road construction. It says: “Road closed after next exit. All traffic must exit.”

Turn on the CB and find out what's going on: I-94 is snow- and ice-covered, and there was an accident involving 5 trucks. No ETA on when it will re-open.

There is nowhere else to go, so I pull over to the side of the road near the entrance to a rest area (which was so full, the ramp leading into it was packed with trucks shut down and waiting) and just sit, watching the snow, listening to XM, listening for updates on the CB, reading, thinking.

Three hours later, they opened the road back up. The road was in decent shape, but there were still areas where the snow and ice were still heavily packed on the road. I finally made it to Fargo, and was too tired to go any further, so I just shut down there. I had plenty of time on this load.

So the past week, I've been driving to Washington state and then turning around and coming right back.

Going through Montana, as always, was spectacular. Next to Texas, Montana is my favorite state to drive through.

It was even more special because having recently finished reading the Journals of Lewis and Clark , many of the places and features they described were fresh in my mind and I enjoyed noticing things that I've never really paid attention to when I have gone through there before.

Yesterday, as I was coming east on Montana 200, just east of Rogers Pass, I was coming down the east side of the mountains on this curvy, twisty, two-lane road, surrounded by unmelted snow (though the road was dry and it wasn't snowing then), going about 40 miles per hour, rounded a curve to see about 5 deer standing about a foot from the right side of the road. I hit my brakes, and about 50 feet from them, one of them just walks out in front of the truck. Killed the deer, but only broke the plastic grille on the front of the truck in the middle. I hated it, but there was truly nothing I could have done.

There is no doubt I could write more, but it's time for me to go to bed.

I've got pictures to post, but I'll do that next time.

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . hopefully toward spring . . .

Allan, who is enjoying “Freeway View” by James McMurtry (from Just Us Kids )

Waiting -- and Pictures From the Road

Currently. After spending the past week and a little more in Texas and the west, I'm on my way back east. At I write this, I am sitting at a small truck stop in Brush, Colorado (on I-76 just east of Fort Morgan, about 85 miles east of Denver), on my way to Minnesota for a delivery Friday morning near Minneapolis.

If you have read this blog any length of time (or have backtracked to earlier entries), you already know that I love running out west – would run out west all the time if I could. So, this past week and a half has just been like a vacation to me. I always love driving, the lifestyle it involves (with rare exceptions that are made up of frustrations that come with any job), but driving out west, I think I am happier and more content than any other time on the road.

Since last time. Last time I wrote from Kingsville, Texas. Much of the past week since then, I've been waiting. But it hasn't been too bad, and I don't mind downtime occasionally.

Man From Rome. Right after finishing my writing last time, and going back out to my truck, there was a truck parked next to me where one hadn't been before I'd gone into the truck stop. I noticed on the door that the trucking company was located in Cedartown, Georgia, which is only about 15 miles from my hometown of Rome.

The driver was sitting in his truck on the phone. When he got off the phone, I rolled down my window and waved at him to get his attention. I told him I noticed his trucking company was located in Cedartown, and wondered where he lived. (I figured if anyone drove for a company in Cedartown, they had to be from around there.) He told me he lived in Rome, and told me his name.

I asked him whereabouts in Rome he lived, and when he told me, it was the same road that all of my grandmother's side of the family is from. When I told him that I still had a great-uncle and some cousins living on that road, and mentioned the name Dowdy, he starting reeling off names of many of my cousins. He knows quite a few folks in that side of my family, and lives within site across the road from where a cousin of mine lives.

From that beginning we talked for about 30 minutes. He is 68, a little older than my Daddy, and told me he's been driving a truck for over 44 years. Longer than I've been alive. Talk about perspective. For a while after we stopped talking, I sat in my truck wondering, even as much as I love trucking and this life on the road, if I could imagine doing it for 44 years. My mind couldn't even wrap itself around the thought.

He was a super-nice guy, and it was so eerie to run into someone in the middle of The Great State of Texas from my hometown – and even more, knew many of my extended family. It's times like that when I realize that as vast as this beautiful country of ours seems sometimes, especially in the wide-open spaces out west, that it really is a small place, and the most common connections can crop up in the most unexpected places. Like going to China and running into your neighbor down the street in a local restaurant.

I wish I had been able to talk with him a little longer about his trucking experiences. I think I would have learned a great deal.

Waiting, Part I. The next morning (this would have been Tuesday, April 15, if you care to keep track), I delivered the load I had to Weslaco. By the time I was done there, I still didn't have my next load. I was able to park at the warehouse I delivered to for a little while, but after an hour, I decided to go ahead and find another place to park so I wouldn't wear out my welcome. I finally found a Flying J a little bit north of Weslaco, in Edinburgh, Texas. I went there to wait.

Waiting is part of every truck driver's life: waiting on the next load, waiting to be loaded or unloaded, waiting to get a truck or trailer repaired, waiting in line to fuel, waiting in traffic because of accidents or construction, waiting on bad weather to clear out. Just waiting. I have often thought during my 3 years in a truck that if someone can't wait well, trucking isn't for them.

I don't know that I'm any more patient than anyone else, but my passions and interests are inclined for such an environment. If I have a book to read, a laptop to use, a video to watch, I am content. So downtime just means time for me to pursue those things that I love to do anyway. I cannot remember a time since I first learned to read that I haven't habitually carried a book with me most everywhere I would go.

My earliest clear memory of this is when I was about nine years old, going over to Nanny and Boe's house (my grandparents, where I spent about half the time), or to visit my Daddy for a weekend, I had a little gym bag, packed with my books and always a notebook for writing. My Nanny used to call it my “satchel”, and remarked often, laughing, that she did not believe it would be possible for me to go anywhere without it.

I can hear her even now as I write this: “You're just like Uncle Andrew, sittin' in the middle of your suitcase.” (I never met Uncle Andrew – he had died before I was born --, but he was my grandmother's uncle, and I know him well through my grandmother's awesome stories.)

Anyway, back to what I was talking about: waiting. One advantage of driving for a large company like Schneider is that waiting on a load isn't usually something that happens. Maybe I have to wait several hours for a load, but never before have I waiting in terms of days.

But, when you go into areas where freight is soft for whatever reason, sometimes you have to wait. And so it was for me in south Texas last week. It wasn't until the next afternoon that I got my next load. But it was more than worth the wait!

I was to pick up a loaded trailer in Laredo, and take it to Oxnard, California! Further west, including west Texas! I'll wait anytime for that kind of load.

So, last Wednesday saw me driving up to Laredo. I had to be in Oxnard by Saturday night. 1800 paid miles (which meant about 1900 or more real miles). Plenty of time. I could leave early Thursday morning, take my time, and enjoy the drive.

Waiting, Part II. So, you've got it all planned out, do you, Allan? Leave Thursday morning early, take your time, huh?

Not so fast.

I got to Laredo, found my trailer, and noticed a tag attached to the front of the trailer. Usually those tags indicate a trailer with a major problem. I got out and looked; sure enough, it had a problem. In big block letters on the tag was the warning: “DON'T MOVE”.

Part of the main support frame of the trailer, between the two axles on the driver's side, had a big crack in it. Not good.

The Laredo drop yard has a small maintenance shop for working on trailers (lots of trailers coming across the border have problems), but they were closed when I got there. I had to wait until the next morning at 7:00 for them to come in.

No leaving early for California. The trailer had been there for a while, and someone had obviously noticed the problem. Why hadn't they already repaired it, I wondered. No answer came.

Thursday morning, I talked to the mechanics, they told me to bring the trailer over to the shop so they could look at it. Repairing it would take some major welding. And time.

So. I'm waiting again.

Like I said: I don't mind waiting. But with a load to California, waiting meant the clock ticking, giving me less time to deliver the load on time. Instead of taking my time, I'd be rushing, trying to make up for starting late.

Finally, about 1:30 that afternoon, the trailer was repaired, and I could leave.

I stopped the first night at a rest area on I-10 in west Texas, about 15 miles west of Saragosa, Texas. Friday, I made it to Eloy, Arizona, between Tucson and Phoenix. I made the delivery on time in Oxnard on Saturday.

I had been to the same place in Oxnard back in February, and had found a small place I could park that wasn't in any of my truck stop guides. It only had four spots for trucks, so I was hoping it would have room for me, since I'd told Schneider I'd be available on Sunday morning. The only other options I had were to drive to the Schneider maintenance facility just south of downtown LA or the Operating Center in Fontana, 60 and 100 miles away, respectively.

I found room at the little place in Oxnard, and still didn't have my next load. So I settled in to wait.

Waiting, Part III. Sunday morning came. Still no load. Sunday afternoon came. Still no load.

Late in the afternoon, my satellite unit started beeping. My next load.

Pick up an empty trailer at the same place I'd delivered on Saturday (they didn't have any when I was there the day before), and take it to the LA maintenance yard. Drop the empty trailer, and pick up a loaded trailer.

It was supposed to be unloaded Monday morning in Commerce, California. That's 7 whole miles. Wow. Don't know if I can make it 7 miles – let me plan my driving schedule for this load.

My plan mostly involved getting to LA Sunday afternoon, and commencing to wait some more. Til Monday morning.

But, I'm in southern California, perfect weather, I'm out west. So waiting isn't a problem in the same way it would be if I were waiting in Newark, New Jersey, or some equally awful place (though it would be hard to beat NJ for awful quotient in my opinion).

No more waiting. I delivered that load Monday morning, and then got my next load. I was to go down to Otay, California, to the Schneider drop yard there (Otay is just southeast of San Diego, right on the Mexican border), pick up a load going to Bloomington, Minnesota. That's the load I'm currently under.

I picked up the load on Monday, and shut down in Fontana Monday night. Yesterday, I drove north on I-15 through Las Vegas, into Utah, where I-70 begins, and made it as far as Richfield last night. And now I'm in Brush, Colorado.

I-70 through Utah and Colorado is one of my favorite stretches of road, especially going through Glenwood Canyon. The weather was good, traffic wasn't too bad, and the drive was beautiful.

For the first time in a while, I took some pictures. I'll post them below.

Pictures from the road: Richfield, Utah.  The view from the truck stop I was at last night.











Pictures from the road: Vail, Colorado.  I took these pictures just east of Vail at a rest stop on I-70 today.

I suppose that's enough for now (or more than enough for some of you, I'm sure).

Until next time . . . keep the wheels rollin' . . . when you aren't waiting . . .

Allan

No Better Place

The best place on earth. I'm writing this from inside an Arby's at the Love's truck stop in Kingsville, Texas, home of the largest ranch in the United States (at 1289 square miles, it's larger than the state of Rhode Island). But the fact that I'm in Texas – anywhere – means that I'm on my own personal hallowed ground. There's no place I'd rather be than Texas. Even as much as I love it further west, especially Montana, Utah, Arizona, Nevada, nowhere else is Texas. I love Georgia, have my roots there, and most of the people I love most in this world are there; but Texas has an exalted place in the mythology of the sacred in my life.

I first came to Texas in August, 1983, on my way fresh out of high school, on my way to college, the ministry, and changing the world. Coming down I-20 and seeing the Dallas cityscape rise up out of the flat spaces suddenly over a rise awed me as an 18-year-old. It was so big – bigger than anything I'd ever seen. I was inspired.

Over the course of living in Dallas for almost nine years, I became in my soul and marrow a Texan. I never uttered words more proudly than in response to the question, “where are you from?”: “I'm from Dallas, Texas”; or the variant after I'd been there a few years, and loved all of what Texas was, all that it represented, and not just Dallas: “I'm from Texas.”

I moved from Dallas to Chicago in 1991, and loved living there, but never felt like I belonged to Chicago or it to me, in the same way I imbibed Texas. I was a Texan living in Chicago. When I married and moved to Florida, even after ten years, I never grew attached to the place, though I liked it, enjoyed my life there because of Charlotte and her family. But the moment my marriage was wending its way to its sad end, I left Florida, and have not missed it, though I have ached for Charlotte millions of times.

Texas is in my blood, my thoughts, in a way I cannot fathom myself, much less explain. But I am not alone in this experience: Terry, who is from Oklahoma, has a similar love affair with this place. He was here in this same place only last Friday (yes, this very place; he delivered to the very same place I'm going tomorrow). He stopped here to take a short break; I stopped here for the night, especially after our talk: “ You've got to stop at the Love's in Kingsville. There's this girl up at the front register ...”

And so there is.

Since last time. Last time I wrote to you (for you know it is to you I write, don't you? Only you.), I was on my way to deliver a load to Macclenny, Florida, just west of Jacksonville. After that, I picked up a load in Jacksonville that was going all the way to Los Angeles, but I took it only as far as the Schneider drop yard in Reserve, Louisiana. The rest of the way, it would probably be taken by a team.

On my way through Florida, I was able to stop and have breakfast with my Daddy and his wife, Hilda. We enjoyed our short visit, and once more I was amazed at how lucky I am to be able to see people I love all over the country as I travel. And, you may recall (but probably not since your poor noggin has more to keep up with than the comings and goings of the Lonesome Dove Xpress), I had just seen my Daddy the week before up in Chicago when we both happened to be up there.

I made it to Reserve on Friday night and stayed there until Saturday morning. Schneider has a small maintenance facility there at the drop yard, and they have a small area where drivers can relax, watch tv, bring in a book or laptop, do laundry, or whatever. I took my laptop inside to check e-mail, read some blogs, and maybe do some writing.

There were several other drivers in there, and we all started talking. It was a most enjoyable time. One driver, who was the only person inside when I went in, and I talked about ordering a pizza. His truck was in the shop, I was already out of hours to run (which meant I couldn't even drive my truck for food legally), and there was no company car available. And we couldn't find a place that delivered to Reserve (where there was literally nothing).

But, at last, one of the other drivers who wandered in and heard us talking of our desperate plight, a young lady named Mary, offered to take one of us to pick up the pizza. I got the assignment, and off we go. Mary is a bulk driver for Schneider (bulk drivers haul the tanker trucks, like the ones that deliver gasoline and other things you've probably seen on the road), and it was cool hearing her story. She had a brand new Toni Braxton CD (greatest hits, I think; “Unbreak My Heart” is my favorite of hers), so we jammed to that on the way Papa John's.

We had called Papa John's earlier on the suggestion of another driver who had come in and was from that area, and they at first had told us they would deliver it. Then they called and said they couldn't – it was too far.

When we got there to pick it up, they told us that because we had to come get it after they had told us they'd deliver, it was no charge. Free pizza, new friends, and pleasant conversation on a Friday night – what could be better? (Only if it happened in Texas.)

Saturday morning, I was given a load to pick up in Zachary, Louisiana, just north of Baton Rouge, going to Pennington, Alabama, in the southwest part of that state. I delivered the load on Sunday, and picked up a load at the same place going to Weslaco, Texas.

As I mentioned above, Terry delivered to this same place last week. Talk about bizarre!

Speaking of Terry . . .

Terry. Terry came back on the road last Wednesday, and we've talked most every day since then. He had a great time off, was able to get his truck from Dallas up to Arkansas, and has been living the high life with his recent loads to Texas, and then to California, where he is now.

Terry is doing well, and would surely send his greetings to you if he knew I was writing you at this moment.

Miscellania. I finished the Journals of Lewis and Clark I was reading, and am now a good way through a collection of writings by Henry Thoreau, the largest of which is Walden . Thoreau's call to his readers to “simplify, simplify, simplify” their lives, his sometimes solitary retreats into a simpler life, and his credo of individualism (making choices, taking responsibility) resonate with me. I haven't read anything by Thoreau since college (that I remember; and I probably would), so this is a welcome journey for me. On deck is Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson , which I have never read. At 1700 pages, it will be with me for a while.

I'm loving, like a newfound toy on Christmas morning, listening more to XM Sonic Theater, enjoying audio books and dramas while cruising down the road in my big orange truck.

More I can always find to write, but the seat here in Arby's is getting awfully hard and I'm getting awfully sore. And, in such a way I am motivated to part company with you until next time.

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

Allan from Texas

Hello From Columbia, South Carolina

Since last time. In the last week and a half, I have been bouncing between north and south in the east like a big orange ping-pong ball. When I first got back home to the truck and road, my first load was to pick up a load in Rome, Georgia, which had never happened before. I got to see Mama and Cindy for a little while that first night. That load was delivering up near Buffalo, New York. When I got to Buffalo, it was cold and snowing.

I mentioned in the last entry that I was on my way to Memphis with a load I picked up in Buffalo.

Then I went up to Wisconsin, to Green Bay, where Schneider's headquarters is. I always like going up to Wisconsin. My Daddy was working in Chicagoland that week, so on my return trip through there with a load going to South Carolina, I got to stop for the night at the Schneider OC in Gary, Indiana, and Daddy came over, picked me up, and we got to go out to eat and spend some good time together.

My next load was to pick up an empty trailer at the Kimberly Clark I had delivered to Saturday in Graniteville (just across the state line from Augusta, Georgia) and drive about 150 miles over to Bennettsville and pick up a very heavy load of paper rolls going up to Du Bois, Pennsylvania. It proved to be a very tiring and frustrating day, largely because I made it so.

The Kimberly Clark facility didn't have any empty Schneider trailers, so they sent me to a Target facility in Lugoff, South Carolina. No problem. When I got the trailer, I inspected it, as always, and it was a newer trailer that just had its annual inspection in January, and there were no problems that I could see with it. So off I went to Bennettsville.

I had planned to get loaded and then make it as far as I comfortably could, probably 200 or 300 miles, before shutting down. The load had to be in Pennsylvania the next day by midnight, and at almost 600 miles, it was easily done the way I had projected things.

Then there's that old “the best laid plans of mice and men” thing that kicks in sometimes. Sunday was the day for it to kick in for me.

I got to the shipper where I was going to pick up this load of huge paper rolls (they stand about 9 feet tall and are about 6 feet in diameter and are very heavy). The trailer was dirty with trash and debris from past loads, so I got in the trailer to sweep it out. I had my flashlight, and when I got to the nose of the trailer, there were some places where small puddles of water had collected in the corners. It had been raining heavily the past few days in South Carolina, and it was obvious the water came from a leak, though I couldn't see any holes or gashes (part of the regular inspection of a trailer is looking for those, and I hadn't seen them when I picked up the trailer; and I also didn't notice the water in the front of the trailer – it couldn't be seen without getting up in the front of the trailer, which I had not done when picking it up). The shipper wouldn't load the trailer with a leak, of course.

So I got on the phone with Schneider's weekend support shift (notorious among drivers for long wait times and incompetent help) to tell them what was going on and find out what they wanted me to do. As I was sitting there for 30 minutes on hold (not an unusual occurrence), I saw the plans I had made for getting pretty far up the road evaporate.

Puff.

I was told to take the trailer to the Charlotte OC, 90 miles away, and leave it so the maintenance shop could repair it. Then, I was to go about 20 miles over to Holly Hill, North Carolina, to pick up another empty trailer, and return to Bennettsville to be loaded.

That was not a problem in and of itself because I was being paid for those miles to move the trailers, and miles are miles are miles. If I'm rolling, I'm generally seeing dollar signs coming from it.

There were two other problems, however, that were coming up for me: (1) by the time I drove on all the little two lane highways, little towns with speed traps, scores of traffic lights, and tons of traffic (especially for a Sunday), to Charlotte, Holly Hill and then back to Bennettsville, and finally got loaded, I would be close to my 14 hour limit for the day. And there is nothing around Bennettsville as far as a place a truck can park for 10 hours. (2) My route up to Pennsylvania was largely on US highways and state highways, with only about 200 miles of interstate going up I-81 through Virginia. With 600 miles to go, in the rain, it would be impossible to legally make it in one day.

So, when I got to Charlotte, I called the weekend shift at Schneider central command once more to try to get a solution (my solution was to move the pick-up or the delivery time back a day). The person I spoke with told me they wouldn't change the pick-up or delivery time. When I told her I'd be at the shipper out of hours to legally run, and nowhere close to go, she suggested that I got down to Florence, South Carolina, almost 30 miles away, to a truck stop there. That was not a practical option, because that would have put me even further away from where I was going.

So I was basically on my own. That's not a good feeling for a truck driver to have.

I got the empty trailer in Holly Hill and trudged back to Bennettsville. I planned to ask the place I was picking up (a paper company) if I could park on their property to take my break. If they said “no”, I didn't know what to do but drive over to Florence and see if there was any parking left that late in the day (there probably would have been at the time I would have gotten there).

Thankfully, the security guard at the gate told me it would be no problem if I parked for my break on their property (basically on the side of the large driveway leading up the front gate, which had plenty of room). Relief. One problem solved.

I got loaded with no problems, and I didn't go over my 14 hour limit for the day.

I still had the problem of having to go 600 miles on horrible roads (as far as speed and traffic were concerned) in the rain the next day.

I woke up early the next morning (this past Monday) and started as soon as I could legally. I decided to do the best I could, and when I got to a good spot to stop on I-81 in Virginia, I'd be able to more accurately gauge my progress and the possibility of getting the load delivered on time (legally and safely). I stopped up in Greenville, Virginia, to scale the load (I was so close to the legal limit, I thought I might be overweight on one of my axles, but I was 200 pounds under, so it was okay) at a Pilot truck stop there. I had made better time than I thought I would, but it was still going to be close.

By the time I got to I-70 in Maryland, I realized I wasn't going to be able to make it. I still had 150 miles to go, and only 1 and a half hours of driving time left out of my 11 hours. No way I could make the Lonesome Dove Xpress average over 80 miles per hour.

So I called my new regular dispatcher. A little background: when Terry and I quit teaming in December, I was assigned a new dispatch team based in Charlotte. The woman with whom I dealt most of the time (the few times I talked to her) was new, and it wasn't long before she left, leaving me to deal with her immediate supervisor, a man named Michael who had a personality and manner that was very brusque and (to me) arrogant. I just didn't like him, but it wouldn't matter most of the time unless I needed to interact with him directly, a very rare event. When I got back to the truck after my time in Rome, I had a message on my satellite unit that told me that I had been assigned to another dispatch team.

I called the new team to introduce myself, and talked to a lady who was very friendly, and I could tell I would like this board better already. The person I will deal with most of the time, Steve, has proven to remind me of the guy Terry and I dealt with in Memphis, Julian (a stellar member of Schneider's team in West Memphis). He has been great, and I love being on this new team.

So I called Monday afternoon to explain the situation, and also to let him know that I had tried to solve the problem over the weekend with the support folks to no avail. I told him I would need to push out the delivery time and the reasons why. He was very supportive and understanding and told me to do whatever I needed to do to be safe and legal.

So I sent in a satellite message telling them I'd deliver the next morning as soon as I legally could get there. Problem solved.

I stopped for the night in Breezewood, Pennsylvania, at a truck stop I'd never stopped at before. It's a TA truck stop (not usually my favorite place to shut down), but this one was very nice and had lots of nice facilities for drivers. I found a lounge upstairs (designated “Quiet Lounge for Professional Drivers” by the sign outside the door), comfortable, large, and quiet. There were hundreds of drivers at this place (it's very big), but there was no one else in there. Perfect! I spent some good time in there on my laptop, reading, and just relaxing outside of the truck.

I was on the road by 2:30 yesterday morning and delivered the load an hour before I told them I'd be there. I was unloaded in less than 30 minutes, and then drove over to Blawnox, Pennsylvania, just north of Pittsburgh, to pick up the load I have now that is going to Macclenny, Florida, just west of Jacksonville. After the harrowing from the last load, this load was a welcome one. Plenty of time and I'm going down south again.

I don't mind going from north to south and back again (the bad winter weather is pretty much gone, and I love the still-cool temperatures up north), but I already miss Texas and the west. It's been a while since I've had a nice load out west. It will come eventually. I just have to be patient.

At this moment, I'm shut down at a Flying J truck stop in Columbia, South Carolina. I have about 320 miles or so to get to Macclenny tomorrow. I drove through some beautiful mountains in West Virginia (I have not seen a place in WV that is not beautiful) today, through mostly sunny skies and nice running. A great day for driving and being on the road, home.

Terry. I have not spoken to Terry in about a week (we don't talk everyday when he's not on the road). He comes back on the road today, so I am looking forward to rejoining our regular conversation. I'll let you know how he has been doing when I do.

Reading, Listening and Watching. I regularly update what I've been up to besides driving in this life I live on the road. If it doesn't interest you, you can always move on to something else.

Books. I think last time I mentioned what I was reading, I was reading the excellent Annie Dillard book Pilgrim At Tinker Creek. Excellent book, and provoked lots of thought.

After finishing that, I read the Anne Tyler book Accidental Tourist . I like everything I've read by Anne Tyler, especially Breathing Lessons, which I read back in the 1980's. Tourist was enjoyable as well. It's about a man, Macon Leary, who just goes through life haphazardly, letting life happen to him, carry him along, and his journey to get to the point when he begins to take responsibility for his life, to make choices, and begin to live his life. The theme resonated with me on several deep levels, because I've been on such a journey myself the past few years.

I'm currently reading, primarily, the Journals of Lewis and Clark , a book I found at a used bookstore when I was in Rome (thanks Mama for taking me there). I love reading journals and memoirs, and this one is fascinating, detailing the journey of Lewis and Clark across a new nation from 1804-1806. I'm almost done with it.

I'm reading a few other things, a couple of books on philosophy, some things online, but those are more casual pursuits, taken at a more leisurely pace. I usually have one thing I focus on more than the others, and that's usually what I talk about here in this blog.

XM radio. Lately, I been listening to a channel on XM that features various audio books, and I'm loving it. I haven't really listened to it all that much before, because every time I tuned it, they were in the middle of something, and I hate picking things up in the middle. In my methodical way of thinking and arranging things in order, I don't like coming into the middle of anything, especially a movie or something.

But I came in one day when they were reading a history of Charlemagne, who ruled the Franks in the ninth century. And I was hooked. Currently, I'm listening to reading from such books as these: Age of Innocence, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, March of the 10,000, Great Expectations, The Poison Study, and a couple of others. It's very cool to be driving down the highway reading a book, learning, being entertained, and being challenged to think.

There is also an excellent program on the weekends on XM Public Radio that Terry first told me about, This American Life . An awesome show I'd recommend to any of you. Click the link for more info.

Video. Last time I talked about what I was watching, I was in the middle of Lonesome Dove. Since coming back on the road after being in Rome, I have been watching the following: some episodes of The Rifleman I had recorded over a year ago when I was still living in Rome, from a 24 hour marathon on the Encore Western cable network. Excellent show I've always loved, and I enjoyed watching several hours of shows. I had also recorded Vertigo about the same time, and finally got around to watching it again. I always enjoy Alfred Hitchcock movies. Currently, I'm watching the first season DVD's of The Big Valley , which has always been one of my favorite westerns. It is worth watching for the fact that lovely Linda Evans is in it, as well as the superlative Barbara Stanwyck, one of my favorite actresses.

The end. There is always more to write, but I will save more for later, on down the road a ways. Until then, be well, live your life, making choices and taking responsibility.

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

Allan