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. 

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. 

   

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? 

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.

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.

12.18.2011 Season's Greetings!

12.18.2011

Recalling this year's challenges reminds me that many of my gifts, my blessings, come in plain brown wrapping. So I give thanks that salvation was sent to us 2,011 years ago, embodied in human frailty. I look for the lesson, the perspective to see that every soul intersects my life for a reason, for my benefit. I call Andy* as my mentor in that capacity. 
*Name changed to preserve privacy.

Andy was an experienced tradesman, could run any crew efficiently, adapt to constantly changing priorities, a great teacher. Despite this, he had his flaws. Patience was not his strong point. For awhile, I thought he simply didn't want a woman on his job. When I saw him browbeat another of the crew, I realized he simply didn't like anybody. So demoralizing was this daily tirade that I pulled over each morning halfway to work and threw up, for the first 6 months. My dentist thought I needed a bite guard, that I was clenching my teeth while sleeping. Andy drove off the entire crew one by one, including his own brother, over the course of a couple years.

As I really, really needed that job, I wondered what possible lesson I could extract from this punishment and what Andy's purpose might be in my life. I prayed for an answer and one day I recognized it: Andy's gift to me was callouses, a toughening-up. And these callouses came in handy when I dealt with unscrupulous people in my industry. No classroom prepared me better for the hockey game rules common in that field, or indeed, the world. 

To wrap this gift, this blessing, in tissue would be to scoff at the abuse. So I share my epiphany regarding Andy. One morning much like all the others, he was evaluating my performance, critiquing my technique, and generally giving voice to his opinion, all at full volume and within an inch of my nose. And suddenly it struck me: He hasn't hit me and he hasn't fired me. Either he can't or he won't. With that realization, the yelling seemed to fade away, and my lips turned up just slightly. Almost imperceptible, but he caught it. "And just what the H*** are you grinning at?!" he demanded. I just shook my head to indicate nothing in particular. He resumed his assessment, but the volume was down and his heart wasn't in it. He continued on in his accustomed manner for the rest of my tenure there, but I graduated from boot camp to PFC, in Andy's view. 

Merry Christmas, Andy, and may you appreciate the gifts and blessings in your own life, as you have taught me to treasure mine. And may this Season of Blessings bring all of you gifts wrapped sometimes in silk, and sometimes in burlap.

12.09.2011 My Uncle Bill

12.09.2011

As I was growing up, my Uncle Bill seemed larger than life. Air Force Reserve, member of the Mountaineers, doting uncle to his niece, the only member of my extended family I knew.

I considered him my rich uncle, and I don't recall him ever arriving without a gift for me. Before my teens, these gifts evolved into experiences rather than material presents - summer camp, day trips, Scottish Highland events, memory makers that never break, wear out or expire. 


In a tumultuous childhood, he represented stability. He always showed up, kept his promises, dependable. He funded my Girl Scout excursions, hauled me to museums, the science center. He took me on my first plane ride, expanding my picture of the world. Perhaps my early country-wide wanderings had their beginnings in that flight.

He put himself through college to get an engineering degree, acquired a pilots license and bought a small plane, climbed peaks with mountaineers in Washington State, and carried the first "portable" 2-way HAM radio to the summit of Mt. Rainier. The story goes that the radio out-weighed him by several pounds.


I remember him as a tall, handsome man, handlebar mustache, athletic, brilliant. He taught firearms handling classes, knew military history (is there any other kind?) back to ancient times, and served in the Korean War. Leaping tall buildings would not have surprised me.

Best of all, he loved cats. I think this is the part of him I treasured most. We both spoke cat, from the blue-bloods to the meanest alley cat. Their independence and agility, power and beauty appealed to me, and, I think, to him. Cat radar remains one of my litmus tests, amazingly accurate. 


Uncle Bill married in his 40's, trading in bachelorhood for family life. All that love came to rest on a woman strong enough to recognize the warmth in his soul, and respect enough to share her own. First the grandchildren, then the great-grandchildren, came to know the loving, humble man that I know as Uncle Bill. And they tightened that circle when he bid the love of his life a lingering farewell until they meet again in the next life.

He doesn't pretend to understand why loved ones are wrenched away, even while he walks daily with his God. Faith takes over where neither logic nor reason can satisfy his great Why? Still he prays, still he believes, even without knowing if he will ever find out. Meanwhile, Earthbound, he is reborn again as each new great-grandchild arrives, to be that larger-than-life hero in their memories, maybe the greatest gift anyone can be.

12.02.2011 Inclusive versus exclusive

12.02.2011

Julena, my surrogate daughter-in-law, brought a Thanksgiving feast to the house this year. She called early in the week, proposed an ambitious menu, and adjusted every dish to accommodate my allergy to all things Milk. 'I want to be in-clusive, not ex-clusive," she explained. And what a feast! No canned yams or cylindrical cranberry sauce at this table! Not everyone can pull it off like Julena . 

Big deal. So what makes this dinner stand out? Just this: nobody else noticed. Nothing was lacking, everything was delicious, and I was free to overindulge with the whole family. In-clusive, not ex-clusive. Not separate, but familial. Wikipedia describes "family" thus: 

"In human context, a family (from Latin: familia) is a group of people affiliated by consanguinity, affinity, or co-residence. In most societies it is the principal institution for the socialization of children."

Her smile upon her 10-month-old sons' face evidences faith that the world smiles with us. Sharing that sunshine is as natural as breathing, unconscious and unrestrained. Despite my rather solitary existence, she brings me into the circle by the simple yet powerful act of sitting down to break bread with me. A simple social convention.


But no bread ever tasted better.