Note: Yes, I know I've been neglecting this. It's a long story. As soon as I can, I'll fill you in. New gig and all...

Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.
Henry David Thoreau

The week's been an ugly one. Loads have been scheduled on loads, and they were almost all short miles. After two weeks out, I was more than ready to get home.

I had been assigned a new rig, a Freightliner Columbia, and I was bringing it to the house to install some gear, including a CB. I'd been fighting with this thing from the moment I took the wheel, so I was already in a bad mood. It's in no better shape than my old Pete, but at least I didn't have half the electrical problems in that one that this Freightshaker has. The current problem is with the cruise control, but that's only one maintenance issue.

I exited I-80, headed north on Watt Avenue, heading towards the house, driving past what was once the Regency Theater, one of the last of the X Rated theaters in Sacramento. The site now boasts a brand new Golden Corral Buffet, and a sign out front declared they were having a grand opening this week. I called Peggy, let her know that we were going out to dinner this evening.

I can't say I miss the Regency. To say the least, it was a pretty creepy place. The one time I actually saw a movie there, I walked in, saw Ron Jeremy banging an ugly chick with frizzy blond hair, and walked out. (I'd have had more respect for Ron Jeremy if he were a bit more selective about who he was boffing, and, no, I don't care how much he makes per flick.) I suppose part of my decision to leave involved the fact that I was driving my mother's Volvo, and I didn't want the neighbors figuring out I was there. (I suppose the real question is what the hell were the neighbors doing there, but, hell, I was 19 at the time. What did I know?)

I'd stopped by once or twice after that, never staying. The place had become even creepier over the years, and the one instance that put it over the top for me was when a scrawny woman in a parka and shorts asked me if I wanted a BJ. That was bad enough, but doing it with a couple of Sacramento County Sheriff's Deputies sitting in an unmarked car about 150 feet away had me steering clear. The last thing I needed was being busted for a sex crime.

Peggy's ex had taken her there once, thinking they needed to watch some porn to get things started in the bedroom. Peggy wound up feeling the same way Erica Jong did: After the first five minutes, she wanted to go home and screw. After the next five minutes, she never wanted to screw again. Can't say I blame her; frizzy blond hair looks like hell.

The Regency finally closed about a year ago. Doomed by free porn on the internet, increased police enforcement, and a more savvy audience who didn't need to waste time watching ugly chicks, even if they were getting nailed by Ron Jeremy, it was unable to compete. They maybe had five or six employees by the time it was done, according to some reports, with one manning the front desk, one running the projector, and one guy to mop up the semen that stained the floors on a regular basis. (Paul Reubens was run up on a bum rap.) A few months ago, they tore it down, and in its place, they planted the Golden Corral.

I'd eaten at the Golden Corral in Phoenix with a co-worker, Ray, a guy I went through orientation with. Ray is an Apache, a man who raised a daughter who became a social worker with multiple college degrees, and in spite of his slight build and age, could outwork damned near any driver I'd ever met. He's one of the more honorable men I've known. We went out to dinner together, and I got to know a guy who had far more to offer than most people were aware of. I think I shocked him by how much salad I could put away at one sitting. The food was actually pretty good. I'd wondered out loud at the time if they'd put one in North Highlands. Ask and ye shall receive...

To my mind, it's a welcome addition, even if the building is one of those generic warehouse type structures. If the Golden Corral goes bust, they can move out the kitchen wares and use it to sell cell phones. Or, if the web somehow manages to figure out how to block all porn, maybe they could re-open the Regency. Either way, no one will really lose much money on it.

The truth of the matter is that once they closed McClellan Air Force Base, North Highlands was set for a long, slow decline. This has always been a low income area, but in more recent months, I've watched as the hookers, who used to stroll Fourth and T, made their move from Auburn Boulevard to Watt Avenue. They hang out near the Motel Six and the Denny's, the Sheriff's Deputies run them off, and a few hours later, they come back, either because they have nothing else but their drug habit, or they have a pimp who beats them senseless until they get back to picking up johns. Businesses have been leaving over the years, spurred on by the lack of confidence in the new McClellan Park, which is supposed to be a business incubator, and by the increasing presence of the less than welcome elements that signal the end of a community.

We weren't helped years ago when then-Mayor Anne Rudin declared that Sacramento didn't really need a military base, even if we had McClellan, Mather Air Force Base, and the Sacramento Army Depot all contributing to the local economy. One by one they closed, leaving only the retirees and Mather VA Hospital. The military left, and crime began to climb. It's not unusual to go to sleep hearing gunshots; we don't even call the Sheriff's Department any more. They don't respond.

So the Golden Corral's arrival signaled that maybe, just maybe, we'd hit bottom. Other businesses have closed, and others have moved in, but even if the new building was fairly generic, it was purpose built, unlike so much else. Someone had some confidence in our neck of Sacramento County. Maybe the hookers would take notice and move to Roseville, I hoped.

So, Peggy and I went out to dinner tonight. It was a fairly mixed crowd, as you might expect for a town like ours. I'd met many folks like these over the years, so I could almost pick them out, one by one. There was the overweight teenaged white boy gang-banger wannabe, complete with tats which were supposed to signal to his "homies" that he was "hardcore," though if the truth be known, he'd have looked more hardcore if he'd had "Hello, Kitty" tattooed on his forehead. I've given up on wondering what the parents were thinking when they let their minor kid do something permanent to their body.

(Note to the wannabes: The real gangsters, the guys who will scare the crap out of you, the ones you don't mess with, were the ones refreshing the iced tea and sodas, pulling their shirtsleeves down over what was left of their tats, and trying to do something better with their lives. Even the gangsters don't respect gangsters anymore.)

We found ourselves seated near some woman in gypsy garb, who seemed to be telling folks about being there in the sixties. Listening further, you began to realize that the closest she ever got to Haight-Ashbury was reading about it in the Fresno Bee while she was trying to pull down a passing grade in Algebra II. She was with the guy who was nearing 70, with his hair in a pony tail. If he was trying to look bohemian, it wasn't working. He simply looked like he needed a haircut.

Over at another table was the weekend biker chick, fresh ink on her arm, only partly hidden by her black blouse, probably fresh from her job with the State of California. She was probably as broke as we were, given she was being paid with IOUs for a time.

Phonies, frauds. It was embarrassing, not because you recognized how silly they were, but because you looked at them and couldn't forget that you'd done the same damned thing in your own past, and remembered the humiliation once you'd been unmasked. It was hard to not see them, and feel empathy.

Harder still, though, to not have some respect for the new crew working at the restaurant. There had to be over 30 people working tonight, cooking, cleaning, serving, far more than the Regency ever had even in its heyday, whenever that was. It was a sign, actually, that maybe, just maybe, North Highlands wasn't going to sink completely.

I had seen a lot of these folks around. I couldn't miss the gang members, now trying to do something else with their lives, but there were also the regular folks, the men and women who were just trying to make a living. There were the corporate types from out of town, getting things running, but eventually, they'd go home. It was up to the local kids from then on.

I hope they make it. A lot of the folks I saw working are people I see in my neighborhood, and they've had it rough for some time. It's good to see them getting a shot at something better.

If things get better with this country, it won't be because of anything happening on Wall Street or in Washington. It's going to happen with each one of us taking a real chance. It's going to happen, one step at a time, the same way it's happened for everyone else. We're going to have to get genuine, get down to what we really are, and make the real effort to pull it out.

It's not our only hope, but it sure as hell looks like our best one.

Over the past few years, we've seen an explosion of "war stories" from men (and occasionally women) who have served in the military. The problem is, that when we try to verify their accounts, what we're learning is that the tales are completely false.

I would like to hear from you if you have encountered a phony. I'm in the process of working up a longer article on this subject, and I'd like to hear from anyone who's met these liars face to face. (Just a suggestion: If you're going to make claims about your own service, make sure you can back them up. I will be checking.) I'd like to know how you handled those situations.

I've reasons for doing this, most personal, but hang with me. If you have information, please e-mail me:

Roadtoad@SBCGlobal.Net.

Thanks, and thanks for your service, Veterans.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.
J. R. R. Tolkien

For the better part of the weekend, I’ve been at work, baking bread. Matt, my youngest, is having a party tonight, a Yule celebration, (I guess among Wiccans, calling it Christmas just isn’t cool), so I’ve been making sure there’s enough for the half dozen or so guests he has coming. At this moment, I’ve got rye, whole wheat, molasses, plain French batards, Anadama, seven grain, and oat bread sitting on the kitchen table, wrapped and ready for the freezer, (there’s no way this crowd’s going to eat that much.)

I’ve been baking bread now for the better part of my adult life. I started in part out of curiosity, and in part because as a young father and husband, I had to figure out how to keep my wife, Peggy, and kids fed. It might not always have been cheaper to bake my own, but I knew it was a lot healthier in the end. I’m not a chemist, so trying to decipher what the hell they’ve put into a loaf of bread from the bakery has been nothing short of a headache. The internet, of course, has been a help. Yes, I know it won’t kill me, (at this stage in my life, I doubt there’s much that will), but I’d just as soon taste the bread rather than the chemicals. Seems to be a smarter move.

While there’s still a certain necessity to baking bread, these days, I find I’m doing it more because of the satisfaction it gives. A well made loaf is its own reward in several ways, not the least of which being its appearance, as well as the flavor. You can’t have your bread and eat it, too, but you can take a moment to admire the work of your own hands. It’s a rare sense of satisfaction.

Years ago, I was given an Oster mixer which did a lot of the heavy lifting when it came to the kneading of the dough and the basic mixing for the ingredients. A nice machine, but it was falling apart from the moment I took it out of the box, and by the time we replaced it with a Kitchen Aid professional mixer, only the mixer bowls were of any further use. Frankly, I wore the thing out.

I’d always wanted the Kitchen Aid, ever since I saw the chef on PBS using them. It turned out to be a wise investment. The only problem I’ve ever had with it is the pivot pin for the power head keeps slipping out. I push it back in and get back to work. Obviously the keeper has popped off, but at this stage, I’m in no rush to replace it. I just keep an eye on it, and keep working.

Of course, my initial experiments in baking bread were, to put it mildly, disastrous. Those flat, gummy slabs of paste were not only flavorless, but the sort of thing that gave orthodontists nightmares. No one lost any teeth, but I suspect that was more luck than anything else. I was doing something wrong, and I had to figure it out. Given that I was the only person eating that… whatever it was – it sure as hell wasn’t bread – I either had to fix my mistakes, and learn from them, or plan on eating more gummy blobs of expensive goo.

Eventually, I began to figure some things out. For example, if you’re adding fats to the dough, such as butter or olive oil, you’re better off adding it after you’ve allowed the yeast to proof. You get the sponge going, allow it to double in size, start kneading in your flour, and around the mid-point, you add the oil or butter. By that time, there’s enough air worked into the dough to allow the yeast to do its job. Pretty simple, actually.

And with my first successful loaf, Peggy and I called all our friends, put on a big pot of soup, and had a great time feasting with our friends. It might not have been a caviar and Filet Mignon meal, but it was a great meal just the same. We got to spend time with friends, I learned I could bake, and hey, this time, no one complained of aching dentition.

As I said, I’ve got the Kitchen Aid, but I’ve learned over time that I’m better off using my hands. If I’m pressed, the stand mixer works great, but with my hands, I know what I’ve got, and I know what’s needed. The bread winds up just right, neither too dry nor too moist, and with the right flavor to it. This is particularly important if you’re doing something like oat bread or rye, since you’re counting on the flavor of those grains to come through. If you’re not, you’re better off just sticking to white bread. For those times when I find I’m using the mixer, I’ve learned what to look for when it’s at work, primarily from the way I’ve always learned: trial and error, (though usually with lots more error than I want to think about.)

Baking bread is something I enjoy. I wind up getting back to basics with my baking, and it’s a skill that’s served Peggy and me well over the years.

And in thinking about it, with the holidays in full stride, it’s the bread baking that helps put it in perspective.

I realize this time of year has taken on a variety of meanings over the millennia. Most people are will to acknowledge the reality that Christmas itself is simply the Christian co-opting of the Roman holiday of Saturnalia, a festival which included (wait for it!) an exchange of gifts among loved ones. (It supposedly also included orgies at one point, according to some pastors I know, but I don’t think Peggy would go for that.) But it wasn’t the only celebration that has taken place in the Northern Hemisphere in the darkest portion of the calendar year.

There’s been a variety of celebrations which have taken place over the centuries. Their traditions have been passed on over time, and in some cases, the pagan rites have become sanctified by the Christian faith and given new meaning. If you’re Swedish, there’s clearly some pagan background to the notion of having your daughters walking through the house with lit candles attached to a crown of greenery on their heads. The Christkindlesmarkt, the most famous of which takes place in Nuremburg, a tradition in many towns and cities in Germany, probably dates to Roman days as well, as does the practice of the Christmas tree. No doubt, Yule logs have been a part of European tradition at least as long, though they haven’t been always been called that.

What winter once was, according to Richard Adams, was bearable, when spent in the company of your family and friends. And the heart of this season is the celebration of that.

Things are tight for us this year. The trucking industry has taken harder hits than most with fuel prices escalating, and manufacturers going out of business. With the economy dropping head first into the compost, with the family members of friends in harm’s way, it’s shown to be a grimmer holiday season than most.

So, like a good loaf of bread, it helps to remember to get back to the basics.

I don’t have to have the stand mixer, or even the fancier sheet or loaf pans I have for my baking. All I really need is the flour, the yeast, a little sugar, some salt, water, and a little butter or oil. Two hands and a willingness to take some time, to invest my head and heart in what’s best for my family, and in a couple of hours, I can have a couple of loaves of bread. It’s more an act of will than of faith, though it’s for obvious reasons that the Church often cites bread in holy writ.

I’m well past the age when I want more crap. The greater gift is hearing from friends, companionship whenever possible, and a chance to reconnect with those I have come to respect, admire, and love.

And to be able to share that over a loaf of fresh bread…

Happiness? A good cigar, a good meal, a good cigar and a good woman - or a bad woman; it depends on how much happiness you can handle.
George Burns

In recent weeks, you have asked me about my particular love for cigars. I realize there's a certain degree of confusion regarding this subject, (and that's compounded by your lack of understanding as to why I enjoy them), so it seems to me that a few basics should be covered in regards to this subject.

The basics begin with the construction of a cigar: It starts with the filler, which is then secured in place with the binder, and is finished off with the wrapper. Long filler cigars are just what the name would suggest: it's long sections of the leaf, cut on the bias, (following the main stem), and rolled together to be held in place with another section of tobacco leaf. (The binder, obviously.) Short filler cigars may be cut on or against the bias, then wrapped in the binder. In some American cigars, these could include machine pulverized pieces of leaf, (such as you might find with White Owl and HavaTampas), which tends to provide a good, uniform smoke, but also a much cheaper one. (Just a suggestion: Stay away from Swisher Sweets, and this would include the Blunts. They're dry, and they're nasty tasting. I have no idea what their filler is.)

As I said, the binder is usually a part of a tobacco leaf, though it should also be pointed out that there's Nuway binder, which is made from tobacco, and is a sheet binder. It tends to be flavor neutral, though whether or not this is a plus in your book, I can't tell. To me, I'd just as soon have a natural binder, ideally one which complements the flavor of the filler.

The wrapper, naturally, is simply a tobacco leaf which is wrapped around the whole package. There are a variety of wrappers, but the primary ones are Natural, (a light colored tan wrapper), Maduro, (dark, with a sweet taste and a nice bite to it), Corojo, (tends towards a reddish color), and Candela, (a light green, also rather sweet.) There's also the Camaroon, which is dark, like the Maduro, native to Africa. Personally, I like it, but it's not for everyone. (No, I don't know why.)

Much of what I buy is from the Dominican Republic, and tends to be a bit stronger than what some people prefer. While I've had a Havana, (still the standard), it's simply not available here in the US. Frankly, I doubt the Dominicans will fade away once that idiotic embargo is lifted; the Dominicans have risen to the occasion and created a good product. I prefer the handmades: the torcedores who roll the cigars have better control over the flavor and draw of the final product than any machine. Is it worth the extra money? To my mind, yes, though I've noticed in at least one of the cigar catalogs I get, there's an El Cheapo machine produced cigar for those who will burn anything. They seem to be popular. (Frankly, I'm not that desperate.)

While, yes, there are Dominicans and Cubans, there are superb cigars from Honduras, El Salvador, Mexico, oddly enough, and here in the States. Only you can decide which you like, but I've often found it worth the effort to sample the wares over time, and see what tastes the best. Assuming you'd like to take the time to see what works for you, I'm willing to help you in that regard. (Strictly as a service, you understand...) The best thing to do is once you find a dealer who understands cigars, the intricacies of them, what gives them the flavors and textures you find desireable, take your business to them on a regular basis. In the end, they'll help you find what it is you like, and be able to recommend the best smokes for your money.

This is one of the fallacies regarding cigars, that they must be expensive. Nothing could be further from the truth. While, yes, Cohibas, whether they're from the Domincan Republic or Cuba, will be excellent cigars, there are others which are well worth the money, and a lot less. I've enjoyed those produced by CAO, (made by the Ozgener family), as well as the Carlos Torano, and the Punch brand. Oliva cigars are exceptional, though you might find the Puros from Honduras a bit strong at first. (Worth it, though, once you have come to appreciate them.) Of course, a Puro, which has a filler, binder and wrapper from one country, and in some cases, from one field, is going to be more expensive, but there are blends which can be wonderful.

(I've also found that a number of the house brands of some cigar sellers, such as Thompson and Finck, can even be better than the name brand smokes. If you can pick up a sampler, do it. You'll be surprised.)

Sizes are another matter. Length, of course, is in inches, but it's the ring gauge you need to pay attention to. A thin cigar, around a 30 r.g., might burn quicker, but what you'll get is going to lack some of the complexities of a 50 r.g. cigar. A bigger ring gauge allows not only more tobacco, but as in the case of some blended sticks, a broader variety of tobaccos. It makes for a nice combination, very flavorful, and very complex.

Shapes are another consideration. Oddly enough, cigars like Perfectos, Cheroots, and Torpedoes, with their pointed ends, can concentrate the flavors. Personally, I think it tends to add more bite than is necessary, though I've learned that there are those who think that concentration is worth it. I enjoy the debate, and like it even better when we can sample them and see for ourselves what works or not. If a lot of what goes into cigars and cigar smoking seems to be very subjective, trust me, it is. But that's part of the joy.

I used to enjoy them with a good brandy, or even a single malt. That's expensive, (though worth doing once in a while), and I've learned I enjoy them as much with a good cup of coffee, or even mineral water. To my way of thinking, what you drink with a particular cigar can either enhance the experience, or detract. Water tends to leave you with the cigar, and only the cigar. At risk of offending, I like some of the domestic brandies, as opposed to Cognac, given that the Napa Valley is now producing some superb examples. I've also enjoyed it with strong beers like Arrogant Bastard Ale. Others will disagree. I look forward to experimentation to determine the preferred libation. (Volunteers are more than welcome to contact me.)

Once you find what you like, you'll need to stock up. I have a 150 count humidor, which does a nice job of keep them smokeable. Ideally, you want them kept around 70% humidity, which will allow them to burn properly, neither too fast or too slow. A good cigar will be firm to the touch, neither mushy or rock-solid. When you bite down on it, once you've made the appropriate cut in the end, it shouldn't crunch. This is a cigar, not a spoonful of dry corn flakes. It should feel comfortable between your teeth and lips.

Ideally, once you've made your cut in the end, puff on it a couple of times to get a feel for the draw. If you're needing to do any more than a gentle draw of it, try to remember what it was you bought, and don't buy it again. Someone doesn't know what they're doing, and it's going to be a miserable experience. Don't waste your time or money.

I prefer a cat's eye cut on the end of mine. Some prefer to use a punch, while others go for slicing off the end. There's no "right" way to do this, so try several different methods. When you find one that works, stick with it, until your experience or the cigar itself suggests a better way.

And having said this, there's one more thing I should say:

Never, ever, smoke it alone.

I realize this sounds like an odd thing to say, given how often I'm outside the house, enjoying my cigar in solitude. However, this is ideally not the preferred way to enjoy them.

Cigars are, and always will be, a luxury item. Most cigar dealers have long fought the notion of a "good five cent cigar." It should be savored at special occasions, and done so in the midst of friends. Whether they smoke them or not, (ideally, they should be tolerant of the practice), you want to enjoy a good cigar with your friends and family, at times of joy. Personally, I find being able to get together with friends and family a joy at just about any time, (unless, of course, we're discussing "certain" in-laws), but ideally, it should not be a solitary practice.

Don't buy just one. Buy two. Share one with someone special. It's worth the money and the time. And for that matter, take your time. A good cigar will take you over an hour to enjoy, as it should. Don't rush the experience. (If you have to smoke something in a hurry, I would suggest you wait until you can take the time to properly enjoy it. Rush it, and you miss out.) I enjoy a good Churchill, a 7"+ x 50 r.g. cigar, ideally a Maduro. And I've found that to smoke it with good friends is nothing short of sublime.

I realize this will all sound so odd to you, given you prefer to not smoke. That's okay. I'm just as happy to have you here with me as I smoke it, along with other family and friends. I can easily enjoy it downwind. I'd just like to have you here when I do. Cigars are a communal pleasure, and they should be enjoyed among those we love.

I hope you understand that.

Love,

Dad.

Sites to See:

I get my smokes from Thompson Cigar Company of Tampa, FL. Not only are they reasonably priced, but they have got some incredible humidors. Some of the deals will just make you cry. GO HERE!

Finck Cigar Company is where you can find Charles The Great cigars, which was one of my dad's favorites. Great prices, great people, and from what they say, the Largest Humidor in Texas. Might be worth a trip to find out.

Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose with the exception of guppies, who like to eat theirs.
P. J. O'Rourke

Matt, my youngest, enjoys going to the card shop in Carmichael, CA. I don't know why he does this: most of the players are pre-teens or young teenagers, though the guys Matt hangs out with are more his age. It's a pleasant enough way to spend a Sunday, as opposed to sitting in a pew listening to a self-important bigot. I know this well: I did it for years myself.

So, I was dropping Matt off at the card shop, and as I walked in, I noticed that on the counter was a rather large statuette, about 10 inches tall, green, with tentacles in some of the weirdest places. It took me a few moments, but I began to realize just what this was.

I walked up the counter, Matt following, and I asked, "Excuse me, but is that C'Thulhu?"

The clerk, a young kid in his early 20's, blinked in surprise. "Well, yes. Yes, it is, sir. Most people don't recognize it."

"It was hard to miss," I answered.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Dad..."

"So, how much for the Elder God?" I asked.

He quoted me a price. I grinned for a moment. For the price quoted, I could pick that up with a cash advance.

"Do you have it in chrome?"

The kid behind the counter blinked again. Matt moaned, "Daaaaaad...!"

"Chrome?" the clerk asked. "I-I guess I could check in with our supplier..."

"Great!" I said. "See, I've got a Peterbilt 379 I drive, and I was thinking that would make one hell of a hood ornament."

The clerks eyes widened. Matt threw his hands up. "Dad, you are embarassing me!"

"And, say, do you sell like a little Santa hat for him? You know, for Christmas!"

Matt fled for the door, as the clerk's jaw hit the countertop. "Dad, I don't know you! God! I can't believe you did this!!!"

I don't know why Matt was so upset. I asked at a chrome shop if they sold one, and they told me I was a weirdo.

I respect faith, but doubt is what gets you an education.
Wilson Mizner

I'm sitting in Ontario, CA tonight, at the Interstate 10 TA West Truckstop off Milliken Avenue. I made the mistake of eating the buffet at the "Fork In The Road" restaurant, which means at some point tonight, I'll probably be hanging my head out the passenger side window, paying homage to the Gods of Asphalt. (I never was a red carpet kind of guy.)

In about 15,000 miles, I'll be just over my 2 million miles. As I've said before, I'm no longer an apprentice. I'm by no means a master, but even the most experienced of drivers tells me there's no such thing as a "master driver." It's disappointing. I'd kind of hoped to claim the title of "Perfected Master," but in this business, that seems to be out of the question. There's too many changes happening too damned fast, not the least of which includes new environmental laws, as well as changes in the equipment. Some of this I can pass on, other parts, they're too important to ignore.

My first trip to LA was eventful, to say the least. I used to carry large, heavy toolboxes with me in my rig, mainly because I always seemed to run into mechanics who had better things to do than fix my broken down rig. The usual situation with one particular mechanic, "Mr. Sunshine," would run something like this:

Me: "Dude..."

Mr. Sunshine: "Yeah..."

Me: "I'm broke down."

Mr. Sunshine: "So?"

Me: "So, the truck isn't running."

Mr. Sunshine: "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

Me: "Well, maybe you could fix it?"

Mr. Sunshine: "I ain't got time."

This, of course, would result in my sneaking parts out of the shop, and while out on the road, fixing the mess myself. I got caught a number of times sneaking out parts, but that had little effect on me. If I was going to drive a rig, it was going to be a safe rig, and if Mr. Sunshine wasn't going to take care of it, I would.

As it happened, the big boss for the outfit where I was working at the time learned of this. When we had a nine axle heavy haul trailer break down, due to a blown wheel bearing and a damaged steer axle, I was dispatched to dead head down to the Port of Long Beach, complete with tools and an empty flatbed so I could haul some extra equipment that wasn't fitting on the rest of the rigs.

I tossed my gear into the saddle boxes of the truck, grabbed a company credit card, some cash, and was on my way south, rolling towards the port. It was heady for me; no one had ever asked me to make a run like that, and particularly for such a critical situation. If we didn't get the nine axle back up and rolling, a company in Los Angeles would get the job, and we'd have all made the run for nothing.

So I'm running hard and fast, or at least as fast as the Kenworth's governed Cummins ISM engine would allow, I'm over halfway to Los Angeles, and I decide I ought to stop and get something to eat. I came up to a truck stop that had a particular fast food joint I liked, so I rolled off onto the exit, and pulled in to the truck parking area.

But, I didn't like that area. Too many other trucks. What if someone scratched the paint on my K-Dub? I looked around, saw a parking spot off in a dark corner, whipped around and parked there.

I got out of the truck, took my keys, and locked up the saddle boxes, securing all my tools. No problem, I figured, and I walked in for my burger and fries.

I had a pretty good meal that night. I was thinking what a big shot "Trucker" I was, rolling down the Interstate, heading to a major port in the United States, with my tools in my boxes, preparing to save the day for my employer. I had it figured that eventually, they'd realize just what a great asset I was, and they'd have to train me to do more. Yup, if I were riding any taller in the saddle, I'd have to wear goggles to keep the clouds out of my eyes.

I finished up my dinner, and started back to the truck. It was dark out, now, on a moonless night, with dark clouds beginning to blot out the stars. I had my hands in my pockets, and was kind of enjoying the "King of the Road" feeling I had coursing through my mind. For once in my life, I was a genuine Hero.

And that was when I felt that mammoth paw slam down on my shoulder.

In that moment, I didn't think. I simply froze. I turned slightly, enough to see that the hand on my shoulder belonged to a very large black guy with massive arms, dressed in a white t-shirt, bib overalls, steel-toed boots, all of which were very, very clean. I'm not sure how tall he really was, but at that moment, he seemed to tower over me. I wasn't sure what he wanted, but the muted violence of the moment told me that if he were out to harm me, he'd have already done it.

He took a deliberate step ahead of me, pulled a black flashlight out of his pants pocket and switched it on. He pointed it down alongside my trailer.

In that moment, I watched as three or four characters suddenly began to scramble out of the light, hiding behind trees and derelict cars. I'd been in serious trouble, and I had been completely unaware. Had this man not stopped me, they might have found my broken remains several weeks later.

I turned to the man as he turned back to face me. I started to thank him, but he began to shake his shaven head in disgust.

"Boy," he snapped, "either get smart, OR GO HOME!"

With that, he stalked off to his truck, and left me.

I was cresting the Grapevine before it all sank in: I had royally blown it. I should have locked the tool boxes before I left Sacramento. I should have parked in a well lit area. I should have been paying attention when I walked out of the restaurant. And if I'd had any doubts, I should have gotten someone to walk with me out to my truck. It was a hard lesson, and it could have been a fatal one. I was damned lucky that it wasn't.

Things have changed for me since then. I'm driving a larger truck, pulling a longer trailer, driving further. I've had to get very smart, and get there very quickly. Some guys claim that a life of prayer will see you through it all. All it's become for me is wasted words. You have to use your brain, or you damned well ought to remain at home, doing local runs, or sticking to courier work, driving a well-worn Yugo. Faith is a fine thing, but it only works when you've first used, and heeded, your mind. It's a tough lesson, but you had damned well better learn it if you want to be out on the road the next day. At one point, I didn't, and I'm lucky to still have my right hand. (Ask me the next time you see me; I'll show you the scars.)

As I've said, things have changed. I've not only learned what I can do, but what I can't. In learning my limits, I've learned why those limits exist. In some cases, I can bypass the challenges, and in others, I can work within the limits to get done what I must. If it's made me a better trucker, it's also made me a skeptic, and I'm just beginning to realize just how lucky I've been over the course of my professional life. That I'm now in a situation where I'll be buying a truck within the next year or so is more a testament to skepticism than it is to the religious dogma I clung to so desperately for so long. I've learned I need more of the former, and less of the latter. The former forces me to think, the latter is a substitute for thought.

If that means I'm on dangerous ground, I'm reminded of the foolish mistakes I have made over the past two million miles driven, and I'm forced into cognizance of just how damned dangerous those were. A life on the road is not a safe place; get used to it.

In less than 15,000 miles, I'll be over 2 million. That may be a source of pride for some, but for me, it's humbling. I didn't get there by being a big shot. I got there by learning to shut up and learn from those who'd already driven their millions, and who had a lot to teach me. Expand that above and beyond trucking, and you begin to realize just how much you have to learn beyond your own small patch of expertise.

I haven't seen the driver who saved my life in the years since. I doubt he's even thought of me once in that span of time, but I have yet to not think of the gift he gave me. As a trucker, you're a perpetual apprentice, and there's still miles and miles of lessons ahead of me. I can only hope that I'm smart enough to learn from them.

Not the least of which is to never eat from the buffet at a truck stop. Still, if I die from salmonella poisoning from the tomatoes, jalapenos and cilantro I ate tonight, at least I'll go with a full stomach, the Lords of Asphalt notwithstanding.

Stay safe.

It’s the friends you can call up at four a.m. that matter.
Marlene Dietrich

I've known my friend, Will, for several years now. It's been a good friendship, and to my mind, I've been the primary beneficiary of it.

I call Will "The Big Man," a term of respect and honor. It's a rare term to be used. While every place has someone who knows the ropes, knows the business, who can teach others, when you call someone "The Big Man," you're referring not only to their abilities, but their character. If you're in trouble, professionally, personally, you talk to The Big Man. He's the one who knows how to get yourself out of trouble, and who can show you how to stay out of it. More to the point, he can tell you how to do it without hurting anyone else. It's not a reference to physique, but to the size of the heart.

We'd met while I was working at a heavy haul outfit, and it was Will who showed me most of what I needed to know. In the 20+ years that he's been driving, he's done most everything you can do with a truck, including pulling bull wagons, flats, lowbeds, Klein tanks, and a few combinations they don't even have names for. Will is a solid professional, and he's earned his title. Frankly, I don't think I'd be half as good as I am without him.

It was about a year and a half ago that I managed to reconnect with him. My boss had asked if I knew any good drivers; we had empty rigs and we needed someone who could take the wheel. I thought of Will, called around, and managed to get a hold of him.

Will was in a bad way. He'd left the heavy haul outfit and was hauling rock for a company in Woodland, CA. He was getting short loads, and few miles, which was leaving him with a running deficit every month. Worst of all, his wife, Lani, had died the year before. I'd met her once, a short, plump woman, with a generous smile and even more generous heart. She'd contracted ovarian cancer, and while it was a painful way to go, it was at least relatively quick. Her suffering had been mercifully short, but it was Will who was paying for it. He was drinking heavily off duty, and wasn't eating well at all. He had let himself go.

Peggy and I talked about it. I told Will about where I was working, and while there were a few problems, I was dealing with them. Will thought it sounded like just the ticket, and I brought him an application. It wasn't long after that the apartment complex where he'd been living served him with an eviction notice for unpaid rent. We emptied a bedroom for him, since my son, Jon, had moved out, and Will moved in with us. He set the rent he'd pay, (far more than we thought he should be paying), he cut way back on his alcohol consumption, and hit the highway, hard.

Just when I thought I couldn't learn any more from Will, he showed me otherwise. I'd been struggling somewhat with driving OTR, but Will would run with me, and coach me on what I needed to be doing. Things which had been throwing me on my logbook, on my customer contact, on just getting the damned loads down the road, now began to make more sense. I was getting better at driving, and even better than that at making it work, and making it pay. And while I've still got a lot to learn, it's been easier because my friend has been there helping me.

Will also intervened in some other critical areas. Peggy and I struggled with the change to OTR, and it threatened our marriage. If I haven't been here as much, it's partly because Will would literally turn off the computer, chase me out of the home office, and insist I spend time with my wife. "You're here for maybe a day or two out of the week. She's got first call," he'd point out. He was right, and in the end, it's been a huge help to set this aside and just spend time with Peggy, reminding myself that she's the reason for this.

I suppose I should have worried about Peggy being alone with Will. Far too many other drivers would tell you I should have been. Not so. Will considers Peggy to be more of a sister, and he'd never violate a friendship by making a pass at my wife. Like I said: He's The Big Man. It's a measure of his character as much as his skill.

Having said that, it also bears noting that we had warned Will what I was going through with this outfit, the worst part being that they have little in the way of loyalty, and that getting my paycheck on time is somewhat akin to trying to drive a Kenworth through a pedestrian tunnel. Sometimes it works, but a lot of times, if I get it by the seventh of the month, I'm lucky.

A couple of weeks ago, Will got stopped at the Madras scales in Oregon. It was a paper check, fairly common, but a matter of concern. Oregon is hard as hell on logbooks.

It turned out Will was behind on his logbook. It's a discretionary thing; give a bear grief over it, and you can get hit with fines which can range up to $10,000. In Will's case, the bear at the chicken coop asked him to update. No fine, no points, just five minutes, two lines, and one notation. Over, out.

But the rest of it got worse. They ran his license. Suspended.

Years ago, Will had been married to a woman who cheated on him, while he was out on the road. He divorced, but was unable to come up with the scratch to make the alimony and child support payments, both of which even the courts thought were excessive. He got behind, but he's been paying on it. As it turned out, the Sacramento Family Court decided he wasn't paying on it fast enough, and paperwork was filed which suspended his license.

It was a complete crock. DMV and the courts cleared it right away, but it would take two weeks to get his license back. In the meantime, Will was suspended until it was. The company took his rig, and now, it's questionable if he'll get another ride, even though he's able to go back to work tomorrow.

What's worse is that we have this jackoff who's been running his mouth, saying Will's been fired for DUI. It's a complete falsehood: Will won't drink when he's going to be out on the road. I know this about the man. I've been lodging complaints about this, but it's doing me no good since the jackoff is an owner-op, and in this outfit, they tend to be unable to do any wrong.

And now, we don't have our paychecks. Again.

Will had to float a couple of checks just so he'd be able to pay his share of the food bill, something we told him he didn't have to worry about. He'd helped us, now I was able to help him. In the meantime, we were expecting our checks, via FedEx, on the fifth. It turned out to be a no-go: we might get them Tuesday.

Will's time with this outfit has been a nightmare. He's been threatened, bullied, challenged, and cheated. At one point, he drove a mere fifteen miles from Kent, WA, to the company's yard. The boss ripped into him about the cost of fuel. Will tossed a $20 bill onto the boss's desk, and told him, "Here! It's covered!" There was no reason for the boss to chew Will out about this, particularly since his actions were, more or less, SOP. When you finish up that close to the yard, you run back to the yard and turn in your paperwork. If you're headed somewhere else from a load nearby, you generally know long before you get to your destination.

I got Will hired on with this company, and it hasn't worked out well for him, and it's gotten worse for me. I've already got feelers out for another gig, and a couple of hard bites to go with them. In the meantime, Will got in touch with the boss to find out where our checks are, and for his efforts, he might get fired.

I have come to believe that if you want to truly help someone, you don't just toss them a bone. You give them the tools needed to stand on their own, to rebuild, to gain true strength. Sometimes, at least for me, good advice, and good information, are a greater help than anything else. I thought I'd given Will real assistance, and it turns out I've knocked him down to his knees again.

It isn't fair.

It isn't right.

And while Will keeps telling me it's okay, that he understands I'm getting hurt here, too, it doesn't make it okay with me. I wanted to give The Big Man the help he deserved, and I've failed him.

Damn it all.

Been out on the road a while, and it's been hard to keep up with this beast. Hopefully, (to both of you), you'll forgive the lack of entries.

I'm catching up on some stuff. We will be back, ASAP.

Thanks.

Roadtoad.

I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.
Carl Sandburg

One of the first things that impresses you about driving through Southern California is that nearly the whole of Los Angeles seems to have swallowed up all of the smaller communities that once surrounded it. Like the oversized amoeba it is, complete with the same intellect, taste, culture, and foresight, Los Angeles has sprawled over the communities which once fed it, becoming a living demonstration of parasitism.

As I drive through some of the smaller towns which once made up the LA basin, including Ontario, Colton, Chino, Covina, and the like, I occasionally find myself in the midst of what had once been someone’s downtown. Roll down Euclid Avenue in Ontario, and you’re reminded by the buildings on either side that at one point, this had been Downtown, that there had been banks, theaters, clothing stores, grocers, nearly all that the town needed for its own identity and use, right there at their fingertips. Malls which dominated vast tracts of acreage, all in the name of “convenience,” were unheard of, and probably would have provoked more horror than glee from the local residents. Passing what had once been hardware stores and lumberyards, I’m curious to know if the previous owners of these businesses knew that as they were feeding their housing boom that they were fueling the destruction of their own businesses, and possibly contributing to the erosion and failure of their own towns.

Ontario isn’t so much a municipality anymore. It’s just one more blip on the map that has become Los Angeles, another forgettable corner of homogenized sprawl across the landscape, another smear of gray when you see it from the sky.

I’ve learned to hate this kind of thing. I would rather spend my time rolling past the farmscapes of California’s Central Valley, and find I’d rather fill my lungs with the smells of the dairy farms I pass than the odor of the traffic that surrounds me on the Interstates. I can cope with the former, at least, if I ignore the reality that “agribusiness” has become the watchword for what I’m seeing, that factory-type production has taken over and driven family farmers off their lands. The ideals of Better, Faster, Cheaper, have now dominated to the point that you’d have to be a fool to want to farm in this nation.

Well, call me a major damned fool.

It was heartening to see small farms set up in vacant lots in and around Chino and Ontario. Still, their output was small, more a hobby than a commitment to an agrarian life. It was something these farmers did to fill out a paycheck, rather than to make a living.

The EcoNazis have all but driven out a number of family farms, and it doesn’t help when you see the Seattle Post Intelligencer with a Page One story, above the fold, about how a major pickle manufacturer is now buying its cucumbers from India rather than local farmers around Bellingham and the surrounding area. Growing up at times in the Imperial Valley, with my Dad in various stages of deployment with the U.S. Army, I grew accustomed to seeing farms and the communities that grew up among them, and respecting what it was they represented.

I miss seeing farms in this country, and it’s nothing short of disturbing seeing many of them going under and becoming industrial parks and housing tracts. I’d like to be part of the resistance to this, but with my income level, not to mention how state and local governments have jacked up tax rates, I’m not exactly grinning about my prospects.

LA has become an exemplar of what the rest of the nation is heading towards. As I well remember seeing in Visalia, CA, in parts of Colorado, Arizona, Texas, New Mexico, Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon, farms are being bulldozed for more urban development. The goal is to line someone’s pockets, ignoring the greater long term consequences for land use, for our environment. In the end, as the old Indian saying goes, we’ll wind up learning that we can’t eat money.

Maybe with the meltdown we’re experiencing in our economy, there’s a good chance we’ll be able to reverse a lot of this. We can hope. Maybe with the end of Reagan/Bush/Clinton/Bush Greed is Good politics, we have a chance of turning back the tide. As I said, I’m not overly enthusiastic that it will happen.

But, we’ve got a shot.

Sites to See:

Information from Ohio State University on saving family farms.

More information on sustainable agricultural communities.

And now for something competely different: Scotty the Blue Bunny.

It is not giving children more that spoils them; it is giving them more to avoid confrontation.
John Gray

"I'm moving in with some friends," Matt announced.

Peggy and I were left sitting in the bed, surprised. "Fine, I guess," I said after a long pause. "How are you going to afford it?"

"I've got my GI Bill. I'll find a job."

Riiiiiight, I thought. You've been home from the Army for around six months, haven't even bothered to go out and put in applications, and you're now telling me you're going to just go out and get a job. I was beginning to wonder what my youngest son had been smoking, and further asking myself if it would show up on a UA. If not, I wanted a hit.

Matt's decided he doesn't like the atmosphere here at the house. I want him to get a job, get on his feet, and start to deal with the heartbreak of losing a child we never knew he had. I want him to get healthy, to start to deal with the issues that got him tossed out of the military in the first place. He doesn't want to do that.

I'm torn. I know as a father, I have to let him go. He's 21 years old, and legally an adult. He's relatively sane, (at least as sane as any person in their early 20's can be), and he's taking some responsibility for his life. I'm grateful for that.

But I also know he's not ready. He's got a lot to deal with on his plate, and once he's gotten the last of his gear out into my Chevy pickup, he won't deal with it. It's going to get shoved under the bed, along with old socks, sneakers, and empty pizza boxes. I'm worried.

I know for a fact that I shouldn't be; I was in far worse shape when I finally got clear of my parents, (and even then, they kept interjecting themselves into our lives, much to our own destruction.) I still managed to get and keep jobs, support and raise a family, and eventually, work towards buying a truck. (Still working at it.) It's a hard run for anyone, and yet, I'm worried about my son. I'm hopeful, but that's about it.

Matt has a huge lesson in store for him. My buddy, Will, keeps telling me to just shut my mouth and let him go. Doing that, he says, makes it more likely that Matt will be back at least for the holidays, and an occasional dinner at home. Will's rarely been wrong about this kind of thing. But it's not making it any easier.

Part of the whole business of talk radio is that everyone has so much to say, and so little time to get it said. You're under the pressure of the clock, the advertisers, and the audience, and you're trying to get it all in. Not easy.

I know this. My folks were in the media for ages.

If you were listening to KFBK last night, I apologize. Yes, that was me on Bruce Maiman's show. I called in wanting to make one simple comment: I'd read what the candidates platforms were, and I didn't like any of them. Not one person running for the office of President this year is qualified, capable, trustworthy, or honest. Frankly, if it were up to me, I'd have hung the whole damned lot of them. "Bastards" doesn't even begin to cover it.

Still, like anyone, Maiman wanted to know where I was coming from on this. I should have been a bit more clear, but he wound up thinking my oldest and youngest son had both served in Iraq. If you're read this blog with any frequency, you know they didn't: Due to being seriously injured in a night jump at Fort Bragg, NC, James wound up in Kuwait, ferrying Hummers around the AO, even when the military's doctors themselves said he should have stayed home, while Matt had a meltdown at Fort Campbell, KY, and was ejected from the service. Both are supposed to be receiving care from the VA due to service related conditions, but neither is getting the help they're supposed to.

No surprise there. As I've said before, if you want to trivialize a critical issue in American society, all you have to do is make the government agency responsible for it a cabinet level entity. (Just look at what's happened with Homeland Security.) Already there? Have Congress hold hearings.

It was late for me, last night. I was just getting back into town, and I was short on miles. While George Bush is saying the fundamentals are good, I'm out there trying to get at least 2,500 miles just to make ends meet. (I need anywhere from 2,500 to 3,000 in this business just to keep my bills current.)

I'm probably not one of Maiman's favorite people. I suspect he'd be relieved if I would switch it over to another station altogether, but I've no evidence of it. Still, I'm like a bad case of herpes: I just keep coming back.

The whole story about my dad, me, my sons, is complicated, and it's long. A lot of it is not fit for talk radio. I'll try to get it all in over the next few days, assuming I have web access and time. (Yes, you can get short miles in trucking and still be working your ass off.)

More to come. I hope.

Sites to See:

More about Bruce Maiman, here.

I told you I'd get it finished!

I'm not a real movie star. I've still got the same wife I started out with twenty-eight years ago.
Will Rogers

Maybe it’s just me, but my wife does not like taking me with her when she goes shopping, regardless of whether it’s the mall or Wal-Mart. If given the choice between taking me with her to the stores, or fighting with a half-crazed bobcat, she’ll likely take the bobcat. (At least it’s a cat.) Most of the time, she’d rather leave me at home to do guy stuff, such as pretending to work on the car with my friends, (which is nothing more than an excuse to drink beer), pretending to work on the yard, (which is nothing more than an excuse to drink beer), or pretending to do some repair work that’s desperately needed in our bathrooms, (which is nothing more than an excuse to drink beer.)

I like beer.

Still, those moments come when it’s unavoidable. She needs to drag my sorry backside with her to the store, and we need to actually spend money to pick up something we seem to need, such as food, clothing, liquids of varying composition, or even material required for me to pretend I’m doing the foregoing, even as I’m drinking my beer.

I like beer.

Now, part of the problem, of course, is that women simply don’t understand men. Those of the feminine persuasion say, “I am woman, hear me roar.”

Those of the masculine persuasion say, “I am man, pull my finger.”

Doubt me on this?

Peggy and I were doing Christmas shopping one year, dropping in at our local Wal-Mart in Antelope, CA. Normally, she tries to avoid taking me, as I’ve said, but this was one of those instances where she was stuck dragging me along. We had no sooner gotten to the front door before she warned me, “Don’t do anything.”

“What do you mean, ‘Don’t do anything’?” I countered. “I mean, what could I possibly do?”

“You said that the last time. You started putting the blow-up Santas on display into weird positions,” she noted.

“What weird positions?”

She stopped me in front of the store and glowered. “I never should have let you read the Kama Sutra.”

“That wasn’t the Kama Sutra. That was The Joy Of Sex.”

“Don’t do it again!” I was ordered.

I sighed and followed my wife into the store. I suppose I could have mentioned that my son, Chris, and his friend, Nate, had done something similar with the artists models, the little wooden ones, they were selling at IKEA, which prompted my daughter-in-law Kasey to hide out in the café, but that would only have compounded matters. I am Man. Pull my Finger.

It’s really no different from what my older son did this year with his wife and my grandson. At one point, James found large blue plastic ornaments on display in one section. In the middle of the store, after he’d been carrying them around with them, he announced loudly to my daughter-in-law, Madison, “Look, honey! I’ve got BLUE BALLS!”

Maddie snagged the ornaments from him and told him to shut up and behave himself. (See? It’s genetic.)

We managed to pick up gifts for most of our family. Aside from my tinkering with the alarm clocks on display, (as suggested in a bit of spam we got in our e-mail box), things went pretty well. We even managed to have enough scratch left over for lunch at McDonald’s. All we had left to do was get through the checkout line.

Now, this isn’t as simple as it seems. Normally, since we wind up parking out in the wilds of “Siberia,” we wind up checking out through the garden section of the store. This, if you’re not familiar with it, is where they put all the nifty stuff for Christmas which gets me into trouble. Stacked on one shelf, for example, was a selection of poseable plastic Santas and snowmen. I started to walk towards the shelf, only to feel a hard pull on my right sleeve.

“Don’t even think about it,” Peggy ordered.

I am Man. Pull my Finger.

She stepped into the line and we began to edge our way to the register. Behind us, people began to queue up, and believe me, NO ONE was happy. Sorry, folks, but at Christmas time, no one is ever happy while they wait in line to learn that they’re over the limit on their credit cards. Certainly not the dude with the Harley Davidson head scarf, nor the elderly woman with the purse large enough to contain half the cosmetics department. In fact, everyone was looking miserable.

I got a little further forward, and noticed the white box with multicolored products of plastic sticking out of it. Yes, they were plastic Candy Canes, the sort with LEDs in them, which work for the first couple of minutes you have them staked out in your lawn, but die before daybreak. The next year, you discover your kids have used them for tent posts when they decided to camp out in the backyard with their friends. You wind up going back to Wal-Mart, buying more of the damned things, and Wal-Mart makes another thirty cents on the sale. A few million of those, and you understand why they’re cleaning up.

I let Peggy drift ahead of me, and stepped to the side, picking up one of the red ones, giving it a practice swish in the air, making a couple of jabs at nothing…

A green candy cane was gently settled atop my red one.

He was wearing a three piece suit, dark gray, red silk tie, black wing tips. His hair was cut just so, and sitting next to him was a black leather attaché case. He looked at me and shook his head.

I brought my own cane up, and over, starting to swing it again, when with a resonant click, the green one came down again. He shook his head again, a stern look of disapproval on his clean-shaven face.

So that was the challenge I faced. I stepped back, determined that this suit was not going to deter me in my quest for Truth, Justice, and the American Way!

I am MAN. Pull my FINGER!

We addressed each other, and the duel was on…

Indeed, we crossed canes and began to interweave our way amongst our fellow shoppers. Ah, truly, he was a wily one, no doubt a member of the fencing team as he slogged his way through Law School. He parried, he riposted, he was truly an excellent canesman, even as we ducked around Mr. Hog, who raised his arms, then pushed the Suit back into battle, snarling about “them damn smartasses,” even as his lady clutched in shock and horror her bag of all natural granola.
Yes, the Suit had violated a basic tenet of canesmanship; he had dragged the innocent into our conflict. Truly, while he was skilled, he was also unscrupulous, and a cheat.

But I had something he didn’t have.

I had passion.

I had courage.

I had Red Wing steel toed boots.

A moment later, he was hopping on one foot, his weapon in one hand, the scuffed and mashed toe of his black wingtip in the other, scowling at me as he renewed his attack. He slashed at me, then thrust, catching the lining of my Carhartt, tearing it slightly. I slashed at him, then charged him, avoiding another thrust from my opponent, even as he ducked behind the elderly woman with the massive handbag.

It was a critical tactical error.

The elderly grandmotherly type wheeled around and smacked the Suit behind the head, sending him flying towards me. I stepped forward, and the tip of my cane caught him just above the top button of his vest. A moment later, he toppled over into another display of poseable Santas, snowmen, reindeer, and elves. (Woah. The fun I could have had if I’d just seen THEM!)

I saluted my opponent, even as people began to applaud, even Mr. Hog and his lady, Ms. Natural. The Grandmotherly lady with the purse gave me a thumbs up as I replaced my cane…

Peggy reached out and grabbed my arm as soon as I got to the register, glomming onto it with a vise-like grip, dragging me out of the store. Behind me, a feminine voice declared loudly, “I can’t take you ANYWHERE!”

Yes, Christmas shopping was done for another year. Yet, in my own humble, selfless manner, I had once more affirmed the battle cry of Man, heard, no doubt, from our earliest forebears to the present day…

I AM MAN! PULL MY FINGER!

(Yes, I know the annual Christmas essay is late. It's coming. It's coming. Geez!!!!)

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.
Isaac Asimov

I could see he was running on a set of Michelins.

At that moment, I was hugging the forward left outside dual of the trailer, hoping like hell he'd edge it to the left at least another two inches, even as I could feel the icy spray from the road as his rig rolled by me. I could easily feel the rush of air as he rolled past, clearly oblivious to the fact that he came damned close to killing me.

All of this started simply enough: We were hit with the second wave of a series of storms that were rolling across Northern California. I'd checked on the weather on December 31st, and realized that if I didn't move and move quick, I'd be stuck in the middle of this mess, and probably forced to shut down in white-out conditions. I was low on food, and low on drinking water in the truck, not to mention that with a recent valve adjustment, they'd put in new parameters for the engine, forcing it to shut down after five minutes of idle time. I'd be stuck trying to huddle under the blankets in the sleeper, trying to stay warm, even as the slop outside solidified into an icy slab on the Interstate. Not good.

Add to this the current fight with Peggy about her getting a job, about her trying to make some sort of meaningful contact with our mortgage company, not to mention the threats to our marriage we've been facing with everything else, and I was not looking forward to trying to make this trip.

I managed to make good time from Brownsville, OR down to Weed, CA, only to discover that I would be forced to chain up. I took an hour, got everything secured, then tried like hell to get back into traffic, a difficult task, given the number of retirees in their RVs heading south, no doubt heading for warmer weather, (something I kept wishing I was doing.)

When I'm chaining up my rig, I have a set of black insulated coveralls, which I wear with a green knit cap, long underwear, my boots, and a high visibility flourescent green vest. I've been looking for icy weather gear that has at least reflective stripes on it, but for now, during daylight hours, this seems to work. Add to this the basic rule that you never turn your back on traffic, that you face the rear of the rig as you walk past on the driver's side, and you walk towards the front on the passenger side, and you can stay relatively safe in the hazardous business of driving in the snow and ice.

It took nearly five hours to crawl my way in traffic from Weed, CA to Dunsmuir, CA, a short hop I can normally make in about 30 minutes on a warm summer day, ideally, with the windows down and with astringent perfume of pine in the air. I kept in touch with other drivers, asking simply, "How long before chain law is down, Northbound?"

I had my answer pretty quickly. At Dunsmuir, damned near every rig was pulling over and yanking off the iron. A northbound driver for Schneider declared, "Chain law's down from Dunsmuir on. All you have is wet, Driver."

That was all I needed to hear.

I pulled off in an area where the road was reducing lanes. The tail end of the trailer was to the right of the fog line, I had the right side tires sitting on snow and ice, but the left side in the clear. I was off the road in a well-lit area, quite literally a few feet from the Dunsmuir city limits. With reflective tape on the back of the mirror-finished silver doors of the trailer, I should have been pretty safe.

I thought about pulling on the coveralls again, then decided against it. If I did it right, I could have all the chains off in about ten minutes, have them on the rack in another five, and be rolling again with a minute to update my logbook. The temperature was in the mid-30s, so I figured I really didn't need to winter up. I grabbed a flourescent green insulated jacket I got when I worked for the heavy haul outfit, (a Christmas gift from my SOB boss), threw that on, grabbed a flashlight, and a pair of insulated gloves. I climbed out of the cab, and got to work.

I pulled the bungees from the chains in one quick loop, and tossed them into the side stowage on the sleeper. I made the next loop actually uncoupling the chains, pulling them off to one side so I could roll a foot or two off of them. The third loop would involve me gathering them up and hanging them on the chain rack behind the cab.

I almost didn't get the chance.

I had seen the white Freightliner as it rounded the curve on I-5. He was moving way too fast, and he was far too close to the fog line. If he didn't change his direction quick, I would have been little more than a bloody smear on the Interstate, and if you had any interest, you might have been reading my epitaph.

At that moment, I was working on the forward duals on the trailer, pulling off the single rail drag chain. There was no way I could get to the catwalk on the tractor, and throwing myself under the trailer would have been damned near suicidal, with rock guards for the rear suspension hanging down and leaving about a foot of ground clearance. I stood a good chance, assuming I could get under in time, of getting nailed in the head if this brain-dead amateur in the Freightshaker nailed the back of my trailer, which was looking like a real probability as he wove his way towards me.

I ducked under the trailer, and hugged the outside dual. At least if I died, it would be quick. Painful as hell, but quick.

I got a quick glimpse of the Shaker's critter-hitter, caught sight of the steer axle as it whipped past, noted that on the forward drives he was missing a lug cover, and learned that whoever he was driving for, they put Bridgestones on the trailers. (Cheap bastards.)

It took a few minutes, but I finally got the stones to move.

I stood up, the flashlight wet from where it hit the pavement, took a couple of breaths and began to unchain the rest of the truck. I rolled forward, pulled chains from the ground and made a mental note of those that needed repair, and once that was done, I hung them on the racks. I opened the door to the Peterbilt, dropped my saturated gloves and flashlight into the space between the door and the driver's seat, and climbed in.

I couldn't move.

I just sat there in the driver's seat, my heart hammering away in my chest, angry, frightened, wet, cold, and somewhat grateful to still be able to draw breath.

They tell you your life passes by your eyes when you're in that kind of a situation. That's crap.

All I could think of was Peggy.

I can normally be rolling in 15 to 20 minutes when I unchain. It took me closer to 45 this time. I updated, tried to get myself to put the rig in gear, and tried like hell to get moving. I probably could have shut down in Sacramento that night with a little manipulation of the "truth," but having just gone through a major DOT audit, I wasn't about to. I shut it down near Corning, CA, and went comatose for the next ten hours.

I have lots of regrets in my life. Some are lifelong, others far more recent. I regret I didn't finish my college degree, I regret I wasted so much time believing in what wasn't there in the first place, I regret that when I meet other JREFers, I only see them once, and they're gone, leaving me to wonder what I said or did to people for whom I have incredible affection and respect.

I regret I haven't told Peggy often enough that I love her.

Friday, with the major part of the storm series in full bore with rain and sustained winds in Yolo and Sacramento counties of 40+ MPH, I was caught up in the mess on Southbound I-5, and wasn't able to make on-time deliveries. With four overturned trucks, (or so CHP told us), we were not taking the Yolo Causeway into Sacramento, at least not until we stopped having wind gusts up over 60 MPH. It took me from seven in the morning to 3:15 in the afternoon before I managed to get the truck to the yard and shut it down for the weekend. I dropped the trailer, then ran straight to the house, charging through flooded streets and across traffic hazards to get there.

I took a long hot shower in the dark, our power being out from 7 a.m. onward, and told Peggy about this trip. She ran her hand up and down my back, saying nothing.

We went out for Chinese. I couldn't afford it. I should have had a taco. But, what the hell. You only live once.

Sites to See:

A REAL toy store! Grrrrrr!

Work while you have the light. You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you.
Henri-Frédéric Amiel

Peggy and I are trying to hang onto our house right now. We got ourselves into this sub-prime mess, (and frankly, I'd like nothing more than to choke that loan officer who got us into this one), and we're now trying to dig ourselves out of it. I'm making more money than I ever have in my life, and it's all gone before the end of the month.

So, I was talking with another driver, Junior, out at the GeeCee's truck stop in Toledo, WA, about this. Junior is one of those guys who likes to talk, and he talks a lot about stuff that I don't even think he realizes is profound. (Or, maybe he does. There are people like that.)

As we were talking that night, he was telling me about a newb that his company hired and asked him to train. Most of the time, you hear about newbs, and how they do some of the dumbest stuff out on the road. They go to trucking school, then graduate, and think they're truckers. (Oh, they could wish!) Being a trucker is something you wind up growing into, and most people with CDLs never make it. They're too busy trying to impress people with the fact that they have a Class A. (Yipdee-shit.)

So they introduced Junior to the newb. Junior didn't sugar coat it at all: "You graduated from trucking school?"

"Yes."

"Forget everything they taught you. You tell me one time that the way I do it is wrong, I'm done."

The boss was sort of jolted by Junior's attitude. "Geez, Junior! Give him a break!"

"I am," Junior said. "I don't want to waste his time, and sure as hell don't want to waste mine. The only thing I want from him is that he wants to learn."

Turned out the kid wanted to learn pretty bad. When Junior told him to do it a particular way, that's what the kid did. He had trouble shifting the truck, since the synchros were torn to hell, but Junior had shown him how to handle that, insisting that the kid hit his shift points before moving the lever. "Just drive the truck. You know what you're doing. Just do it."

At one point, Junior was in the sleeper when he noticed that he wasn't hearing the transmission grind in the old Freightliner. He was so proud of the kid, he jumped up into the buddy seat, congratulating the kid on getting it right.

Of course, as soon as he said it, the kid had to shift. From the transmission well, they heard, "GRRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKCCCCCHHHHHHHH."

"Don't worry about me!" Junior told the kid. "Just drive the truck!"

The kid rode with Junior for about six months. It was plenty of time to cover handling snow, and in their case, it meant throwing iron over Donner Summit. (Trust me. I've done it. You don't want to.) The kid had never driven in snow up to that point, and he wasn't sure what to do.

"Well, we're first going to hang the jewelry," Junior told the kid. It took a little longer than normal, as it was the kid's first time, but they got the chains on, and they started over the summit.

Running in snow, your biggest danger is lack of traction on the trailer. I've lost track of the number of times I locked the brakes and watched as the tail come around to say Hello. It doesn't take much, to say the least. Still, once you get the hang of not locking your trailer brakes, you can handle snow, even over the steep grade of the Eastern Sierra. Junior kept him in the driver's seat, and kept telling him, "Don't worry about what those idiots are saying to you over the CB. If they want to die that bad, that's their problem. Just drive the truck."

The kid drove for quite a while, until Junior finally stopped him; he was getting nervous with loudmouths cussing him out over the squawker, and his worries over getting the rig over the summit. By that time, he was well past the worst of it, and Junior took it into Reno, where they overnighted. (You don't drive in snow at night, unless you're suicidal.) The next morning, they rolled out and made it as far as Fernley, where they unchained and finished the run into Salt Lake. And the whole time, Junior kept telling the kid, "Don't worry about anything else. Just drive the truck."

I've been thinking about this a lot, as I've been dealing with creditors, with mortgage companies, with collection agents. I just tell them the truth, and try to budget as best I can. I've got a Chevy pickup which I paid a huge chunk of money to fix, and it's sitting in front of the house. That jackass mechanic screwed me over, and his boss won't make good on what I paid him. I've got a house that I might not be able to keep. And I've got trouble with my youngest, who's being booted out of the Army. I can't solve any of this right now.

Right now, I just drive the truck.

I talk to people, and work on the basis of fact. Slowly, things are starting to turn. It's not going to get solved right away, but it will get solved. I may lose a lot more before things get better, but I will get through this. Right now, I just have to drive the truck.

There are only two ways of telling the complete truth--anonymously and posthumously.
Thomas Sowell

We're faltering, and ultimately failing. We're trying to save our home, but renegotiation is not going well. Neither is refinancing. Countrywide has screwed us over, and now, we're scrambling, trying to find a way to undo the damage, or to limit what damage has been done.

So, consequently, I've been left feeling as though I've failed my wife and kids, not to mention the disaster I've created financially for everyone else. Just when I think things can't get worse, new bills come in, or I discover that Peggy's been keeping information from me, or worse, that I simply haven't been paying attention when she's been trying to tell me something.

I was talking about some of this with Art, another driver, while we were waiting for our loads from a lumber mill in Hood River, OR, and trying to figure a way out between the two of us which didn't involve bankruptcy or anything illegal. For some reason, the tale turned a bit. I mentioned to him a younger driver that I'd encountered a while ago at a truck stop in Rice Hill, OR.

It seems the young kid was bragging about how much he knew about driving, and just how good a driver he was. Personally, I just let kids like this run off at the mouth, but in some cases, these kids seem to think you're endorsing their crap. I'm not, of course, but they just start running and can't seem to shut themselves off.

Another driver was listening as the kid was going on about this trials and tribulations driving the I-5 corridor, something most of the men and women there in the truck stop had done at least a dozen times themselves. It was an older guy, a skinny black driver who nodded and asked the kid, "So, how much trouble they give you at the Sutherlin scales on your run north?"

I was about to say something, when the older guy held up a hand. It was as good a time as any to shut up.

We got an earful, of course. Seems those rotten bears dragged him into the shed, checked his paperwork, redlined his truck some time ago, and he'd never heard the end of it. Those mean bears were nasty to him, making sure he knew what a gutter bum he was, and letting him know that if they'd had their way, he'd have lost his license right then.

The older guy nodded, and a moment later said, "You know, son, I might have felt sorry for you, except you're so full of shit...."

This irked the younger guy. "I'll have you know I have at least a million miles...!"

"Bet they're all local," the older guy shot back, much to the amusement of everyone around the fuel desk.

"See," the old guy continued, "if you'd been paying attention, you'd have noticed that the northbound scales on I-5, they're near the Boomer Hill exit. It takes a trip or two before you figure that out, but there they are. The Sutherlin Scales are on the southbound side, and while the sign on the chicken coop says they're the Sutherlin Scales, they're actually a few miles out of town. Plus, they haven't been open on any kind of a regular basis in a while, since Oregon is trying to figure out if they're going to move the scales, refurbish them, or close them altogether.

"Boomer Hill has no shed. If you were looking for a shed, you would have found that at the Ashland Scales, at the Port of Entry. You don't often see anyone pulled in, but that's where they are. Ditto at Woodburn on the southbound side, and Klamath Falls on Northbound 97. If you'd spent the kind of time on the road that you claim you have, you'd have known that.

"As far as the bears, I can't help you there. Most of us know that when it comes to dealing with them, you give them what they ask for when they ask for it. If you keep your mouth shut and listen, they're generally some of the most professional officers you'll ever deal with. If they were wanting to pull your license, it makes me wonder just what the hell you were saying to them. If you shot your mouth off, I don't wonder that they were going to shut you down. Stupid people shouldn't drive.

"Yeah, son. I'm calling bullshit. The worst mistake you can make is to try and BS your way through. Ain't no one can help you at that point."

By now, everyone was laughing at the newb, which isn't the response he was looking for. Then again, maybe if he'd been telling the truth, he'd have gotten a better response.

Art nodded at the end of my tale, and told me some of his own. It's not my tale to tell, but the reality is it dovetailed in with my own. He told me, "I don't care who you are, we all make mistakes. The man who tells you he hasn't made one is a liar. Period.

"You lying to the mortgage company?"

"No," I told him. "I'd be in worse trouble than I am now," I answered.

"Good answer," he said. "You'll get through it. It just takes time."

"I'm just driving the truck, Art," I said.

"All you can do. You can worry about it when you take your ten off. Other than that, you need to keep your head on the road."

I don't have any easy answers right now. We're trying our best for the time being. If things hold together for a couple of more months, I have a shot at this. I can only be honest with people as I work with them, and try to do what's right.

I could only wish that Countrywide and its agents had done so with me.