12.09.2012
...I already have. A new range arrived just days before Thanksgiving, replacing a burned-out relic from the 1970's. A top of the line model, Electrolux's Perfect Turkey setting rescued an underdone bird while cooking 2 pies in the lower oven. Induction cooktop, convection oven, a learning curve.
Having explored the limits of a Crockpot and a counter-top rotisserie over the course of 2 years, I can bake...a cookie! Or a tuna casserole, meatloaf, bread, roast a chicken...did I mention that it's self-cleaning?
So you might find references to cooking along the way.
Just sayin'.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
10.30.2012 Narrating a Life Written On The Road: New Jersey
10.30.2012
My early trucking moved quickly from reefers and perishables to dry vans. While the freight was not subject to fluctuations in temperature, some of it was highly valuable, a target for thieves. Furs traveled in innocuous trailers, with one feature noticeable to those in the know. Furs must travel on hangers, suspended from poles built into the van, spanning the width, the round plugs running along the length of the trailer high up near the roof. These plugs identify the cargo as hanger goods. Other garments travel packed in boxes, with rare exceptions. Add to the appeal of high-priced merchandise a leased power unit and one petite blonde behind the wheel, and, well, you don't stop for anything between New York and Chicago. Period.
Traveling at night, only the "serious" drivers are out - truckers, shift workers, bears hunting DUI's and the like. So it's easier to spot a tail. Unnerving, but pick up a couple fellow travelers along the route (you need a few, so when one stops to answer the call of nature, you still have a few spares), kept awake by mildly suggestive jokes and can-you-top-this story-telling over the CB radio, and you are less likely to get run off the road, or forced off a remote offramp.
809 miles, according to the road atlases in use at the time. Pennsylvania was the roughest, applying sorely-needed federal funds to erecting a state-of-the-art scale house one year rather than do something about the concrete Interstate which was surely awarded to some out-of-work brother-in-law who poured 30-foot driveways for a living. Exiting onto Ohio's toll-road was such relief that one's stomach muscles would noticeably relax, and the danger of dozing off rose.
After running two, occasionally three of these rounds a week for about 6 months, I took a few days off. Compelled, according to the boss. Chatting with the driver who would be taking over my rig, I decided to leave my radio installed rather than bother ripping it out. He would appreciate the stereo and I would save a bit of time and trouble. I was ridden hard and put up wet after maintaining this grueling schedule, including some local work around Jersey City between runs. Burned out.
On my return to work about a week later, I discovered my radio and a few other items gone, and a detective keenly interested in my route under such valuable loads. Seems the truck had disappeared shortly after picking up a load in New York, found a few days later with the hubodometers smashed, and no trailer. Gone was the radio, and the driver's tale of attack at gunpoint was disbelieved despite numerous cuts and bruises - essentially because it beggared the imagination to think someone would stop to grab a cheap radio when they already had several million dollars worth of negotiable furs.
Evidently the detective decided I really had nothing to do with this adventure, only clean laundry and a thin bank book testimony to my meager vacation holed up at a local motel. Who knows if that driver was involved? Perhaps I really dodged a bullet. The possibilities for misadventure on the road abound. Proof I live a charmed life, if you will.
My early trucking moved quickly from reefers and perishables to dry vans. While the freight was not subject to fluctuations in temperature, some of it was highly valuable, a target for thieves. Furs traveled in innocuous trailers, with one feature noticeable to those in the know. Furs must travel on hangers, suspended from poles built into the van, spanning the width, the round plugs running along the length of the trailer high up near the roof. These plugs identify the cargo as hanger goods. Other garments travel packed in boxes, with rare exceptions. Add to the appeal of high-priced merchandise a leased power unit and one petite blonde behind the wheel, and, well, you don't stop for anything between New York and Chicago. Period.
Traveling at night, only the "serious" drivers are out - truckers, shift workers, bears hunting DUI's and the like. So it's easier to spot a tail. Unnerving, but pick up a couple fellow travelers along the route (you need a few, so when one stops to answer the call of nature, you still have a few spares), kept awake by mildly suggestive jokes and can-you-top-this story-telling over the CB radio, and you are less likely to get run off the road, or forced off a remote offramp.
809 miles, according to the road atlases in use at the time. Pennsylvania was the roughest, applying sorely-needed federal funds to erecting a state-of-the-art scale house one year rather than do something about the concrete Interstate which was surely awarded to some out-of-work brother-in-law who poured 30-foot driveways for a living. Exiting onto Ohio's toll-road was such relief that one's stomach muscles would noticeably relax, and the danger of dozing off rose.
After running two, occasionally three of these rounds a week for about 6 months, I took a few days off. Compelled, according to the boss. Chatting with the driver who would be taking over my rig, I decided to leave my radio installed rather than bother ripping it out. He would appreciate the stereo and I would save a bit of time and trouble. I was ridden hard and put up wet after maintaining this grueling schedule, including some local work around Jersey City between runs. Burned out.
On my return to work about a week later, I discovered my radio and a few other items gone, and a detective keenly interested in my route under such valuable loads. Seems the truck had disappeared shortly after picking up a load in New York, found a few days later with the hubodometers smashed, and no trailer. Gone was the radio, and the driver's tale of attack at gunpoint was disbelieved despite numerous cuts and bruises - essentially because it beggared the imagination to think someone would stop to grab a cheap radio when they already had several million dollars worth of negotiable furs.
Evidently the detective decided I really had nothing to do with this adventure, only clean laundry and a thin bank book testimony to my meager vacation holed up at a local motel. Who knows if that driver was involved? Perhaps I really dodged a bullet. The possibilities for misadventure on the road abound. Proof I live a charmed life, if you will.
Monday, October 8, 2012
10.08.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Sublette County, WY
10.08.2012
Those long winter nights, snow illuminated by moonlight, the feel of the road transmitted to my hands through the wheel, I spent hours entranced by the unfolding panorama before me. River valleys, narrowing, then widening into isolated ranches and fields, wildlife and livestock scarce under winter's weight, only the nocturnal denizens alert as the quiet miles passed.
So quickly did a spectre appear against that backdrop and instantly evaporate again that I momentarily pondered whether it actually happened. Sublette County, Wyoming is home to several varieties of owls, the Great Grey Owl one of the largest with a wingspan of up to 5 feet. And man, does that fill up a windshield! Silent, fleeting, startling, the owl jolted me from my revery. I instinctively clutched the wheel, broke fragile traction for a moment before I overrode the reflex and gently guided the rig back on course.
I wondered how I missed hitting him. Surely an impact like that one would have taken out the windshield. I waited for my heart rate to return to normal.
Since I left driving behind me many years ago, I have been waiting for my life to return to normal. My favorite stretch of 2-lane remains in my memory, however, beckoning me to return on 2 wheels or four, share this secret beauty with someone worthy of life's journey. It resides behind my eyelids, the familiar sanctuary from interstate traffic, the narrow ribbon of asphalt a fragile strand between rugged peaks. And each year, I promise myself, hoping against hope that my picture hasn't faded, cracked, that it's still just as I recall it, still awaiting my return, just once more.
Those long winter nights, snow illuminated by moonlight, the feel of the road transmitted to my hands through the wheel, I spent hours entranced by the unfolding panorama before me. River valleys, narrowing, then widening into isolated ranches and fields, wildlife and livestock scarce under winter's weight, only the nocturnal denizens alert as the quiet miles passed.
So quickly did a spectre appear against that backdrop and instantly evaporate again that I momentarily pondered whether it actually happened. Sublette County, Wyoming is home to several varieties of owls, the Great Grey Owl one of the largest with a wingspan of up to 5 feet. And man, does that fill up a windshield! Silent, fleeting, startling, the owl jolted me from my revery. I instinctively clutched the wheel, broke fragile traction for a moment before I overrode the reflex and gently guided the rig back on course.
I wondered how I missed hitting him. Surely an impact like that one would have taken out the windshield. I waited for my heart rate to return to normal.
Since I left driving behind me many years ago, I have been waiting for my life to return to normal. My favorite stretch of 2-lane remains in my memory, however, beckoning me to return on 2 wheels or four, share this secret beauty with someone worthy of life's journey. It resides behind my eyelids, the familiar sanctuary from interstate traffic, the narrow ribbon of asphalt a fragile strand between rugged peaks. And each year, I promise myself, hoping against hope that my picture hasn't faded, cracked, that it's still just as I recall it, still awaiting my return, just once more.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
10.07.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Are You Smarter than A 10-Year-Old?
October 7, 2012
One fellow I met on the road told me how he got involved in over-the-road driving. The lesson in logic has never left me.
Growing up on a farm in Wisconsin, he dreamt of escaping the hardscrabble existence facing the modern small farmer. Viet Nam offered only a lateral Hell, so upon returning to civilian life, he employed his skill as a truck driver. He took the first opportunity that presented itself, a route with a septic tank pump truck.
Rural Fond Du Lac County features mid-range to large-scale farms, supplied sparsely by municipal sanitation systems. Even trailer courts operated on septic systems, and the story unfolds here.
Winter in Wisconsin means subzero temperatures for months on end, the very earth frozen to a depth of several inches or more. Emptying a cistern of several hundred gallons required removing an access cover with a heavy gaff, then breaking up the frozen surface crust with a sort of wrecking bar so the contents would fit through a large-diameter hose dropped into the hole.
As the driver went about his work, he was joined by a resident of the place, a young boy morbidly curious about the hole, as only boys can be. Observing the slow progress, the lad asked the driver, "Do you like your job?" The driver admitted "No, not particularly...what's to like?"
Watching awhile in silence, the lad next asked, "Does it pay a lot of money?" Smiling ruefully, the driver confessed "No, not a lot."
Some time passed. Finally the precocious youth posed that fateful last question: "Is this the only job you could get?"
That the driver went out the very next day and got a REAL job only underscores the feeling we often have that our choices are constricted. That the 10-year-old clearly saw that fallacy reminds us to risk...or rust.
One fellow I met on the road told me how he got involved in over-the-road driving. The lesson in logic has never left me.
Growing up on a farm in Wisconsin, he dreamt of escaping the hardscrabble existence facing the modern small farmer. Viet Nam offered only a lateral Hell, so upon returning to civilian life, he employed his skill as a truck driver. He took the first opportunity that presented itself, a route with a septic tank pump truck.
Rural Fond Du Lac County features mid-range to large-scale farms, supplied sparsely by municipal sanitation systems. Even trailer courts operated on septic systems, and the story unfolds here.
Winter in Wisconsin means subzero temperatures for months on end, the very earth frozen to a depth of several inches or more. Emptying a cistern of several hundred gallons required removing an access cover with a heavy gaff, then breaking up the frozen surface crust with a sort of wrecking bar so the contents would fit through a large-diameter hose dropped into the hole.
As the driver went about his work, he was joined by a resident of the place, a young boy morbidly curious about the hole, as only boys can be. Observing the slow progress, the lad asked the driver, "Do you like your job?" The driver admitted "No, not particularly...what's to like?"
Watching awhile in silence, the lad next asked, "Does it pay a lot of money?" Smiling ruefully, the driver confessed "No, not a lot."
Some time passed. Finally the precocious youth posed that fateful last question: "Is this the only job you could get?"
That the driver went out the very next day and got a REAL job only underscores the feeling we often have that our choices are constricted. That the 10-year-old clearly saw that fallacy reminds us to risk...or rust.
Monday, April 2, 2012
04.02.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Wyoming Back Roads
04.02.2012
Between Mountain Home, Idaho & Rock Springs, Wyoming stretch 256 miles of 2-lane highway, passing south of Jackson Hole. Mountain goats, elk, deer, eagles, snowy owls, porcupines and a host of wildlife share this territory uneasily with travelers .
On one Spring morning, dawn emerged as I drove East through the foothills. The sun had yet to crest the ridge. Alone with my thoughts, I rounded a long gradual curve. My reverie was interrupted by a horseman, a cowboy, plodding straight down the center line toward me.
Unwavering he continued, so I backed off, began down-shifting. Still he approached, unfazed by the truck. I slowed to a stop, idling for a moment, before a Hereford appeared at some distance behind him. Another, then a veritable wall, a cattle drive. I shut the truck off. The migration moved around and past me at glacial velocity and mass.
30 minutes or more passed as the sun climbed into the sky. I pondered the possibility of another vehicle finding me stopped on the highway. I dreamt of coffee.
Trucks make money when the wheels are turning. A crouch and steering wheel grip betray most long-haul drivers. Comfortable with solitude, they never miss the demands of 40-hour work weeks. It's not uncommon to see drivers asleep over the wheel of their rigs.
My father, a ham radio enthusiast and nine-to-fiver, engaged his narrow circle of friends via the airwaves, where participants took turns talking, simply signing out when they had enough. My father would spend endless hours in his "ham shack," which mystified my stepmother. I understood the need for time spent alone. Solitude equals sanctuary.
Today's technology is similar to ham radios, but with no sign-out: cameras optional, texting, Tweeting, email and IM-ing, social interaction is virtual. There is no refuge from demands on one's attention.
2 or 3 cowboys brought up the rear, mute as the first, passed beyond my truck and grew small in the rear view mirrors, trampled grasses and manure the only sign of their passing. They didn't miss the 9-5 either.
Between Mountain Home, Idaho & Rock Springs, Wyoming stretch 256 miles of 2-lane highway, passing south of Jackson Hole. Mountain goats, elk, deer, eagles, snowy owls, porcupines and a host of wildlife share this territory uneasily with travelers .
On one Spring morning, dawn emerged as I drove East through the foothills. The sun had yet to crest the ridge. Alone with my thoughts, I rounded a long gradual curve. My reverie was interrupted by a horseman, a cowboy, plodding straight down the center line toward me.
Unwavering he continued, so I backed off, began down-shifting. Still he approached, unfazed by the truck. I slowed to a stop, idling for a moment, before a Hereford appeared at some distance behind him. Another, then a veritable wall, a cattle drive. I shut the truck off. The migration moved around and past me at glacial velocity and mass.
30 minutes or more passed as the sun climbed into the sky. I pondered the possibility of another vehicle finding me stopped on the highway. I dreamt of coffee.
Trucks make money when the wheels are turning. A crouch and steering wheel grip betray most long-haul drivers. Comfortable with solitude, they never miss the demands of 40-hour work weeks. It's not uncommon to see drivers asleep over the wheel of their rigs.
My father, a ham radio enthusiast and nine-to-fiver, engaged his narrow circle of friends via the airwaves, where participants took turns talking, simply signing out when they had enough. My father would spend endless hours in his "ham shack," which mystified my stepmother. I understood the need for time spent alone. Solitude equals sanctuary.
Today's technology is similar to ham radios, but with no sign-out: cameras optional, texting, Tweeting, email and IM-ing, social interaction is virtual. There is no refuge from demands on one's attention.
2 or 3 cowboys brought up the rear, mute as the first, passed beyond my truck and grew small in the rear view mirrors, trampled grasses and manure the only sign of their passing. They didn't miss the 9-5 either.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
04.01.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Pinedale, Wyoming
04.01.2012
Pinedale, Wyoming: Population, 948.
Driving East from Portland, Oregon, several hundred miles and a few imposing mountain passes can be circumvented by taking to the 2-lane highways between Mountain Home, Idaho, and Rock Springs, Wyoming. 250 miles or so of mostly level, mostly straight highway interrupted only by the occasional small town or resort area. Peaceful, best crossed at night during the tourist seasons - summer RV's, Fall hunters, Winter skiers. So, always.
One hot late summer night, traveling with 3 or 4 other "serious" (late-night) truckers, I announced I was making a quick stop "to check my tires for overheating," lingo for a pit stop. The Tetons give way to wide open spaces, and dawn was about an hour away. So a stop, for me, required the cover of darkness.
Back behind the wheel, I put the pedal to the floor to catch up with my nighttime traveling companions. An estimated 15-20 minutes would put me back in the pack again. Approaching Pinedale, I could see the few lights of town far off, 10 minutes before reaching them. I was still a couple miles distant, tired from driving all night, and noted almost automatically the rare headlights coming my way. In fact, rather late, it registered in my numb brain that nobody was likely to be awake, much less driving, out here in the middle of nowhere. And at the instant the car passed, the shield on the door was briefly illuminated by my own headlights, and I saw the brake lights come on just before the car made a U-turn.
I downshifted, coasted to a stop in the first open parking lot I arrived at, set the brakes, gathered up my papers, and climbed down to find the sherriff already at his task, filling in the blanks on his ticket pad. I opened the passenger door of his cruiser at his beckoning, and sat down with a sigh.
"Do you know how fast you were going?"
"Yes."
"Why were you going that fast?"
"You know," I said, exasperated, "I wonder if there's an answer to that question that would compel you to stop writing that ticket. Is there such an answer?" I asked.
He smiled a bit, and shook his head.
"So, do you just collect excuses, and share them over coffee with your colleagues?"
He smiled again, kept on writing.
"Well, then," I forged ahead, "I'll tell you the God's honest truth. I was going that fast because this truck won't go any faster!"
I don't know the statute of limitations in Pinedale, Wyoming. I did make out a money order to the address listed, but all the money orders I made out that week, deposited into an cardboard Outgoing Mail tray on a counter in a run-down truckstop in New Jersey, were stolen, cashed at a liquor store outside Washington DC, as it was later discovered.
Pinedale, Wyoming: Population, 948.
Driving East from Portland, Oregon, several hundred miles and a few imposing mountain passes can be circumvented by taking to the 2-lane highways between Mountain Home, Idaho, and Rock Springs, Wyoming. 250 miles or so of mostly level, mostly straight highway interrupted only by the occasional small town or resort area. Peaceful, best crossed at night during the tourist seasons - summer RV's, Fall hunters, Winter skiers. So, always.
One hot late summer night, traveling with 3 or 4 other "serious" (late-night) truckers, I announced I was making a quick stop "to check my tires for overheating," lingo for a pit stop. The Tetons give way to wide open spaces, and dawn was about an hour away. So a stop, for me, required the cover of darkness.
Back behind the wheel, I put the pedal to the floor to catch up with my nighttime traveling companions. An estimated 15-20 minutes would put me back in the pack again. Approaching Pinedale, I could see the few lights of town far off, 10 minutes before reaching them. I was still a couple miles distant, tired from driving all night, and noted almost automatically the rare headlights coming my way. In fact, rather late, it registered in my numb brain that nobody was likely to be awake, much less driving, out here in the middle of nowhere. And at the instant the car passed, the shield on the door was briefly illuminated by my own headlights, and I saw the brake lights come on just before the car made a U-turn.
I downshifted, coasted to a stop in the first open parking lot I arrived at, set the brakes, gathered up my papers, and climbed down to find the sherriff already at his task, filling in the blanks on his ticket pad. I opened the passenger door of his cruiser at his beckoning, and sat down with a sigh.
"Do you know how fast you were going?"
"Yes."
"Why were you going that fast?"
"You know," I said, exasperated, "I wonder if there's an answer to that question that would compel you to stop writing that ticket. Is there such an answer?" I asked.
He smiled a bit, and shook his head.
"So, do you just collect excuses, and share them over coffee with your colleagues?"
He smiled again, kept on writing.
"Well, then," I forged ahead, "I'll tell you the God's honest truth. I was going that fast because this truck won't go any faster!"
I don't know the statute of limitations in Pinedale, Wyoming. I did make out a money order to the address listed, but all the money orders I made out that week, deposited into an cardboard Outgoing Mail tray on a counter in a run-down truckstop in New Jersey, were stolen, cashed at a liquor store outside Washington DC, as it was later discovered.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
03.27.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Kilo, Ontario, Oregon
03.27.2012
My truck broke down outside the Tri-Cities in eastern Washington, one Thursday afternoon in late Fall. Parts ordered arrived Monday, repairs were made Tuesday. Onions scheduled for an overnight delivery were 5 days late.
When I finally pulled in to the warehouse, set among more endless, aromatic onion fields, the receiving manager was visibly upset. As the load was C.O.D., I needed to get the check before unloading commenced. The manager declined, claiming he needed to verify the condition of the produce. I recommended we let the broker decide, headed inside to a nearly empty office, and reached for the phone. Whereupon he strode swiftly up to me and, to my utter astonishment, grabbed me around the waist with one of his massive arms, picked me up like a sack of those onions, and proceeded to stuff me into a supply closet.
As the door was closing, I got my footing and launched a kick at the panel, and hit the deck at a sprint. Out the warehouse bay door, headed back to my truck, I rounded the corner and saw, through teary eyes (remember the surrounding onion fields?) two men swinging open the back doors of the trailer, and one fellow who had climbed up the ladder on the drivers' side of the truck and opened the door.
Where he met Kilo, who hurled all of his 65 pounds straight at the intruder's chest, knocking him to the ground and pinning him. I spun to confront my pursuer, who abruptly halted in his tracks. I yelled that I was going to drive that load straight out the gate, open or not, tears from the pungent onions streaming from my blurry eyes. He countered with a threat to call the local authorities, whereupon I chimed in that if he didn't call them, I certainly would. From outside the gate.
But with the appearance of Kilo, the tables had turned. I did get that check, and took it to a very understanding truckdriver-turned-truckstop-owner, who listened to my tale, including my suspicion that check wouldn't clear. He smiled a Jack-o-lantern grin, held out his giant hand, and vowed that check would clear.
Kilo dined on T-Bone steak that night, rare, just the way he liked it.
My truck broke down outside the Tri-Cities in eastern Washington, one Thursday afternoon in late Fall. Parts ordered arrived Monday, repairs were made Tuesday. Onions scheduled for an overnight delivery were 5 days late.
When I finally pulled in to the warehouse, set among more endless, aromatic onion fields, the receiving manager was visibly upset. As the load was C.O.D., I needed to get the check before unloading commenced. The manager declined, claiming he needed to verify the condition of the produce. I recommended we let the broker decide, headed inside to a nearly empty office, and reached for the phone. Whereupon he strode swiftly up to me and, to my utter astonishment, grabbed me around the waist with one of his massive arms, picked me up like a sack of those onions, and proceeded to stuff me into a supply closet.
As the door was closing, I got my footing and launched a kick at the panel, and hit the deck at a sprint. Out the warehouse bay door, headed back to my truck, I rounded the corner and saw, through teary eyes (remember the surrounding onion fields?) two men swinging open the back doors of the trailer, and one fellow who had climbed up the ladder on the drivers' side of the truck and opened the door.
Where he met Kilo, who hurled all of his 65 pounds straight at the intruder's chest, knocking him to the ground and pinning him. I spun to confront my pursuer, who abruptly halted in his tracks. I yelled that I was going to drive that load straight out the gate, open or not, tears from the pungent onions streaming from my blurry eyes. He countered with a threat to call the local authorities, whereupon I chimed in that if he didn't call them, I certainly would. From outside the gate.
But with the appearance of Kilo, the tables had turned. I did get that check, and took it to a very understanding truckdriver-turned-truckstop-owner, who listened to my tale, including my suspicion that check wouldn't clear. He smiled a Jack-o-lantern grin, held out his giant hand, and vowed that check would clear.
Kilo dined on T-Bone steak that night, rare, just the way he liked it.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
03.18.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: Kilo, Sacramento
03.18.2012
That first summer, I hauled seafood up and down the West Coast. Kilo, a black lab mix belonging to my brother, accompanied me on most of my trips as a deterrent to over-zealous paramours and ne'er-do-well types.
One stop, a day's drive from all the rest of my deliveries, was one of those giant grocery chain distribution centers. Only 10 sample boxes were ordered, and an entire day could be saved if I could drop them on the Sunday night shift.
Circling the complex revealed no unlocked gates, distant workers loading their trailers were deaf to my shouts. I parked in an expanse evidently used for this purpose, facing East, to awaken early with the sun in my window. Giving up my efforts to get rid of my small cargo, I took the dog for a walk. Powdery orange-brown particles arose with each step we took, the impressions of beach sandals and paws clear in the silt-like grit that stretched, like the fields, all around us.
Returning to the truck, I stopped by the front office. Hours were listed on the glass. Holding my hand against the pane to shield from the glare of the setting sun, I leaned against the door to peer in. And the door gave way.
I padded in, dog at my side, the dust tracks on the tile floor. Stopping at the first desk, I picked up the phone, scanned the desk for a list of extensions to the warehouse, loading dock, tried dialing but got no connection. I moved to the hallway beyond the desk, noting time cards, confirmation of the workers I saw on my original circuit. The double doors leading to the warehouse beyond, however, would not give way.
So we returned to the unmarked lot that served as truck parking, where I lifted Kilo up into the truck, and settled myself into the drivers seat, my legs propped on the dashboard and an Agatha Christie mystery for company.
In about 8 minutes, I noticed flashing police lights, no sirens, approaching in a phalanx along the 4-lane boulevard in my mirror. Half a dozen cruisers halted in a semi-circle at the darkened front door of the complex. Emerging with guns drawn, German Shepherds straining at their leashes, they cautiously entered the building. A few remained outside. 20 minutes passed. Those inside rejoined their colleagues in the dusty lot, and all the dogs were handed off to a junior officer for walking. I noticed the clear impressions of beach sandals and paws leading away from, and returning to, my truck.
As the dog-walker passed my truck about 100 feet to my left, I leaned out in the hot night and asked what all the uproar was about. "Silent alarm went off," he responded. "Did you see anything?"
"Nope."
That first summer, I hauled seafood up and down the West Coast. Kilo, a black lab mix belonging to my brother, accompanied me on most of my trips as a deterrent to over-zealous paramours and ne'er-do-well types.
One stop, a day's drive from all the rest of my deliveries, was one of those giant grocery chain distribution centers. Only 10 sample boxes were ordered, and an entire day could be saved if I could drop them on the Sunday night shift.
Circling the complex revealed no unlocked gates, distant workers loading their trailers were deaf to my shouts. I parked in an expanse evidently used for this purpose, facing East, to awaken early with the sun in my window. Giving up my efforts to get rid of my small cargo, I took the dog for a walk. Powdery orange-brown particles arose with each step we took, the impressions of beach sandals and paws clear in the silt-like grit that stretched, like the fields, all around us.
Returning to the truck, I stopped by the front office. Hours were listed on the glass. Holding my hand against the pane to shield from the glare of the setting sun, I leaned against the door to peer in. And the door gave way.
I padded in, dog at my side, the dust tracks on the tile floor. Stopping at the first desk, I picked up the phone, scanned the desk for a list of extensions to the warehouse, loading dock, tried dialing but got no connection. I moved to the hallway beyond the desk, noting time cards, confirmation of the workers I saw on my original circuit. The double doors leading to the warehouse beyond, however, would not give way.
So we returned to the unmarked lot that served as truck parking, where I lifted Kilo up into the truck, and settled myself into the drivers seat, my legs propped on the dashboard and an Agatha Christie mystery for company.
In about 8 minutes, I noticed flashing police lights, no sirens, approaching in a phalanx along the 4-lane boulevard in my mirror. Half a dozen cruisers halted in a semi-circle at the darkened front door of the complex. Emerging with guns drawn, German Shepherds straining at their leashes, they cautiously entered the building. A few remained outside. 20 minutes passed. Those inside rejoined their colleagues in the dusty lot, and all the dogs were handed off to a junior officer for walking. I noticed the clear impressions of beach sandals and paws leading away from, and returning to, my truck.
As the dog-walker passed my truck about 100 feet to my left, I leaned out in the hot night and asked what all the uproar was about. "Silent alarm went off," he responded. "Did you see anything?"
"Nope."
03.18.2012 Narrating A Life Written On The Road: The Beginning
03.18.2012
I sort of backed into truck driving. Sitting with longshoremen and other 4 AM breakfasters at the tideflat diner one morning, one regular customer at the counter suggested I sign up as an apprentice with the crane operators local. So I did. Awaiting a letter of acceptance (rejection never crossed my mind), picking up a bit of longshore work as an extra, I discovered an evening and weekend commercial driving course at the Vocational College.
I sort of backed into truck driving. Sitting with longshoremen and other 4 AM breakfasters at the tideflat diner one morning, one regular customer at the counter suggested I sign up as an apprentice with the crane operators local. So I did. Awaiting a letter of acceptance (rejection never crossed my mind), picking up a bit of longshore work as an extra, I discovered an evening and weekend commercial driving course at the Vocational College.
The American Civil Liberties Union nudged the Operating Engineers 3 years after I filed a claim. By then, I was well on my way to racking up my first million miles.
Despite the dangers inherent in traveling solo among some truly questionable characters, I was spared any genuine injury, although I had some very close calls. So many tales well up from those days that they would fill a liars journal many times over. Many are too ridiculous to be made up. I hope you will enjoy them with me as I reminisce.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
01.19.2012 Preface to: Narrating A Life Written On The Road
01.19.2012
Charles Kuralt compiled some of his favorite stories doing what he loved into" A Life On The Road." One tale left him stranded in a snow bowl in Alaska overnight, sharing a tiny dwelling with a self-styled refugee from modern life. Dinner and a chat, fueled by a rare bottle, then the proprietor turned in for the night. Unable to sleep, Charles stared out the window for hours while the Aurora Borealis exploded silently across the sky throughout the long night, profoundly affecting him and compelling him to re-examine his priorities.
Jon Krakauer builds a tale of survival from seemingly unconnected threads, carefully and intricately weaving his tapestry into a picture within a picture in "Into The Wild."
In both of these favorite authors I find myself savoring the panoramic backdrop to the main subject. So many factors influence the outcomes as these real-life events unfold. Unbelievable and amazing things take place every day, it seems. Has my own journey really been so remarkable?
Charles Kuralt compiled some of his favorite stories doing what he loved into" A Life On The Road." One tale left him stranded in a snow bowl in Alaska overnight, sharing a tiny dwelling with a self-styled refugee from modern life. Dinner and a chat, fueled by a rare bottle, then the proprietor turned in for the night. Unable to sleep, Charles stared out the window for hours while the Aurora Borealis exploded silently across the sky throughout the long night, profoundly affecting him and compelling him to re-examine his priorities.
Jon Krakauer builds a tale of survival from seemingly unconnected threads, carefully and intricately weaving his tapestry into a picture within a picture in "Into The Wild."
In both of these favorite authors I find myself savoring the panoramic backdrop to the main subject. So many factors influence the outcomes as these real-life events unfold. Unbelievable and amazing things take place every day, it seems. Has my own journey really been so remarkable?
Friday, January 13, 2012
01.13.2012 Narrating A Life...
01.13.2012
Even at a young age, I imagined myself as narrator in an ghost-written biography. I felt the world around me mere fantasy, and my scripted life played out in my head, like Alice in Wonderland. Coincidentally, this is precisely how my father kept his journal, though I never saw those volumes until after he passed.
Chronicling my existence thus, one day as I sprawled on the floor perusing the classified ads in search of a $100 car, I startling myself and my mother by announcing aloud, " 'Here's one,' she said." Time stood still under mom's intent gaze. I was too stunned to pass it off as a joke. Who knows what she thought?
While my life lacked the excitement of Nancy Drew or Amelia Earhart, the compulsion to write was growing. I set off early to begin my "real" life at 16, leaving home to commence the adventure I lay before you. A literary friend helps me sift the mundane from the unusual, with her exclamations & questions about my fantastic travels. If some of these tales seem far-fetched, remember that truth is stranger than fiction.
Grant me your indulgence.
Even at a young age, I imagined myself as narrator in an ghost-written biography. I felt the world around me mere fantasy, and my scripted life played out in my head, like Alice in Wonderland. Coincidentally, this is precisely how my father kept his journal, though I never saw those volumes until after he passed.
Chronicling my existence thus, one day as I sprawled on the floor perusing the classified ads in search of a $100 car, I startling myself and my mother by announcing aloud, " 'Here's one,' she said." Time stood still under mom's intent gaze. I was too stunned to pass it off as a joke. Who knows what she thought?
While my life lacked the excitement of Nancy Drew or Amelia Earhart, the compulsion to write was growing. I set off early to begin my "real" life at 16, leaving home to commence the adventure I lay before you. A literary friend helps me sift the mundane from the unusual, with her exclamations & questions about my fantastic travels. If some of these tales seem far-fetched, remember that truth is stranger than fiction.
Grant me your indulgence.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
01.12.2012 Happy Next Year!
01.12.2012
Sooner or later, it has to come out: I'm a recovering truck driver. While I have collected a college degree, various real estate, a business or three, broken horses & changed laws, guess what everyone remembers?
Nonetheless, a million miles or two offer plenty of introspection, and glimpses of Believe-It-Or-Not. As this blog has not yet been rated for general audiences, consider this your warning: tales abound, so pour another cuppa joe, you could be in for...
you guessed it...
the long haul.
As I related to a concerned denizen once, there could be rough road ahead. Buckle up or get out.
Sooner or later, it has to come out: I'm a recovering truck driver. While I have collected a college degree, various real estate, a business or three, broken horses & changed laws, guess what everyone remembers?
Nonetheless, a million miles or two offer plenty of introspection, and glimpses of Believe-It-Or-Not. As this blog has not yet been rated for general audiences, consider this your warning: tales abound, so pour another cuppa joe, you could be in for...
you guessed it...
the long haul.
As I related to a concerned denizen once, there could be rough road ahead. Buckle up or get out.
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