The Expediter Chronicles

The Lee Gilette Story, Part 1

2014-08-29T08:57:00.001-07:00

As I travelled on I-26, trucking my way through East Tennessee, I passed Exit 57A and instantly recalled one of the most unbelievable times I lived through in my twenty two year radio career. This story begins with the history leading up to my departure from a long run at a heritage radio station in New Jersey and ends on a very sad note about a guy with a God given talent for broadcasting.

On June 14^th, 1994, I marked my 12^th anniversary at Magic 98.3, WMGQ in New Brunswick, New Jersey, serving the Central New Jersey region in the Arbitron rated Middlesex-Somerset-Union market. It was the 36^th largest, nationally, from over 300 rated markets in 1994 with a population of 1.5 million. New York City, Market #1 was our direct competition and adjacent market. Mattantan was 28 miles from where I lived near the crossroads of I-78 and I-287.

I first returned to The Garden State in early 1982 after a busted econmy chased me out of my radio haven in Coastal Georgia. Anxious to stay busy and keep working, I jocked part time on the weekends as a rock music DJ at 105-5, WDHA, The Rock of North Jersey. In addition, I taught broadcast announcing at a school in New York City during the week. It was a seven day a week schedule with both, and a lengthy commute to The City on a network of trains and subways.

In June, a slot opened at Magic and found myself in the unfamilar territory of soft rock radio. I originally didn’t think I would last 6 months at there. This was truly a place of "corporate radio."

The Adult Contemporary music format was too conservative and stuffy for my tastes, but I longed for one skinny day off every week in a position that included full-time benefits. This would be a stepping stone to somewhere else or back to WDHA, if a fulltime slot opened there. I loved the Rock format at DHA. The Program Director, Mark Chernoff, General Manager Bob Linder and the rest of the staff were great people to work with. Long time Midday Personality, Kathy Millar, gave Chernoff a thumbs up when he asked if she liked my demo tape when I interviewed with Mark in the production studio there.

At Magic, I ended up making it past six months and the administrations of three American Presidents, three New Jersey Governors, three station General Managers, one complete studio overhaul, the ownership of six cars and the loss of a substantial amount of hair. This was my twelve year temporary job.

Tony Marano, the long time General Manager of Magic 98.3, WMGQ had retired about a 18 months before I marked 12 years. He had been at the helm of Magic and our sister AM since the 60's. Tony began his career in the 40's at his beloved WCTC-AM. Mr. Marano was revered in the community and maintained a family atmosphere at the stations.

Broadcast Center, the name of our modernistic facility was built in 1978. All on one level, a center talk radio studio doubled as a conference room and was surrounded by four studios including the newsroom with broadcast glass windows peering into the center. Offices, a large engineering room and a kitchen formed the outer ring of the building. Directly next to this beehive of activity was a rare, free standing broadcast antenna tower. Easily recognized as a free standing because of its wide base and lack of supporting wire lines.

Marano was a tall, white haired gentleman and he led the stations on a path of steady growth over the years in a competitive maket sandwiched between the two major markets of Philly and New York. One year, as a commendation for a job well done, he took us all on buses to Atlantic City for a day and night of fine food and fun at Trump Castle. Donald Trump, himself, stepped into our banquet room briefly and greeted our group, telling us “we sounded like a fun bunch.” Some of us received color TVs as prize for good work in an in-house sales contest.

It was a stable place to work. Most of the Magic Personalities had ten years or more of service invested. On the CTC-AM side, a few, like Jack Shreve had been on the air since the early 60’s. Grown kids remember him announcing school closings. Long time AM morning personality, Jack Ellery roamed the halls like royalty. We called him "Little Caesar."

The benefits were good at Magic 98.3 and I had four weeks of vacation annually. In fact, since most of us on the FM staff had passed ten years and had four weeks, I would usually do my Evening Show only 10 months out of the year. The other two months were spent filling in on the Morning or Afternoon Shows. It was nice to get that much of a change of pace and experience life outside of the evenings ever year for so much time. Ron Fillepp, the Afternoon Personality, took the entire month of August off to go to Australia one year, so I made myself comfortable in Afternoons for that time.

On a typical day, I would calmly stroll into the on air studio with thirty seconds to spare as a song ended, sit down, open the microphone and talk. Toward the end of my career there, a new part time announcer introduced himself to me and said “it’s great to meet you…I used to listen to you when I was a kid.” It was then, that it really sank in as to how long I had been there.

At one point, during the 80's, I discovered that I had a following in England. This was in the era when the internet was still a rudimentary endeavor and before it featured audio. A listener called and said she was in a record store in England and found "bootleg" tapes of my show on cassettes labeled "American Radio". I never did get a copy of a tape, but it was kind of a heady experience to think I might have listeners in Europe!

By the time the summer of ’94 rolled around, we were on our second general manager since Tony retired and suddenly, there were cracks in the dyke. I met the new guy in the hallway one day, impeccably dressed and “spit shined to the nine’s”. After looking me over carefully, he said “don’t worry, I’m a nice guy.” When someone says “I’m a nice guy” or “you can trust me”, I become wary. Very wary.

We watched in horror as the very talented Mike Jarmus on the AM side was given his walking papers. It was thirty years of talent and a very nice man walking out the door, never to return. Long time sales executives whom all we had worked closely with were departing one by one. Every day it seemed like someone was being accompanied out the door by a station official, while carrying their desk items in cardboard boxes. A terse notice was posted with instructions of not to let the vanquished back into the building. Heads were rolling like bowling balls and I knew this bad disease of terminations would make it to our side of the building…sooner than later.

As predicted, they began breaking up Magic. I was actually fortunate that they dumped me into the Overnight Show. I eerily had the feeling that they forgot about me, and it would buy me enough time to find another job.

Nothing to my liking was developing in the regional area, so I knew I had to “widen my circle” if I was going to stay in radio or remain in the ash pit of what was once a great place to work. Returning South was a recurring thought that appealed to me. But where could I go? Florida and Georgia were places I enjoyed being once upon a time and to return there might be a good move, I pondered. I recalled the glory days when I did the morning show on 101Q in Coastal Georgia. It was a 100,000 watt blowtorch of a signal station, a Top 40 sound and good living on the beach. Tennessee also appealed to me as somewhere new and adventurous. My travels had taken me through East Tennessee on numerous occasions and I grew fond of the picturesque mountain terrain and friendly people. You only go around once, so, with adventure in mind, I “crop dusted” Chattanooga, Knoxville and The Tri Cities market comprised of Johnson City, Kingsport and Bristol with audition tapes and resumes in the hope of landing a good opportunity there.

(At this point of the story, some of the names, except Lee have been changed to protect the innocent)

August of 1994 arrived when Robert, the Operation Manager from US-99 called on a Friday from the Tri Cities market and extended an invitation to come down and discuss their Afternoon Drive opening at the Country formatted station. After a brief question and answer session on the phone, I agreed to travel down for a Monday meeting and tour the facilities in Johnson City and the other two towns that comprised market number 96.

It would be a drop in market size, but the money they were offering was good combined with the drop in cost of living. I would also be returning to Country, a format I hadn’t done since 1980. The Afternoon time slot would suit me as well, so I packed a bag and prepared to make the 9 hour trip.

Monday morning found me in the reception area of US-99 at nine am sharp. Robert came out to greet me with a donut in his hand and invited me join him and meet the General Manager, Evan Gotan. Upon entering Evan’s office, smiles and warm greetings were quickly turned to the business at hand. Robert was a more introverted and studious guy, close to my age. His premature gray hair belied a fellow who wasn’t yet out of his thirties. Broad shouldered and six foot, he was clean shaven, Dockered and penny loafered. Evan immediately portrayed a classic Type “A” Personality. At fifty-something, he was lean, as gray as Robert and ready to cut a deal. His complexion was pock marked from an earlier skin condition. He fidgeted constantly with items on his desk. I remained firm with plenty of questions before I signed on any dotted line. I hadn’t started a new job in 12 years, and I wanted to tread carefully.

Evan paused for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed a number and following a greeting to someone named Lee, he handed me the phone.

On the other end was this deep, booming and network sounding voice announcing himself as the new Program Director and Morning Personality, Lee Gilette. He was straight-forward and said he hand- picked me for the Afternoon Show. Lee added that he was in Iowa and it would be great to see me in about two weeks. Oh, “and make sure you get as much money out of these guys as you can.”

As the day wore on, more information about the situation with US-99 was revealed to me. They shared that the format would be changing from Country to Adult Contemporary. They needed me for my extensive experience in the format. I could attain the “Music Director” title, after an initial transition of the format. Johnny Dark, of WNBC and Florida’s Coast in Miami fame was slated to voice track the evening show. I was going to be surrounded by all this big market talent on the station, if nothing else, would sound like a winner.

Next on the agenda, was a steak dinner to seal the deal. I said yes, and Evan said we start on Monday, Labor Day.

I called Joe DeRose, my longtime Program Director at Magic with the news of my impending departure. His reply was “are you sure this is it?” “Have you dotted all the I’s and crossed all the T’s? ” I said yes, this where I jump off. I thanked Joe for his many years of support and related to him that I might not had lasted there as long if it not for him. He then told me “nothing makes me happier than to see you walk out of here with your own two feet.” Magic 98.3 would give me a last show. I looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. I knew it would emotional for me . How could it not be? How do you spend that much time in one place, forging so many bonds with co-workers, audience members and personal friends without a long goodbye?

Part 2, Next

Jacksonville, Part 3

2011-12-06T12:27:00.000-08:00

It was now 1979. I was coming up on a year, living in my latest bachelor pad across the river in the Arlington section of town. The Blue Fountain complex was a two story, u-shaped building on University Boulevard. There were twenty six units in the building and I was in number twenty six on the second floor in the corner, overlooking the kidney shaped pool in the middle with palmetto palms to accent the arrangement. It was a peaceful sanctuary to me and I enjoyed being there with its royal blue shag carpeting and light blue velour modernistic couch and chairs. That floor covering was such a deep pile, that if you dropped something in it, you stood the chance of not finding it for days. My boudoir was a collection of sixty’s era modern style furniture. It was a one bedroom plan of ample square footage and I paid one hundred fifty five dollars a month for the privilege of laying my head there. This gem was on the side of the twenty four hour Hess Gas Station, directly across from the air hose. If I didn’t close my bedroom window, I could hear the air bell ringing at all hours. Cooking was a mystery to me, so the kitchen was always spotless. There was a pot for boiling water for Sanka instant coffee and a spoon handy on the counter. My dinnerware was usually Styrofoam to go boxes. I occasionally dusted the appliances.

Everyone living at BF knew each other and we socialized often. Richard Hemingway was one of my neighbors and an actual descendent of Ernest. Another resident, named Jack, an older guy in the complex, fiftyish in age, was the oddball neighbor that we really didn’t consider a part of the close knit club. He had some sort of attitude that didn’t correctly match that of the rest of us in the twenty and thirty-something aged group. Balding and hefty, he didn’t even look like anyone else. But, we all made an effort to be nice to him and include him in conversation at the pool and common areas. Jack had a habit of “getting into” everyone’s business and created conflict whenever he saw the opportunity. He seemed to have a jealousy of the young thing going on. One day he pushed Richard over the edge in some sort of controversy involving his girlfriend Shilo. Richard was calm and collected most of the time I knew him, but on this particular day, he reconsidered his usual manner and approached Jack’s apartment on the ground floor. Jack was in a gossip mode of conversation on the phone in his kitchen near the window. Richard strode up to the window and punched Jack right through the screen with a Joe Frazier roundhouse in the chops and knocked him on the floor! Jacksonville’s finest arrived and after some discussion, our hero, Richard was led away in cuffs for a little vacation downtown. Following some anonymous decoration and disrepair to Jack’s Mercury Marquis, this walking agitator left Blue Fountain on the first of the month. A spontaneous celebration broke out in the pool area broke out as soon as he pulled onto University Boulevard. Good riddance to a human equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard.

I was also coming up on a year of experiences at Rock 95 and growing into the role of a Rock Jock. Still rough around the edges, I learned constantly from the other guys who had been in the business a lot longer and much more accomplished on air than I was at that point. I was “The Kid” and they all seemed to take me under their collective wings of protection. Rich and I became friends and I listened carefully to what he was teaching me about how to be and what to do. It turned out to be quite a departure from that very first night, when he zoomed out the door as soon as I got there. Often, I would sit in on his show watching him with great interest, picking up new techniques in operating the equipment and his handling of the audience. As the sun set and the city lights on the tall buildings began to twinkle through the big wall of windows, he would dim the studio lights to give the room a nighttime ambiance. Rich was the Music Director and did the job with an unmatched passion. I remember his enthusiasm the day he added the Tubes song, “White Punks On Dope” to the playlist. As he played the song at “Level 11” on the studio monitors for the first time, the request lines jammed before the song was half over. He led his listeners on a nightly rock journey like the Pied Piper.

My other role model was Steve, the Afternoon Jock. With Steve, came a wealth of experience and the talent to virtually work any format of radio there was or could be. He was polished, confident and lit up the control room when it was time for his show. Steve was a giant on the station and was generous with his knowledge and all around fun to be around. I enjoyed his stories of different stations he worked at in other cities in his career. The welcome mat was always out at his studio door and I watched as he effortlessly segued from a conversation we would be having to a live on air spiel. Control board volumes, switches, turntables and records danced as if he had a magic wand to make it all work. My education under this radio genius included making my first commercial for the station, using techniques that would stay with me for a long time. He was as cool as a New York éclair and I gained the confidence I initially needed in the business from watching him and the positve reinforcement he gave me. He made being on the air, look like the easiet job in the world.

Being on top of the Jacksonville Civic Auditorium offered features that made working there an adventure. Behind the studios, there was a master record library. On the floor, in the back, there was a trap door. A big sign in ominous lettering read "UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS ANYONE EVER TO OPEN THIS DOOR". So what do you think we did? Of course, opened the door which revealed a metal ladder that ended up back stage of the Auditorium. A couple of us "envelope pushers" gained access to some awesome major concerts backstage. It sure beat waiting in line or having to actually buy a ticket to the show. It was great! Just ladder in!

The other part of being on Rock 95 in that era that you should know is that Jacksonville was ground zero for Southern Rock. The Lynyrd Skynyrd Band were the undisputed kings of the genre and royalty in town. They were from Jacksonville and many claimed to be their friends and neighbors. I remember pondering at one point, how many next door neighbors can they possibly have had? Infamously, several band members, including leader Ronnie Van Zant were killed in a plane crash in Mississippi, heading to their next concert, the October before I joined the station. That was a sad day in The Bold New City. It was the day the music died in town. I recall seeing the breaking news on TV and flags being flown at half staff. The mourning continues to this day in circles of devoted fans. The “Freebird” anthem by Skynyrd was always played with reverence at Rock 95. The other main players who carried on were Thirty Eight Special, Molly Hatchet and Blackfoot. Even though they were famous for being from Macon, Georgia, The Allman Brothers Band was actually formed in Jacksonville in 1969. Our core audience of Southern Rock fans, in a town where it all began, were largely responsible for the success of the station. I even got to visit the Jug, where Ronnie Van Zant wrote the song “Gimme Three Steps”. Our listeners were devoted to their music and we were more than happy to give them an endless supply.

As fun and rewarding as radio broadcasting was, there is the ugly underbelly of political games, ingenuous behavior by management types and those who seek to advance their careers at the expense of others. There are only about 900 terrestial stations in America, so the competition can be fierce for relatively few jobs. With degregulation and consolitdation in the 80's and periodic poor economies, it's tougher to hold down a a radio job than ever before. Online sources for music and information have further fractionalized the media pie. Job performance and audience ratings compound the stability of this kind of career greatly. Throw in diverse egos and drama and you have situations that are affected much more than other livelihoods. In my twenty plus years in the business, I saw almost every type of volatility you can imagine at different stations. On one occasion, I witnessed a guy who had just been fired, nailing his pair of loafers to the manager’s door with a note that said “fill these shoes”. Another time, I talked a fellow jock with a long barrel .45 caliber revolver out of settling a difference with the manager who was a mere feet away in his office up the hallway. He was the same guy who was just learning to walk again when I met him, after falling off a two story balcony in his previous town. Another guy, who was covertly hired at one station, walked down the halway and told the guy on the air that he had about fifteen minutes to work there and that he was his replacement. Management hadn't fired him yet. At Rock 95, I was about to experience my first station upheaval. By the end of February, 1979, the wolf was at the door.

Jacksonville, Part 2

2011-12-06T12:24:00.001-08:00

Over the weekend, I told everyone I was going to be on Rock 95. I told people on the street I didn’t know. I told the telephone pole. I called my folks and talked their ears off for an hour. I was pumped, psyched a revved up for the opportunity. Sleep wasn’t plentiful that weekend. Images of what it would be like filled my mind constantly. The only question I had was “could the earth rotate a little faster?” I don’t think I had ever looked so forward to a Tuesday in my life!

The big day came and I walked into the control room at the station ready for a lesson in how Rock 95 worked. I greeted clean cut looking Rich and he energetically pointed around the studio and said “there are the records and there’s the control board…rock and roll! I have to go!” Go? I asked in amazement. He had one more thing to add as he was halfway out the door. It was something that I kept in mind for a long time. “I believe in bringing myself down to my audience’s level, don’t forget that.” As quick as I met him, he was out the door with a stunning blonde girl and I was left to figure it out. The format was written out on a card near the controls, so I was able to gather a clue of what to do. Listening to the station as much as I did, gave me an additional idea of what was going on. Rock 95 played ABC contemporary news at 7:55, then at 8:00pm sharp it was my debut. I carefully placed my first album on the turntable where it took me a few tries to get the needle on the record. My hand was shaking so badly, I had to use both hands to steady the tone arm. I hoped no one would be watching me through the sound proof glass windows. This is what I had wanted so badly for so long. To be on a big city radio station was the holy grail at the end of a long road for me.

The newsman from the network in New York ended his newscast with “…I’m Joel Vaughn, for ABC Contemporary News.” Now, it was my turn. I reached way down and came up with my best announcer’s voice and proclaimed “ THIS is Rock 95, W-J-A-X, FM, Jacksonville” . I potted up (increased the volume) and hit the switch in one fluid motion for turntable number one on the left and was met with instant horror. Rich’s last song was a 45 RPM record on that turntable and I failed to notice that the speed selection was not correct when I placed a 33 and 1/3 RPM LP on the platter for play. I WAS PLAYING MY FIRST SONG ON THE WRONG SPEED! OH NO! My reaction was to grab the speed control lever and slam it down to the right speed. The record wowed from Mickey Mouse in distress to a more discernable Lynyrd Skynrd sound. I was horrified. My complexion felt like a sizzling red. The next thing I noticed was the request lines on the phone were lighting up like a Christmas tree. My career at Rock 95 might be over before it started. I squinted and pushed down the first line on the phone bank and a Tommy Chong sounding guy on the other end came on the speaker and marveled “wow…that was kind of cool, could you do that again?” At that moment, I settled down. Maybe this rock and roll thing wasn’t as serious as I had pumped myself up to believe. Maybe this is what Rich meant by “bringing yourself down to you audience’s level.” The WJAX-AM guy stuck his head in my studio next and quipped “looks like you got a baptism there Bud..” Yes I did.

In many ways, Rock 95 resembled the legendary Q-Sky in the movie “FM”. Management was the enemy, making us play US Army commercials and interfering with the integrity of what we, the Jocks felt was essential to the sound of a Rock station. Our social lives revolved around the station. People connected with the Rocker were constantly coming and going. We ALL went to personal appearances at clubs and concerts promoting Rock 95 together. Listeners sailed boats down the St. John’s River and held up bed sheets with requests for us to see from our vantage. For the 4th of July we played the ENTIRE Woodstock Concert Album, un-edited. I recall with a smile hearing the “Fish Cheer” at my apartment complex poolside in the courtyard. FCC? What FCC? That was mild, considering the night I played the Pope album by David Peel and The Lower East Side in its entirety. During that endearing broadcast, the afternoon guy called in and said "I can't believe what's coming out of my radio!" On another occasion, a guest in the studio accidently bumped into my turntable while I was playing “I Want You (She’s So Heavy) by the Beatles. I watched in what seemed like slow motion mortification as the needle on the record bounced up and then down three times on the vinyl before hitting the exact beginning of “Octopus’s Garden”. Instant Ringo. Wow. Too bad Tommy Chong wasn’t listening. He would have liked that one.

New Year’s Eve 1978 was my show. Everybody showed up and a party formed in the studio. One of the fellows brought in a couple of suitcases of liquor, comprising a mobile tavern, so there would be an open bar next to the records. Protocol? There wasn’t any protocol. Protocol was whatever was happening at the moment. There was Rock and Roll, and plenty of it. All the time. Big time acts came in for interviews. I remember being especially enamored by seeing Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart. The guys from Uriah Heep were down to earth and cool. Henry Paul from the Outlaws put his arm around me and told me that he loved radio people. I actually met him again at a Country radio event almost exactly 20 years later and kidded him that it was 20 years between handshakes. Then there was the night that Patti Smith sat on Rich's lap for the interview. It was a heady time for 22 year old kid like me.

Jacksonville, Part 1

2011-12-06T12:20:00.000-08:00

Every time I cross into North Florida, as I did about a week ago, I’m reminded of the place where I came of age while living out an important time of my life. Jacksonville. “The Bold New City of The South” was the slogan. Today, I’m proud of what Jacksonville has become. It’s a thriving business center with miles of beaches and a new slogan, “The First Coast.” They have the NFL Jaguars who play in what was once exclusively the Gator Bowl. Duval County is Jacksonville, thus making it the largest city in America in terms of square mile land area. The St. John’s River, which cuts directly through Jacksonville, is the only major river in America to flow from south to north. The only other two, I can think of, in the world are the Amazon and the Nile. Correct me if you find another. New communities with cutting edge retail now fill in once barren stretches of highways. The beach area is now a complete makeover from what I knew. In my day there, you could drive on it like Daytona. Police gave out speeding tickets on the beach! The neighborhood I lived in isn’t exactly a chamber of commerce destination anymore, but nice parts of town outnumber the bad. Indeed, there were low points and adversity within in the 5 years I resided in the metro area, but as with the grandest healer of all, time itself, they are now obscured by my fondness for an era filled with great hope and accomplishment.

By the time 1976 arrived, all I cared about was getting into radio. Jacksonville wasn't even close to being on my radar. I had always thought if I moved to Florida, it would be somewhere like St. Petersburg or Ft. Lauderdale. I had travelled with my buddy Glen to visit his cousin Michael several times at St. Pete Beach. Michael had bleached blonde 70's hair and a Alfred E. Newman (What Me Worry?) attitude which appealed me, considering I was living in a more serious Northeast setting. Emjay was his 6 year old daughter and her mother’s whereabouts were a mystery to all. His home was a modest ranch with a converted garage room we called the "Moon Room" because he installed a foot of foam rubber underneath the carpeting to give it a real springy feeling underfoot with every step. You would bounce on it like the astronauts on the moon. It was also a great place to sleep. All you had to do was grab a pillow and fall down. Falling down was a favorite pastime in the 70's. That decade was an example of life in free form. We wore clown clothes and long hair. I owned a pair of orange and blue suede platform shoes, if that gives you any clue. I was smart enough to not to include an ascot.

Following a year of meaningful (read: sarcastic) liberal arts education at Somerset County College and my fourth working at the A&P grocery store, it was time to put the dream in gear. Hanging around my hometown radio station, AM-1170, WBRW wasn’t getting me a job there. A failed attempt at starting a radio station at the local college soured my desire for sticking around. I called my old high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Cartwright to see if she had any ideas regarding my quest for a path into radio. She invited me back to the high school and several meetings later, suggested that I apply to Jones College in Jacksonville, Florida. The only focus I had in high school was radio, and that didn’t provide a grade average allowing me to choose Princeton or some other prestigious university with a posh campus radio station. Florida seemed like a good destination to me, but Jacksonville was like a foreign country. I recalled passing through on I-95, but that's about it.

After investigating the school, I learned that they offered a dedicated Broadcast and Business Program. There was an AM and a FM station on campus as well as a TV studio. The admissions counselor, Dave Zorn, inflated my hopes by telling me that a lot of Jones graduates went on to radio jobs in the Jacksonville market. That's all I had to hear. I was going. Later, I would learn that comedian and personality Joe Piscopo was a Jones Alumni. It was now March, 1977 and nearly two years after high school graduation, I finally mined the gold nugget that I considered my entry into the Promised Land called radio broadcasting.

It still felt like winter in New Jersey and the departure date of March 26th wouldn't arrive soon enough. But when it did, I had my gold 1969 Pontiac Catalina packed with all my worldly belongings for the move to Florida and a chance to live out the dream. In retrospect, this car was my first "Fat Cat" considering her 455 cubic inch V-8. It was actually a police interceptor motor that was modified to 462 cubic inches of displacement. She was a beast. I suspect that thing could do one hundred fifty. The speedometer only went up to one twenty. When I stepped on the accelerator, the speedo went one way and the gas gauge went the other way. Now, with $600 in my pocket, I set out for the Sunshine State.

As I travelled over the Delaware Memorial Bridge and out of New Jersey, the Theme from Rocky blasted appropriately from my Pioneer Supertuner in Goldie on WIFI 92 from Philadelphia (that was a radio station in Philly, not wireless internet in the 70's!). I had felt like destiny had caught up to me. I knew every radio station on the route and exactly where to tune to the next one when one faded out.

Following a one night stop for rest in Dunn, North Carolina at the Wind Mill Motel, I arrived at Jones and stood before the 12 story monolith of a building on the banks of the St. John's River in admiration. It almost didn't seem real, it was a long wait to get to this point. I entered the big white edifice and advanced to the second floor Jones Administration offices where a hip seeming 30 something woman with reddish blonde hair assigned me to room 5N at the end of the 5th floor with my new roommate Dave from South Jersey. She seemed so proud that she was able to match up two guys from New Jersey. The dorm rooms were actually one bedroom apartments with a nice balcony view. Dave was a big gregarious dark haired guy with a booming voice and a hearty handshake. We hit it off immediately and I felt comfortable in my new surroundings right away. He assured me that great things were to come. Dave left quickly for an evening out and it was time for me to settle in for a quiet Sunday night in a bathrobe and a reclining chair to rest up from the long trip and get ready for my new career.

I heard a noise and the sliding glass door opening on the balcony. As I got out of the chair to investigate, a girl emerges from the curtains in a quite abrupt manner with a rapid fire “Hi, I’m Sheila. I heard you were coming tonight and I wanted to come down and say hi!” She had nice big smile with perfect teeth and straight classic, shoulder chesnut length hair. I was confused now, somewhat startled and asked if she had been on the balcony all this time, because they were separate to each apartment. I hadn’t seen anyone else come or go. “Her reply was no, silly, I live on the 7th floor and just climbed down on the outside concrete trellis of the building. It’s fun!” Yeah, and death is fun too if you fall off. I asked if she lived directly upstairs and her answer was no, it was actually up and over about 6 apartments. The thought of climbing out of a 7 story balcony on the outside of a 12 story building gives me the willies to this very day. As this point I figured that living in Jacksonville would be anything but dull. And it wasn’t. I bid Sheila a "nice to meet you" as she hoisted herself off the balcony and back up the trellis into the night.

I quickly made many friends at Jones that spring with fellow students from all over the country. Some, I'm still in contact with today. Everyone seems agree that those were great days at Jones. We were young and fearless...and determined to do something with our lives. And so, I began my radio career on the small AM campus station, 740 WJCR, beginning to learn the things that a DJ needs to know and say.

Professor Kent Murray beat my New Jersey accent out of me and taught me how to announce in a Midwest tone. Kent had perfectly chisled features including light brown TV hair and he exuded the confidence of a national news anchor. Mild mannored Professor Pete Trenkler showed me how to edit recording tape with a razor blade and the art of cueing a 45 rpm record on a big Garrard platter. Pete's easy going style was legendary at Jones and years of classes learned volumes from a humble guy who always had time to listen and encourage. We studied about Lee DeForest, the father of the vacuum tube and Edward Armstrong, the grand master of FM. The beginning of KDKA, the first licensed station in America was included in the history lesson. My very first song on the air at WJCR was Foreigner’s “Feels Like The First Time.” All the pieces fit. That summer I learned lots of things quickly, like the breaking news of Elvis Presley’s death after being handed AP news wire copy by one of the news guys while doing my afternoon show on JCR. Reading the news, I felt like a real broadcaster with something important to say.

I also learned to break concrete with a sledgehammer on a construction site in 97 degree heat as a part time summer job. I made my share of 20 year old mistakes that first year, but the rewards were much greater and the dream a little closer.

1978 developed into another big spring. Next up on the Jones curriculum, it was the campus FM station, WFAM, which had become renowned for its Jazz music programming. As part of the total broadcasting learning experience, I was now a news anchor doing twice hourly newscasts in the afternoon at Woofam, as we called it. I even covered a murder shooting at my own apartment complex where I had just moved. I remember asking a police officer if the man lying on the ground was dead. His respose was "does he look like he's moving?" The sight of a dead guy laying on the ground in a Florida afternoon summertime downpour was quite sobering to me. That's news. That's what they told me. Just report it. Accurately.

One afternoon, on a busy day as I found myself in a sea of news copy, getting ready for another newscast when there was a call for me. It was Butch Piker on the phone wanting to know if I wanted to come down and talk to him about a DJ job he was offering on Rock 95 WJAX, the number one Rock station in town. I was stunned. I stammered through the rest of the phone call and accepted his invitation to meet him the next day.

The Rock 95 studios were on the top floor of the old Civic Auditorium in Downtown Jacksonville. As I pulled into the u-shaped driveway where Butch told me to park, I hoped I could find a men’s room conveniently located inside, before I trekked to the top floor. Filled with anxiety, I pulled the big glass door open and entered.

As I walked down the hallway to the studios, one side was a floor to ceiling continuous wall of glass with an impressive view of the St. John’s River and Downtown below. This place was awesome. Major concert artists performed downstairs at the Auditorium. It was also, thee place to be in town.

Butch was on the air when I arrived and he invited me to take a seat in the control room and interviewed me while he did his morning show. From the u-shaped control area, you could see the downtown skyline. One wall was a dream collection of rock albums where Butch would pull the correct title out without much of a search. Butch gave me a warm welcome and motioned me to take a seat while he interviewed me while record albums played on Garrard turntables. He was full bearded and seemed extremely relaxed in an evioronment that was continually busy. I kind of recall answering yes to everything he asked me and was awarded an overnight show on the most happening Rock station in town. In his down to earth folksy manner, Butch instructed me to return on Tuesday evening, when Rich the evening guy would “show me the ropes” and have me actually do a couple of hours of his show from 8 to 10 to get acclimated with the control room and records.

Tuesday night would be icing on the cake of an astonishing first year in Jacksonville. Rock 95 would be quite an eye opening experience for me with diverse personalities and a clash between a music director and a program director. It was my first taste of radio politics. This is where I would begin my career in radio and just about finish out the Seventies. Those were amazing days at Rock 95.

(to be continued)

80 Days Out

2011-07-28T09:15:00.001-07:00

June, marked the two year milestone of Long Haul Freight Expediting.
Merced, California was the place I was picking up in when the day arrived. The
thought crossed my mind, but I was too overwhelmed in the thought of the
business at hand and the impending 800 mile run to Fife, Washington to give
it much thought. Over two hundred thousand miles have found
their way under my belt since I left company orientation in Green, Ohio for
that very first run to Detroit.

In these first couple of years, I’ve actually driven four different trucks for
this company. A Hino, from the heavy duty truck division of Toyota, which had
a nice big oak sleeper berth, the short lived “Barney” Freightliner, the “Berry” Freightliner with the dog sled Mercedes motor and two separate tours in the Fatcat Freightliner, until I could wrest her back into my control. Under my command, she’s received three sets of headlights, three sets of
windshield wipers, various gauge bulbs, twelve tires, and a replacement of
pedal rubber and a laundry list of repairs that escalates all the way up to a
rear end assembly. That one wasn’t pretty. When it blew up and spewed fluid all
over the road, I was in Minneapolis where I coasted to the road shoulder next
to a cemetery. That one wasn’t my call. My fleet owner wanted me to limp it
into the repair shop. I would have towed it. But, I got a nice little vacation
in a hotel with a pool and a spa for four days out of the deal. The ‘Cat has
979,694 on the odometer, getting ready for her second million. With proper
maintenance and maybe one rebuild, the Caterpillar C-15 engine should go 3
million. Too bad they can’t make cars that last like that.

Along the way, I’ve had a couple of trainees, a couple of co-drivers, including one,
whom I almost stuffed out the window. He liked to slurp peaches out of can with
no spoon, which is fine with me as long as it isn’t within ear-shot. Among other
things, this fellow was the human equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard in other
very significant insignificant ways. Gordon Lightfoot once said that “being
satisfied is knowing I got no one else to blame.” That works for me.

The Fife, Washington run got shortened in Medford, Oregon. Because of a change
in delivery time, dispatch called and said I would have to transfer the load to a team
operation at a company facility. The pay remained the same, and I handed off to another
truck that could run the load non-stop to Washington. I was disappointed because I was
hoping to visit my old pal Dave in the Tacoma area. It’s the nature of the business. I’m
always in a fluid situation it seems. Time is either my best friend or my worst enemy. However,
I am grateful to have the opportunity to visit friends in just about every region of this
country. We are a far-flung generation and have put down roots everywhere, but where we're
from.
After a nice break in summertime weather which felt like springtime in Central Point,
Oregon, I weighed anchor and headed back to California for some runs in the
Bay Area starting with a special delivery to the University of California in downtown San Francisco. The highlight of that trip was seeing a homeless guy in Oakland on a
street corner, holding up a cardboard sign with a drawing of a house en-circled
with a slash through it. If I could have stopped, I would have given the guy a
buck for creativity.

At this point in time, the calendar was approaching the third month on the road. My runs had taken
me all over California. On this western swing, the road also led to Las Vegas, Nevada,
New Mexico and several places in Arizona. In Vegas, the 35 buck a night stay at the Lucky Club
with $9.99 steak and lobster plate enticed me in. Two nights later a Braves win in the sports betting parlor nearly paid for my stay. Tucson, Arizona was a great stop, visiting my old friend KC.
The the day trip down to Tombstone was absolutely unforgettable. It was a "Bucket List"
accomplishment. The buffet at Casino Arizona in Phoenix was awesome and I had wild horses
running along the side the truck in St, Michaels. I spent a couple of cool nights sitting on a
hill overlooking the City of Albuquerque below. The Fatcat and I covered a lot of ground
entering all four continental time zones and 24 states. It was a successful journey, but I longed
to be home. Freight now took me back to California. My previous record time out was 64 days.
The soap rule wasn’t working (when I wear down a bar of soap, I consider it time to go home). Wearing down a brand new bar of Dove For Men was long enough to be on the road. I was
almost out two bars at this point!

On the phone with dispatch, my contract coordinator and whoever else would listen,
I pleaded to at least get what they call a “Relocation” heading east. Kim, in the contractor
department finally offered me a move from Planning to Dallas, Texas. Just so you know,
Planning is like those bankers who sit in the dark on the show Deal or No Deal. You can
communicate with them, but you can’t talk to them. They’re just one of the Oz types at
the company. Now, I could gain two time zones and put on my Texas hat, 1,738 miles ahead.
Knowing that I would be in the Fort Worth area, I messaged my old friend Tom to
alert him that I would be in the area. He messaged me back that it would great to get
to together, but he was visiting his son in Georgia! My response was “I need to be in
Georgia!” Wow…how ironic is that. About a week later, I end up where he was in Columbus,
Georgia, about the same time he got home! Now, there’s some good timing. Dam.

I rolled down I-5 to begin my Relocation run and was able to stop in Castaic, just north
of LA, and load up on more Carnitas from Senor Jimenez at my favorite stop. The California
hills became the Arizona desert. The desert turned into the painted rocks and eventually the
high plains of New Mexico. The stockyards of Amarillo, Texas turned into the Metroplex of Dallas.
When you take Relocation from the company, you have to agree to stay in service and take a
load when you get to your destination. So, based on my experience, I knew I would run
around Texas for a few days until I could get any further east.

Monday, July 5th arrived and following several runs back and forth from Dallas to
Houston, I was awarded a trip to Jackson, Mississippi. My heart almost skipped a beat
when I crossed the mighty Mississippi at Vicksburg. In Jackson, the following day, the
company sent me several offers to go back to Texas. I politely declined them and
instead pointed the Fatcat toward home on I-20. Sweet Home Alabama turned into
the Georgia state line soon followed by the “Entering Eastern Time Zone” sign.
Eastern Time hadn’t been mine since April 30th.

On the 80th day away from home, I pulled the truck up behind my barn where
I could see Louie's little face and hear his high pitched bark along with little feline faces
peering out the window at this stranger pulling in. This trip had taken me from
Atlanta to as far north as Londonderry, New Hampshire and then directly 3,054 miles
to Gardena, California and back. I’m going to draw that route with all the stops on a large map
of the United States with a big red marker, frame it, and put it on the wall.

#46

2010-09-21T18:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, when I was plotting my course down from Minnesota, I noticed an opportunity on the map that absolutely could not be passed up. Earlier, I had to forego the trip up to Brainerd, Minnesota to see the ten story statue of Paul Bunyon and his ox, Babe for lack of time. My disappointment included the lumberjack breakfast in the nearby restaurant. The brochure promised flapjacks unlike any I've ever seen. The massive Spam Museum in Austin on I-90 was out too. Maybe I was being saved from a couple of certain cholesteral bombs. I do have a vivid memory of being curled up in the fetal position in Louisiana from something enormous and deep fried.

What I did see was a window of opportunity that would take me about 10 miles out of my way just north of Sioux City, Iowa. Here, I was looking at the chance to say I was in South Dakota, one of the three missing "lower 48" states I need to complete this American puzzle. All it would require would be a quick jump off US 75 in Iowa and a short jaunt up I-29, over the river and into the most southeastern tip of the great state of South Dakota. Time wasn't an issue, there was time, precious time.

My facebook buddy Phlash Phelps does the morning show on Sirius XM 60's on 6. He has been to all 50 states and all the US posessions. This man has literally been everywhere in America. He's not only done all these states, but he's done them twice! I believe he's working on a third go 'round. In addition, he travelled to 48 states in 14 days at one point, driving in a Cadillac Escolade. Plot that one on a map. One other thing you should know about Phlash is that he substitutes every single letter "F" with a "PH". I don't think he knows how to make an "F". I could have used a pal like him in school.

Phlash has a phenominal grasp of the geography in this country and can relate to callers to his show on a local level no matter what part of the country they live in. There aren't too many people who can pull it off like he does. He's the perfect guy to do a national radio show and make it sound local. No listener is left out. He's been in their neighborhood. It's got to be a profound love of country to do it the way he has. The more I see of America, the more I understand what this nation is about and find myself inspired to do it like Phlash.

The catch in all this is the fact that my esteemed broadcaster acquaintence has only done 45 states since the first of the year. I have been to 45 states since the first of the year too. In fact, in the past year, I've been to all those states at least twice with the exception of Maine. Fate has only guided me there once this year. Probably because Maine is the only state with one syllable. South Dakota would be #46 for me! I almost became giddy. I was going to pass Phlash by one! A chance to move into first was at hand.

The sunshine beemed into the cab of the Fat Cat as I wheeled her down that pleasant stretch of US 75. I could feel a twinge of anticipation as my coveted desitination drew nearer. I stopped twice to check the map to insure that I wouldn't miss the exit for I-29 and the promised land. As the exit approached for the northbound interstate, my pulse quickened as the truck jaked and downshifted into the curved ramp. Within minutes I could see it, the welcome sign proclaiming "Great Faces, Great Places" imposed on a background of Mount Rushmore. My heart just about skipped a beat as I passed the marker and into history. South Dakota was mine! Now, to make this whole thing official, I needed to put two feet on the ground in my newly aquired state. Ahead, there was an exit and I could see a convenience store and a place to pull up next to the car wash. With the truck now parked, I felt like Neil Armstrong as I prepared to open the door and step down onto #46.

As I hopped from the Cat and planted both feet on the ground, a wave of accomplishment overcame me. Where's the Men's room, was my next thought. I ended up picking up a South Dakota postcard and a South Dakota lottery ticket as further proof that I had been there.

I have to admit, this type of state by state travel is quite amazing for Phlash, because, most days, while I'm out on the road, he's broadcasting from his stationary studio in Washington, D.C. I don't know where he finds the time to travel 45 since the first of the year. There are still three and a half months left to the year and Phlash could take two weeks off and do the whole country again, but for now, I'm in the lead.

Scurrilous Commitment

2010-07-29T20:17:00.000-07:00

Monday, July 26th began abruptly with stereo alarms on each side of me. Now, let me tell you, waking up at a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike will make you feel real ambitious, especially at the crack of dawn. It could have been cold. I did wake up next to a frozen bottle of water last winter. At least the weather was the best I'd seen since embracing Maine about a month ago. When it's nice, summer mornings are the best in my book. The GPS told me that the delivery was 27 miles from where I was. I just wanted to get this one over with. The Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn isn't one of my favorite places, but they don't tell you exactly where you're going until you commit to the load. Commitment can be a scurrilous affair in this business. After splashing some water on my face, I jumped in the seat and pulled all the controls into position. As the Fat Cat purred to life, I updated the obligatory Driver's Log after a ritual beating of the tires with my rubber mallet and a light and undercarriage check. Back in the driver's perch, I pushed her into gear and let the clutch out with care.

The morning sky was an advanced version of 5:45 am at this time of the year compared to what I'm accustomed to at home in Georgia, which is further west in the Eastern Time Zone. The fabled Turnpike was light on traffic and figured I'd be in Brooklyn in no time. Passing over the Goethals Bridge provided a vantage view of a calm city poised to erupt. As I wheeled onto Bushwick Avenue, the King's Borough was eerily quiet, much like a morning after a great party. I spied a dog walker here and there and a lonely sanitation truck. Wow, my thought was that I picked the perfect time to do this.

The address was easy to find and there was plenty of room to pull the truck right in front of the drop. Immediately, I was greeted by a guy who reminded me a lot of George Carlin in appearance and how he carried himself. We struck up a little conversation about the nice, cool weather and the benefits of starting early. It was 6:30 am and I wasn't expected until 8. My new found friend said "I'll get you unloaded, no problem!" Privately, I thought this just might turn out to be a great day.

There wasn't a loading dock to back up to, so George brought out some chains to go with the forklift. When there's no dock, we attach chains under the wooden freight pallets and drag the goods to the edge of the cargo hold so then the forks of the lift can take the pallets off the truck. George asked "are you going to get into the back of the truck?” He added that he just turned 61 and that jumping in and out of trucks wasn't really part of his repertoire any longer. I replied that I could appreciate that, but not to worry, I have my own little system for hopping in and out of the back of this truck.

We were able to pull all the freight off easily and I thanked George for his help with a "yoos have a good day." It was 7 am, aHEAD of schedule. I almost wrenched my arm patting myself on the back.

Next, all the fun began all at once. As I headed for the Williamsburg Bridge for Manhattan and The George Washington to New Jersey, I was halted by a NYPD Police Cruiser parked sideways with his lights blazing away, blocking the approach to the Williamsburg. Newsradio WCBS informed me that a tractor trailer had rammed the underpass and that there was a fuel spill to go along with that mess. My first thought was "did this guy have fuel tanks on his roof?" Dam. What kind of a truck is that? Well, just about that time, everybody in the borough of Brooklyn woke up and jumped in their cars. Complete and utter gridlock decended from the heavens. You've heard the phrase "...in a New York minute." That's about how long it took for traffic to lock up completely. I watched the same signal cycle through green, red and yellow about six times before moving an inch. I flashed back to Friday, July 2nd when I got caught in the holiday traffic nighmare on the Cross Bronx Expressway. That little number took five hours to go ninety miles. My arse is still sore from that ride.

The other approach to the Williamsburg was blocked as well, so this trucker idiot must have really screwed it up good. After playing with a series of lefts and rights I came upon an electronic sign for the Holland Tunnel that said a three axel truck was ok to use tunnel. Great! I'm now thinking I can now cruise right into I-78 and the safety of New Jersey. I pulled up to the checkpoint area before the tunnel and get "pointed over" by a NYPO. I popped out the truck and looked at the overhead height checker and see a bunch of swaying batans. The officer came over to me where I could see that his uniform cap with the patent leather brim was pulled down so far, I couldn't see his eyebrows. From underneath the that cap, I heard the thickest Heinz Ketchup New York accent tell me "you're too high, you got to take the Bridge" Ok ouffisa, I responded, yoos have a guood day. Crap. Now I have to to go all the way uptown on the Westside Highway, over to Broadway, through a piece of the Bronx and then to the George Washington Bridge, affectionately known to the locals as simply The GWB.

I made it to the Vince Lombardi Service Area off the New Jersey Turnpike (NJTP). The locals call this gem of a road simply The Turnpike. As I was getting comfortable, my stomach was rebelling for breakfast. Again, in a New York minute, Betty from Company Central calls and nicely asks "did you get the opportunity we sent from Springfield Gardens, NY to Poughkeepsie?" I said "yeah, I saw it Betty. I just came from three hours of molton gridlock and it would take something extra special to get me back into the city right now. You'd have to give me twice what you're offering to go." Now, keep in mind that these girls are very skilled at getting loads covered. She then happily proclaims "Great! I'll put you on it for twice and send the info on your Q-comm!" At this point, I'm reeling. What in the H E double toothpicks just happened?" Now, I get to go back over the GWB, The Whitestone and to JFK INTERNATIONAL FREAKING AIRPORT! Yes, I'm hip to that nice little trick. Springfield Gardens is a quaint little name they give to the freight terminal adjacent to one of the maddest airports in existence. At this point, I'm looking around the truck for a paper bag to breathe in and out of.

I made JFK in good time and wheeled the Fat Cat through some barbaric midday traffic, then, proceeded to send my arrival time on the Q-comm only to realize they had bumped the time from 1300 hours to 1500. No, problem, I'll just hang out and play with facebook while I wait. At three, I approached the logistics desk to acquire the paperwork needed to receive an international shipment, this being computer equipment from Korea. About an hour later Jeanette, with jet black pulled back into a pony tail New York hair calls me over from the waiting area and informs me "they cuolled and sed that the computa went down and the shipment won't be ready until tuomorra." Dam. My dreams of a King's Ransom in pay, dashed into the ground. It cost me $24 for the GWB, $18 for the Whitestone and about $10 in fuel from NJ. And...it will cost another $18 to do the Whitestone again. The GWB is no charge to NJ. Do the math. Back on the phone with dispatch, I was able to plead my case and get my tolls reimbursed on my company card.

Now returned to Jersey in one piece, at the Vince Lombardi, barely parked, my Q-comm chirps out a series of load opportunities that I sniffed at like a snob. Then, Jamesburg, NJ to West Haven, Connecticut appeared. Ok, we'll double that price for jollies and see what happens. I'm sure your momma said "be careful what you wish for, you just may get it." Well, double it came back, and like a jolly Santa Clause, I pressed "1" for accept. I thought this one would be a piece of cake...down the Turnpike a few exits and then back up to 287, making the wide turn around New York and up to 95 on up to West Haven. No problem! What I missed was three little words that read "one additional stop". When the load info starting spitting out, it was glaring right at me in computer font, "Stop #2, Syosett, NY" SYOSSETT FREAKING NEW YORK?" OH, NO! Syossett Freaking New York is on Long Island. The only way to get to Syossett Freaking New York is through freaking Brooklyn and freaking Queens and bridges with tolls, mayhem and who knows what ever else. At this point, I looked around the truck for rope. I felt like the professor on Felix the Cat when he operated that contraption with the shoe. Pulling on a rope, he would cause a big shoe to kick himself in the butt proclaiming "I made a boo boo, I made a boo boo." Well, I made a boo boo. What was that about "scurrilous commitment?" It was right here, served up on a silver platter, for me to enjoy.

I'll survive the drama. I'll make money. I just wanted a break from New York for one skinny little day. Maybe I'll get it on Wednesday. Just one little day. One can only hope. I will surely read the next opp in its entirety!

Random Thoughts For July 1st

2010-07-29T20:06:00.000-07:00

The company offered me a run originating in Athol, Massachusettes. I declined because I didn't want to go to a place where there are a bunch of Athols. Is that Daffy Duck talking?

Why can't I-95 in Connecticut be as smooth as I-95 in New Jersey? Oh, that's right, in New Jersey it's a Turnpike and not really an Interstate. They charge big bucks for smooth. Smoother than Connecticut anyway.

The company offered me a pick up at JFK Airport. I hit decline so hard I nearly broke the button. For starters, the run involved two NYC bridges. That's about $64 in a truck.

The State of New York has new license plates. That's car tags for you Southerners. They're going back to the old orange background with black letters and numbers. For some reason, it prevokes a mind's image of a banged up 1976 Plymouth Fury with the rear orange New York plate hanging by one bolt. Don't know why I envision that. Life is funny that way. In addition, I've always been very wary of states that require both front and back plates...I mean tags.

I had Peter Pan Creamy Plus peanut butter with Premium saltine crackers for a snack this afternoon. I thought of how there was always a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter for all to share in the kitchen at Bristol Broadcasting in Bristol, Virginia. The handed down story was that someone came in one morning a discovered two little rodent feet and a tail sticking out of an uncovered jar.

The Pilot Truck Stop in Milford, Connecticut was jammed packed last night. Some guy was selling dinners of pork chops or spaghetti and meatballs and all the fixin's with sweet tea included for $10 over the CB radio. Probably better food than the Wendy's in the stop. A driver threatened to call the board of health on the guy. I understand strange food from strange people, but does everybody have to be a cop?

As I pulled out of my parking space and drove down the aisle, two separate trucks pulled out in front of me without looking! I know it wasn't one way. What's going on here?

The weather is quite spring-like up here. Sunny, breezy and 73 degrees right now. It doesn't feel like July, but hey, I'm not complaining. Good sleeping weather.

Two guys look like they're practicing Kung Fu in the parking lot of the Walmart where I'm parked. I guess you got to be ready up here.

A lot of the gas stations up here are small...like a kiosk and offer no public restroom. Not even a shrub or bush around the corner. I don't see pork rinds either.

I have passed Mystic several times on this trip. I wish I had time to investigate and see if there is a Mystic Pizza.

Now that I've been "up north" since June 19th, I think my accent is changing. I'm saying "yoos" and "how you doin'?" I'm even grousing more.

There are lots lof Subaru automobiles in the north. Every Subaru has all wheel drive.

Does anyone want to start a pool as to when I get back to Atlanta?

Many More Miles To Go

2010-06-15T17:23:00.000-07:00

Today, it’s been one year on the road. One year ago, as I sat in the company orientation class in Green, Ohio, I was revved up and ready to get my new profession started. The economy had beaten me up pretty good and by October of 2008, I knew I had to give up nearly ten years in sales. It was over for me. At that point, I determined it wasn’t a good idea to be selling people homes and autos, so I decided another re-invention of myself was in order. Over the road trucking appealed to me and the notion of seeing the country with no one looking over my shoulder seemed like the right way to go. I’ve never had a traditional job, working traditional hours so this type of way to make a living appeared to be in my comfort zone. In December, I enrolled in a truck driving school for a January start. Lora, my career counselor said everything was going to be just fine and soon I would have a new career. I believed her and immediately felt like I made the right decision.

January came quickly and it was a relief to see a lot of guys in the class that were my age and that the instructors weren’t the Gestapo I thought they’d be. The whole staff was a group of seasoned professionals and had some good stories to tell. After a week of classroom study taught by William, I passed the permit test with flying colors and then it was time to get in the truck and drive. My road instructor, Jim was firm and helpful. At one point, I was having trouble with a maneuver when he came up to the window of the eighteen wheeler and pointedly asked “do you go to church?” I perplexedly replied that indeed I did at which point he rolled his sleeve up and revealed a tattoo of Jesus on his forearm. He then continued “you have to have faith that if you set this maneuver up correctly, this truck and trailer will go exactly where it’s supposed to go.” Now do it! With Jim’s instruction, I went on to pass my over the road driving exam with confidence and receive the coveted “Class A Commercial Driver’s License.”

The year since has blazed by and now, I’ve travelled over a hundred thousand miles. I'll never forget my first dispatch. After making a "clean break" from the auto business, they send me to Detroit to deliver..what else...auto parts! Another example of how ironic my life is at times. As the earth rotated quickly, I’ve covered a lot of ground. Criss-crossing the country has become a dance routine on a different scale. Moving from one side of the stage to the other like a Bugs Bunny vaudevillian, I race from coast to coast and border to border. The mission has usually been a cannon ball run around obstacles and events that prevent a straight line. Some things that have occurred on the road are just as I imagined they would be. Other things are a little different and even yet some things are far from what I expected before I began life as an Over The Road Long Haul Trucker. I thought I’d have more time to see old friends and sightsee, but not so with some of these dispatches and travel times. For the most part, the truck stops and shower facilities are better kept than I imagined and sleeping in a truck is not as foreboding as one might think. It’s more like a camping experience, except the campgrounds are truck stops with hundreds of trucks sitting in snap line rows with the sound of their diesel engines droning on incessantly. I found that foraging for food can be a fun experience in new places.

Expediting has turned out to be a form of this business that has a strange appeal to me. It’s like having to urgently go to bathroom, but you don’t know where it is. You just know you have to get there, quickly. The time sensitive nature and destination of the freight I carry have turned this type of trucking into a “pants on fire” adventure at times. It’s also kind of like the hot air ballooning I did extensively in the 80’s with my old friend Jim Mount and his “Looking Up” balloon. You go up, but you really never know where you’re going to land. Somebody once asked “can’t you steer those things?” The answer is no, it all depends upon where the air currents take you. You control when you take off and what your altitude will be, but the rest is up to God. Landing is the real challenge in hot air ballooning as is slotting in freight on time in expediting. Fire the burner to go up and pull on the rope to let hot air out of the balloon to come down. That’s all the real control you have in the sport. In my job, as in ballooning, I have to know just when to fire the burner and when to yank on the rope. Part of that expertise in this kind of work is to know when to take the opportunity and go and when to decline it. Sometimes you have only precious moments of time to decide. Being decisive is a requisite in this job. I have to process in short order the question of “will this run take me to a good freight hub or will I be potentially stranded out in left field and have to travel long distances with no freight?” I take all of this into consideration while calculating fuel costs and profit. Like a poker game, I’m drawing and tossing out cards all day. As Kenny Rogers sang in “The Gambler”, you got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away and when to run! By run, I mean that I avoid places like Long Island, New York at any cost. It’s a hard place to drive when you consider the traffic, the way people drive and how much it costs to get there when the tolls suck money out of your pocket like an Electrolux. Plus, there are no truck stops on the Island. I’ll go to New York City because I know I can get to the relative safety of New Jersey fairly quickly, but getting out of Long Island is a tall order.

When I speak with freight agents, it’s usually a compact negotiation that takes place quickly, because the freight has to be somewhere soon. In addition, sometimes I’m competing for the same freight with other nearby drivers from my company to make it even more challenging. From another perspective, it’s like a huge board game that’s fun to play!

After years in sales and negotiation, this type of work suits me perfectly. When I contemplated trucking, I never once thought I’d be using skill sets from my previous career. Life is funny to me like that sometimes. You’re being guided and prepared without ever knowing it. It confirms my faith.

A lot of Long Haul jobs in trucking companies have dedicated routes and drivers know what to expect on a regular basis. With my company, I do get to run some dedicated routes from one shipper in particular, but the destinations vary. When I pull up to the warehouse, I know the drill for this company. It’s nice to have at least one place I can go to and not have to think too much. Typically though, when I accept a freight opportunity, it’s a sprint to complete paperwork and a mad dash to locate a shipper and a consignee (the one who receives the delivery) in a location I’ve never been to. It's kind of like another version of “Where’s Waldo?” Sometimes, too, it’s similar to an Easter egg hunt where they hide the eggs real good.

Strangely, the country is getting smaller to me. What I once perceived as an arduous journey across the nation is now just another task on another day. I drive 400 miles for breakfast. Eleven hours behind the wheel isn’t the intimidating thought it once was. It’s all a state of mind. The truck I drive doesn’t feel as big as it once did. This can be a real trap, and I always adhere to the teachings I learned in school regarding safety procedures. Yes, you can get too comfortable with these trucks! A mechanical pre-trip inspection is a must and I walk around the Fat Cat to make sure lights are working and I beat on the tires with a rubber mallet to make sure they are inflated properly. I look for leaking fluids and to see that nothing is askew. I have learned to operate ratchet load securing straps (these things can give you fits!) and work the temperamental landing gear that props up my cargo hold from the rear. Mine has a manual crank that operates with finesse at times. Who says a trucker doesn’t get aerobic exercise? I use heavy metal load securing bars to insure that freight doesn’t shift or move. This is especially important when I haul hazardous materials like flammable liquids or sensitive items like a jet engine.

Prior to a run, I avoid sugar and concentrate on protein before I depart to regulate my system before a long run. I prefer un-sweetened ice tea to drink. It’s good to make sure things that I will want will be close at hand, like additional water and snacks. I insure that my satellite radio remote is close by and my cell phone has a good charge with the head set within reach.

Trip planning is an important part of my routine. I have a GPS unit, but I don’t follow it like some drivers do. A GPS unit will lead you right off the edge of a cliff, if you allow it. You have to physically look at a map and plot out a route on a motor carrier’s atlas. A GPS unit is a computer and it will send you on remote two lane roads through a series of small towns with lights and 35 mile per hour speed limits to save you a half mile on the trip. Trucks can’t go on every road a car can travel. You have to be constantly aware of your surroundings by watching further up ahead than a car for low bridges, power lines and tricky road configurations. This is especially true in cities where sometimes roads are narrow and intersections are tight. One time, I had to do at pick up in Central Falls, Rhode Island where the loading dock was in a garage right at the edge of a narrow road, on a busy afternoon rush hour. It was necessary to stop traffic by sticking the rear end of my truck right into traffic to get to it. Once inside, I learned that my cargo would be thousands of pounds of delicate glass tubing to be transported over rough New England roads. Double whammy! I hate transporting glass, even more than the skull and crossbones stuff.

One thing I have noticed is that we are increasingly becoming a national chain nation. There are Wal-Mart’s everywhere. The grocery stores are more regional because of the way fresh food is distributed, but the big chains dominate. There are surprisingly few towns in America where you can find local drug and department stores. Craving a McDonald’s Big Mac? You will never have to go very far ANYWHERE in the country for two all beef patties on a sesame seed bun with special sauce. It will just cost a ton of money in places like Connecticut. Take an exit off just about any interstate and chances are you will see something familiar. I look for local legends and anything that is unfamiliar. That’s how Route 66 used to be they tell me.

Having been to most states, I now open the state by state section of USA Today and the whole page looks local to me. I hear national news on TV and most times when they talk about a town somewhere where news is taking place, I either have been there or know where it is. America has become one big local community to me. The one thing that is different and interesting to me is the regional dialects of language. Mid Atlantic people tend to leave off consonants on the ends of words. In Brooklyn, New York, they add “R’s” and say “terlit” instead of toilet. New Englanders add a dimension of nasal acoustics to speech. Just put a clothes pin on your nose and talk, you’ll fit right in. Southerners have different tones of accents, but for the most part they just open their mouths and the words fall out. To think that all Southerners speak slowly is a myth. Try to keep up with a native Atlantan. True Cajuns from Louisiana and Mississippi have a certain aristocratic sound. I can pick out a Texas southern easily. Appalachia is a whole different world. You might need an interpreter there. Words and gestures are baffling at times. I knew old timer from Big Stone Gap, Virginia and “yes” was “yay-ya” and the bathroom was “the howsa.” Upstate New York, Ohio and Michigan are somewhat alike and unique sounding. I would say their accent is probably the hardest to imitate. Nearby Indiana doesn’t have and accent. That’s what the so-called language experts say. I tend to agree. They have a straight ahead Midwestern tone. The rest of the Midwest varies slightly. Now, if we’re talking about Wisconsin, Minnesota and the Dakotas, you really need to see the movie “Fargo” to get a true upper Midwest accent. They kind of over play the dialect it to create somewhat of a comical touch in the movie. A good portion of Florida and Urban California sounds like New York City and New Jersey. It’s got to be the huge transplant influence. I haven’t been to Alaska, but Sarah Palin has made me aware that there is an accent there. I like the fact that Hawaii economizes words. I understand “Aloha” means hello and goodbye. The accent is on the ring of flowers. In reality, you can drive three thousand miles and understand what everybody is saying, for the most part. Even if we can’t hear one another, there are some great hand signals. In Los Angeles, Chicago and New York In traffic, I’ve seen people waving with one or no fingers! Such a friendly places.

The physical beauty of America is outstanding. There is something worth seeing in every state I’ve been to. A month ago I had the good fortune of driving on one of the most scenic routes I’ve ever been to. Route 285 which runs down though the center of Colorado is breathtaking. At the same time, the elevation at 9,000 feet will make you short of breath. It’s literally breathtaking. The road winds and dips and at times is just like a roller coaster. When I was there, the snow covered mountains were truly dramatic. Campsites and interesting little towns popped up all along the way. I yearned to be travelling in a motor home instead of the Fat Cat. I’ve enjoyed the Sierras, Cascades and the California ranges out west as well. The east offers some great trips though the Catskills, Adirondack, Appalachian, Blue Ridge, White, Green and Ozark mountains too. There is no shortage of mountain scenery in the United States.

Mighty rivers traverse our land on a grand scale. The Mississippi is a sight to behold and I’ve crossed it in several regions of the country. The Columbia which separates Washington and Oregon is awesome to view. The Rio Grande in Texas makes a long border between us and Mexico. The Ohio probably has more quaint towns and impressive all American cities on its banks than any other. Located right on the Ohio, Cincinnati is a picturesque and well rounded metropolis as viewed on a hill from the Kentucky side with plenty of riverside attractions. Pittsburgh, where the Monongahela and the Allegheny form the Ohio, has transformed from a dirty old steel town to a land of high tech and a cleaner environment. The St. John’s River that runs through the middle of Jacksonville, Florida, is the only river in North America that flows from south to north. Add the Delaware, The St. Charles, The Hudson and The Tennessee and you know that we are a nation of great rivers.

As for coastline, we’ve got plenty of that too. The problem is though, there aren’t a whole lot of truck routes that hug the coastline. I’ve been on a few good ones like the Pacific Coast Highway and AIA in Florida, just not in the truck. Many of us yearn to be on the coast to feel the sand, the sea and the air. There’s just something very therapeutic about the beach. It soothes the soul and fills the senses with serenity.

When I think of over- all friendliness, there are lots of places in all regions of the country where the people are amiable and smile a lot. California is a pretty happy place for the most part. They don’t seem concerned that the next big earthquake, forest fire or mudslide could be moments away. My favorite Mad comic, Alfred E. Newman must have been from here. His motto is “What, Me Worry?” The south is a generally hospitable place, but Mississippi and Louisiana seem to stand out to me in addition to my home state of Georgia. Kentucky and Tennessee are also good for hospitality. I like Texas for over all niceness and New Mexico gets my vote as well. Colorado and Utah folks will make you feel comfortable and right at home. Pennsylvania is a tale of two cities where Pittsburgh gets the advantage over Philadelphia. Florida is problematic with lots of crabby old New Yorkers and Boston can go either way depending on if you’re a Sox fan. Generally, we’re a good nation willing to help each out with a kind word or a good deed.

The weather in the past year has had its challenges. I’ve driven in 12 sizeable snow storms and seen some frigid temperatures along the way. Ironically, the coldest I’ve been was in my home state of Georgia last February when the mercury hit 10 degrees with no power because the truck wouldn’t start. Michigan came in second with a brisk wind off Lake Michigan at St. Joseph in November. I didn’t feel the cold as much out west in the Rockies in Places like Salt Lake City and Idaho because of the elevation and dry air. I have definitely been hot in a few places. Laredo, Texas comes to mind first where it hit 107 when I was there. I could have popped out of my truck like bread out of a toaster. Phoenix was 97 at ten in the morning when I was there. Yuma, Arizona was the all time hottest when I felt 119. The only other time I feel that kind of heat is when I check my cornbread in the oven. I have to remind myself to drink extra water and wear a cowboy hat in the sun. I’ll stick a fan in my face and idle the engine for air conditioning as much as I can. As for good weather, California is a good place to be, when it’s not raining buckets. I’m very fond of the south in spring. The far north becomes comfortable in summer. As far as driving, fog is my least favorite. I hit a lot of it on several trips, at night, in Indiana. Snow doesn’t bother me as long as the road departments clear it off good and I don’t have to “chain up” the tires. Rain just makes the truck dirty when all that road grime splashes up on her and can be wicked in cities regarding the way people drive.

In all, I like this type of work, but I’m not sure how long I can be out on the road. It can be a real grind when you’re away from home for long periods of time. But, for now, I’m taking it days at a time, not wanting to get too far ahead of myself or too far behind. I have a few ideas of what I want to do next, but I haven’t fully thought them through. So, for now, I’ll continue this gypsy way of life. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. As we speak, I’m working up my Top 10 favorite lists. The lists will be of favorite small towns, favorite cities, favorite road songs, favorite food stops and favorite truck stops to mention a few.

To me America is a great place. I’m not done seeing it all. Figuratively speaking, I want to meet all the Americans and see the places that the locals love to be. There are many more miles to go, many more places to see and many more stories to write.

A Garden of Paradise

2010-06-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

The call came on the trusty old Q-comm and it was an offer of a run from Louisville, Kentucky to Rockville, Maryland. The pay offered made me raise one eyebrow concerning the importance of this load considering it was a stone’s throw from Washington, D.C. It was the right money without even trying. Ok, I’ll go, was my thought. The commodity was “electronic equipment”. When I received the rest of the load information, the picture was clearer. This fun little excursion was taking me to the Federal Justice Center. I then had visions of being ordered to spread eagle for a pat-down search before entry to the compound would be granted. So, I prepared my paperwork and pre-trip inspected the Fat Cat for the run. Rockville is like a branch of DC and a bastion of activity…kind of like a beehive. But, hey, the weather promises to be nice and roads look good on the map. I’ve got twelve hours to get there from the point of freight pick up.

I arrived in Louisville the next morning from Florence, well rested and ready for a nice drive through Kentucky, West Virginia and Western Maryland. With the freight loaded, it was on to Rockville by the nine pm deadline.

Night had barely fallen when I pulled up to a non-descript building in suburban Rockville. I got out of the Cat and felt like someone was waving a checkered flag at me. It was mostly a straight drive through to meet my deadline.

Now, I was facing the highest chain link gate I think I’ve ever seen in my life with an intercom box near the gate. As I reached to push the button, a voice like the Wizard of Oz boomed out of the speaker and said “please state you name” in a terse tone. At that moment, I felt very small. I responded with my name and continued in a back and forth question and answer period with the great Oz. Apparently, they had sixteen cameras trained on me and knew a lot about me from probably as many TV monitors in some control room. Good thing I brushed my teeth.

The voice in the box ultimately communicated that they would be sending a uniformed man to question me at the gate. I felt like saying “I haven’t done anything wrong and I only have equipment that someone in your office really needs!”

After a few minutes, an impeccably dressed officer sporting a Clark Gable moustashe in a starch white uniform shirt appeared with a decidedly amiable air about him, quite different from the sound of the intercom. His purpose was to question me further. He said no one in the compound knew anything about any delivery from my company and that I would have to return the following morning and talk to different people. I responded that I would check with my dispatch and see if they could offer any assistance. I got Kelly on the phone and explained the situation and she mockingly informs me “your load doesn’t deliver until 9:00am tomorrow morning. “ She then laughed at me and said “at least you’re not late!” I shot back with “there’s no laughing at a government installation!” At the same moment, I picked up the Q-comm and sure enough, it said in our military time mode 0900 to 0900. Dam, double dam. I had turned 0900 to 0900 to 0900 to 2100. Wow. At least I wasn’t late. I apologized to the guard and said “my mistake, I’ll be back in the morning.”

After a hot meal and a good night’s sleep at the South Baltimore TA truck stop, it was time to return to Chain Link City to unload. When I spoke with the daytime people, they told me “someone should have taken that load off your truck...we are a twenty-four hour operation. They should have recognized the names on the paperwork. There will be some meetings on this.” I privately thought to myself, “What have I caused here? What kind of meetings? Prayer meetings?” But, then I realized that that this is the federal government. Nobody is supposed to know what is going on!

From Rockville, my expediting life picked up in pace. The loads were coming to me fast and furious. I back-tracked to Hagerstown to take a load to Boston. From Boston, I slid over to Central Falls, Rhode Island where I had to stop traffic to back into a narrow garage type loading dock. This one was going to Manchester, New Hampshire. At that point, it was a turn- around and a cannon ball of 1,130 miles direct to Atlanta. From Atlanta, a jaunt back up I-85 a bit to Lavonia, Georgia to run to Charleston, South Carolina. Next, it was over to Columbus, Georgia for some necessary repairs at Fleet Base. My fleet owner gave me a car to go home for a few days and I would catch up on house chores and wait for the room to stop spinning.

After a blazing fast four days at home, I drove back to Columbus to get the Fat Cat and take an opportunity. This time, I was awarded Cottonton, Alabama to pick up a roll of paper heavier than my Buick to take to Omaha, Nebraska. Next up, I ran up to the only part of Iowa I haven’t been to in the north west corner of the state near Sioux City. At the loading point, I remarked the forklift guy that Sioux City must be where all the lawyers live. He looked at me kind of funny like he didn’t get the joke. I didn’t dwell on it. This load was over 10,000 pounds of concrete patio furniture being rushed to Novato, California, on the North Bay side of San Francisco.

There would be no time to put on a Hawaiian shirt and do tourist duty in San Fran, for the next destination was Los Angeles. Unfortunately, most of this trip would be on truck friendly I-5 and not the more scenic and interesting Pacific Coast Highway 1. The scenery on that road is stunning. But, I had the good fortune to make a trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco at a leisurely pace in a car at one point. The PCH as the initiated call it, is a must drive experience. If you’re looking for the one road in America that will provide scenery, history and great beaches, this is it. Put it on the bucket list.

At the end of this line, I stumbled into Castaic, California on the north side of LA, next to Simi Valley and a Ventura Freeway ride to the coast. This is ground zero for the musical group America’s song Ventura Highway. The lyrics say it all. “Seasons crying no despair, alligator lizards in the air…” Castaic is a tidy little town with picturesque mountains surrounding a bustling community of commerce and shopping. The wide boulevard through town conjures up images of American Graffiti and hot rods and woody wagons with surfboards cruising up and down the blocks. I felt like I was stepping up to receive an award just for arriving here.

The Pilot Truck Stop here is the best Pilot I’ve been to. In my initial scope of the premises I found an inviting patio with concrete tables and umbrellas, perfect for setting down with a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar. In this little garden of paradise, the landscaping was well tended to and perfect to the point where I thought the trees came from Michaels Craft Store. The April weather was absolute perfection for human inhabitation. I then discovered an authentic taco stand next door with an ample selection of Mexican offerings. A couple of times I sat down to a meal of the real deal with an amazingly good non-alcoholic bottle of sangria. The Bell is no match for this place. I spoke some Spanish with some local men who had gathered around and asked them when the boulevard cruisers appeared on the street. They were happy that someone as white as me would speak their language. I even got a compliment on my accent. Thank you Senoras Rossi and Fuentes (my high school Spanish teachers).

With perfect palms and dark sunglass inducing sunshine, you could conceivably find a petrified version of me here years from now. This part of Southern California is my speed. Laid way back.

Amongst these pleasant surroundings is where I met David and Susan, a travelling couple from Southern California with two dogs and three cats. David was a self proclaimed country boy with wavy light brown hair and a matching moustache. His slender wife had long dark brunette hair with a nice smile. I was intrigued when they paraded the cats into the Pilot courtyard on leashes like dogs. This family of felines and canines seemed to be doing just fine on the harness type apparatus. They had the pet carriers for the cats to go in and get out of the sun and rest, but they seemed to enjoy sniffing around and pawing “kitty holes” under the bushes to do what kitties do. These were nice folks about my age and we enjoyed a long conversation about animals and things that go on in Southern California. They let me hold one of the cats, a perfectly white boy which was a special treat to me. I miss my own animals at home, one of the things that makes life on the road tough.

After a great weekend, Monday came crashing through the window and it was time to go. I could have spent a week here, but Phoenix, Arizona beckoned and I readied the paperwork for the load. To the desert I go, leaving behind a perfect little place. I’ll be back. You can put money on that bet.

The Doors of Agent 86

2010-04-25T18:58:00.000-07:00

I had hoped to be home for Easter, but the way my schedule was working, it wouldn’t be so this year. I’d been to every Easter service in the new church building at Providence since we opened it. In fact, the very first service in that sanctuary was Easter Sunday, 2007. This year, I would observe the culmination of the most solemn religious week of the year in Chicago, alone. That’s ok, a weekend in solitude would give me a sense of introspection I need from time to time. This was my twelfth time here since last summer and the very first time I would actually get to lay over here. On the holy morning, I awoke to bright sunshine and strong winds after a rainy northern Illinois night. The air was cool and I had to fight to keep my ball cap on my head. The Windy City was truly living up to its nickname today.

Chicago is a busy place with freight going every which way twenty four-seven. Even so, I thought I’d get one more night to lay back and gear up for Monday. Not this time. The company called and pleaded with me to take a special “hot” load of special auto parts to an assembly plant in the Cincinnati area for early Monday morning delivery. I agreed and quickly readied up for the run. The bright sunshine was clouding up rapidly and rain became eminent.

As the song goes “…some days are diamonds and some days are stone...” Well, this would be one of those of days of stone…or night, if you’re keeping score. As I’m nearing my pick up destination, in heavy getaway Chicago Easter traffic, in the pouring rain, the company calls and says “you have to pick up a fax before you can get the load.” I responded with an irritated “great, where do you think I can pick up a fax in Downtown Chicago?” I had wished they let me know that back at the truck stop. It would have been easy to pop in to the fuel desk and get it. Dam. My only option was a convenience store near O’Hare. Fortunately, they were able to accommodate me. But, when the fax arrived, it was un-readable. I called the company back and was instructed to just go to the pickup point with the mushy document.

I navigated the famous Chicago congestion and arrived at the international transfer point for the load at the second busiest airport in America. Upon entering the building, I was greeted by a series of doors to get to the shipping window. If you remember the 60’s TV show “Get Smart”, it was like the opening scenes of Agent 86 making his way to the telephone booth where he crosses his arms and disappears straight down.

I get back to the window and apologetically present the obligatory un-readable fax to a perplexed looking middle aged lady who summoned two other male colleagues to try to decipher the brain puzzling mode of communication. She returns the baffling document with a shrug of the shoulders and a “we can’t read this. I have no idea what you’re here for.” Privately, I felt like an idiot. Now, it was time to start dialing for dollars and un-ravel this crime scene of a document. I knew at this point, it was going to be a long night.

Two hours and a bunch of calls back and forth solved the mystery and now I could get loaded and head out. I was granted permission to enter the warehouse and prep the truck for ten pallets of parts that the plant on the other end needed to continue production. They were waiting on me. The pressure was on. The assembly line was shut down until I got there. Anxious managers on the other end wanted this shipment badly. The prospect of paying auto workers to stay on duty while doing nothing wasn’t sitting well with the powers that be. I don’t blame them, not in these economic times. The silver lining here was the fact that an auto plant was in production, working overtime on a holiday. Perhaps, this could be interpreted as a good sign for the economy.

Well, sometimes forward motion in this business is like riding a Jeep in the woods. Next, I was greeted by a fellow who I could picture at a metal thrash club. Somewhat short, and bearded, he looked like he had been beat silly with loud music. I made room for the load and he proceeded to forklift the goods that had just arrived from China on the Fat Cat. At this point, I came to the realization that I don’t think I’ve ever seen a forklift operator drive and work as slow as he did. I looked at my watch so much that I could have looked the numbers right off my wrist. Then I noticed that he had nine pallets on the truck with no room for a tenth. Now, I know ten will fit on my truck. Just when I’m about to open my mouth, a supervisor comes over and surveys the situation and orders the rave clubber off the forklift and then gets on and begins unloading my cargo himself. At least this guy can pedal this thing a bit. The supervisor takes everything off and re-loads it correctly, getting all ten on. Miracles never cease.

At this point, I was nearing the four hour mark here. The problem is that I can only drive eleven hours in a day and then have to shut down for ten. You can be on duty, not driving for fourteen and that’s it. Once you start driving, the fourteen hour clock starts and it doesn’t stop. There are no exceptions and if you’re caught going over hours, they can fine you…heavily. I knew at this point with travel time to Cincinnati, it would be close by the time I got there. Roadside breaks would have to be very brief and I’d have to stay moving for most of the run without stopping like I usually do.

Daybreak arrived and I had my destination in view. It was a tough overnight run to get there on time. I didn’t see dancing animals on the highway, but was close to that point. I pulled into the plant and headed to the shipping office to check in and determine where to unload at this sizeable manufacturing facility. I was instructed to tell them it was urgent “shut down freight”. The clerk there directed me to a loading dock on the other side of the plant.

I get to where I’m directed and a fork lift lady now informs me I she can’t unload me at that particular dock so I drive around to another and proceed to ready the truck for the delivery. Most places, I get on the dock and enter my cargo hold to remove load bracing bars and perform other tasks in an effort to prep it for forklifts to enter and remove the goods.

Another lady spies me there and yells at me for being on the dock. “You’re not supposed to be in this part of the warehouse”. I replied ok, and then you’ll remove the load bars and then replace them back in my truck?” She answers me with a strained “yes, but you really need to be off the dock right now.” As I’m leaving the area, the first woman approaches me with a florescent yellow vest and instructs me to do what I need to do on the dock. As I begin doing what I need to do, the second woman comes back around and says “I thought I told you not to be on the dock!” This was now turning into a Three Stooges routine. Except now, I wanted to be Moe and give someone a two finger poke in the eyes and a smack on the noggin. I left the dock and the first lady comes back around and asks me if I’m going to remove the load bars! I handed my yellow vest over and explained that she was going to have to do it herself. I could see a frustrated look on her face. I wanted to tell her welcome to my world, but was too tired to get into it.

Finally, the load was off the truck and out of my hair. I now had just enough time to slink off to my favorite truck stop in Florence, Kentucky across the river. Now, like Barnaby Jones, I could enjoy a bottle of milk and a long daytime sleep in the Bluegrass sunshine. I earned every penny of this one.

Unfurl It Like Tractor Paper

2010-03-30T23:06:00.000-07:00

The first quarter of 2010 is about to close and I’m two months away from driving over the road nationally for the company for one year. We all marvel at how fast time flies and this past year is no exception. Someone once said to me “life is like a roll of toilet paper, the closer to the end you get, the faster it goes.” How true.

I’m still adding up the numbers and so far, I’ve logged nearly 100,000 miles in three different trucks. My travels have taken me to 45 states. Regarding those 45 states, I’ve been to almost every state I’ve ever been to at least twice, some as many as 10 times. Of the lower 48, only Montana and the Dakotas are the missing pieces. Someday, my dream is to drive a truck in all 50, even if that means renting a Ryder tractor in Honolulu and taking it around town. The lone exception this year has been Maine. Expediting has just not taken me there. Back in 2001, we took a motor home to Bar Harbor and up the rocky coast to explore seaside villages and enjoy some lobster. Even Louie had some of the crustacean. He looks good in a bib.

I have often bounced back and forth from Canada to the Rio Grande like a bungee cord. These sojourns have divided the country into geometric patterns. To be put on a canvas, some of these runs would appear to be modern art. I ran from Washington State to Orlando Florida and I am hoping for an opportunity that will take me from San Diego to Bangor Maine to complete the “X”. The major north-south routes, I’ve almost completed in their entirety include Interstates 5, 15, 25,35,45,55,65,75,85 and 95. East-West Interstates on the list are 90, 70, and 20. I’ve travelled the entire length of 80 from the George Washington Bridge in New York to San Francisco. Also on the completed list is 40, and 10. I just have the section of 75 north of Flint, Michigan to the Upper Peninsula, the Midland-Odessa stretch on 20, and a piece of 95 in Maine to the Canadian border to add those to the done list. All the Interstates I have driven on would unfurl like tractor paper from a computer printer.

Keeping track of all this has been a most enjoyable part of the job. More than numbers, these roads are paths that lead through America. There are home towns along the way that mean something to someone. Most importantly, The Eisenhower Interstate System connects us and our American ideals and principles. We may seem much divided as a country as of late, but I’ve always felt that this is how our country works. Thomas Jefferson, in his first inaugural address in 1801 proclaimed that“Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have been called by different names, brethren of the same principle. We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists. If there be any among us who would wish to dissolve this Union or to change its republican form, let them stand undisturbed as monuments of the safety with which error of opinion may be tolerated, where reason is left free to combat it” . Our forefathers were brilliant men.

Once again, I over-stayed my home time to complete tax returns and catch up on a few chores at the ranch. After a short run to get my “less than 75”, and move up in dwell time status, my jumping off point out of town would be from the electronics warehouse south of Atlanta to Memphis on Friday. Delivery wasn’t until Monday so I could lolly gag my way across the south a bit. Night number one found me in Birmingham, Alabama at the Flying J. When you start recognizing faces and places along the way, as I do here, it kind of gives a strange air of familiarity. These days, a large portion of America has a “homey” feeling to me. On Saturday afternoon, under brilliant spring skies, I weighed anchor and continued on westward across the top of Alabama and into Mississippi on a smooth and picturesque US 78 in the Magnolia State. The state welcome center in Ole’ Miss was alive in Bradford Pear white and a winter brown Bermuda lawn, a reminder that the last vestiges of the cold season were hanging on. Soon, bare trees would fill out in green and magnificent Magnolias dominate the landscape. I’ve always found solace in an early spring day. In that kind of day, a prize can be found for enduring winter.

Tupelo wasn’t far up the road, and this time, I was determined to visit Elvis Presley’s birthplace. This was my third pass on this route and the King wasn’t going to slip by me again. The Sprint Market across from the Huddle House next to Elvis Presley Lake and Campground seemed like the logical place to put the Fat Cat down for the night. Upon entering the mini market, I was greeted by a chorus of hellos. Seems the lady clerks welcome every customer as they cross the threshold. The jingle bells on the door would clang and hellos and hi’s would follow. I had heard that Tupelo was known for its hospitality and this kind of salutation seemed to fit. As I surveyed the fried deli counter, one of my eyebrows raised as I spied catfish fillets lined up for sale. A three fillet meal with steak fries was $2.39. Another reason I like Mississippi. They don’t try to gouge you at every turn. Fuel prices are usually the lowest in the country too. With a sack of fish, I headed to the truck to settle in and plot my visit the next day at Elvis’s place of humble beginnings.

Sunday opened with a stout cloud cover and cooler temperatures but not to temper my enthusiasm for a visit to the King’s home. I found the Birthplace complex 2 and a half miles down the road and located a good place to park the Cat. Once inside the gift shop, I was greeted by a pleasant woman with silver hair and a big smile I presumed to be in her 70’s. She warned of malfunctioning plumbing in the Men’s room and offered up a program for the tour.

On the grounds, you’ll find a bronze statue of Elvis at 13, dressed in overalls with a guitar in hand. The story wall is situated near a pleasant fountain and has profound quotes from friends and family.
The actual home that Elvis was born in is a tiny two room cottage with a front porch and swing. Inside, it takes about 10 seconds to walk from the front door to the back. It’s been refurbed and decorated down to the finest detail, just as it would have been when Elvis lived there. An old pot belly stove that doubles as the heat and cooking source takes a prominent place in the kitchen with an authentic cast iron skillet. Encompassing the home in concrete are markers denoting each year that Elvis lived there from 1935 to 1948 when the family moved to Memphis for a better life. Next on the tour is a modern looking Chapel built in recent times with beautiful stain glass windows where you can sit in a pew and listen to recordings of Elvis singing gospel.

Last, but not least, is the church where Elvis actually got his singing start. They moved it from up the road in 2008 and restored it to its 1930’s period. Once inside, one of Elvis’s second cousins gives a short talk on the history of the church and then she turns down the lights. Next, three screens drop down from the ceiling and a re-creation film with actors who portray a vintage 1940’s Church of God worship service. The effect is dramatic, you really feel like you’re experiencing an old time gospel service in the old church. Out back, there is an authentic outhouse to complete the feeling of the era. After the presentation, I spoke with the cousin and asked her if she ever got to spend any time with Elvis. She said in fact, yes. She related that he was 9 years older than her and would sometimes bring “dates” around for her older sister. On occasion, she got to tag along with the group.

I thanked the nice woman for a great time and hopped back into the Fat Cat for the next to last leg of the trip to Olive Branch, Mississippi, a suburb of Memphis where I would cue up for an early Monday morning delivery. My ongoing voyage across this great land would continue up western Tennessee through the tail end of Kentucky into the heart of the Bluegrass State to a stop in Lexington. At this point, only my log books know for sure how many times I’ve been in Colonel Sanders Land this year. It’s supposed to be mostly sunny and 70 degrees tomorrow here. I just might want to stay.

This Ain't My First Rodeo

2010-03-25T11:44:00.000-07:00

One of the questions I'm often asked is "how often do you go home?" Not as often as I would like is how I usually answer. In reality, it varies from twenty to thirty days on the road. The longest I've been out was last October to November at a grand total of thirty three days. Since the beginning of the year, I've been through fourty five states and numerous and diverse destinations. The days generally "blur" together as I travel through multiple time zones and climates. I have to keep referring to my watch to keep track of what day it is. The company uses Eastern Time in the twenty four hour military mode exclusively to limit confusion. Thank goodness for that or it would be a real adventure adding and subtracting hours. Personally, I stick with Eastern Time, unless I'm on the west coast for an extended period of time. Then, I ease my personal schedule to Pacific or Mountain Time. Freight pickup and delivery always goes by Eastern Time. One sure-fire method for determining when it's time to go home is my "soap rule". When I begin a trip out, I always start with a new bar of soap. When that bar of soap wears down to a thin wafer, then I know it's definitely time to go home!

After practically living in Ohio for weeks, the Q-comm flashed Texas, and I was happy to oblige. Springtime would surely be springing there! Blinding sunshine, bright blue skies and 70 degree temperatures would most definately greet me in the Lone Star nation. It was time to bust it down to Texas on a series of interstates to the vernal light at the end of the tunnel.

This journey, took me once again, past the Corvette Assembly Plant and Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Someday, I'm actually going to stop there and see all those 'Vettes. It kills me to pass up that place. I have visions of seeing more vintage roadsters than a grown man is supposed to witness without drooling on a hood and ruining a perfectly good McGuire polish. One day, I will go when time isn't my enemy.

The highway droned on passing through Tennessee, around Nashville and Music City was lit up in nighttime magnificence as I made the right hand turn to I-40 then, on to Memphis. The Volunteer State became Arkansas then Little Rock turned into the border wonder of Texarkana and finally to the promised land on the prairie, some one thousand miles at the end of the line.

It felt good to be back in Texas and springtime in all her glory was in session. My first destination would be McKinney, on the north side the Metroplex..Dallas that is. This delivery had three stops, all concrete manufacturing plants. This dispatch would be another challenge because there was no loading dock, just an open area with machinery and a steady stream of mixer trucks pouring in and out of the warm and dusty landscape. I popped out of my cab and surveyed my prospects for the drop losing my hooded sweatshirt in the process. On board, I had three huge containers encased in a metal cage with a chemical needed for the concrete product. The fellows greeted me with an obligatory Texas howdy and assured me there would be no problem removing their goods from my cargo hold. The next thing I see is Jose bounding over in a bucket dozer to cue up behind the Fat Cat. I let out a breath of air and privately hoped these guys knew what they were doing.

Two other hardhats joined us and we plotted the logistical maneuver to take the big square off my truck. After some strategic strapping and jostling we were able to get the goods into the bucket and on the ground without exploding thousands of gallons of who knows what all over. Only two more times of this and I get to go to buffet near the truck stop. After being here three times previously, I know this town. This ain't my first rodeo in Dallas.

Back at the Pilot Truck Stop I always stay at, I met Rick, another driver from my company who calls the Columbus area of Ohio home. He was young at twenty something and displayed exuberance for trucking I love to see. We were both now layed over and had a good time trading stories and exchanging tips about how to work the company. I learned a few new tricks and a couple things I didn't know. Rick has been with them longer and I was appreciative for his knowledge. He also had a little more "dwell" time than me and was awarded the big money New Jersey run over me. That's ok, I'll just stay here and soak up a little more of this nice weather as a consolation prize.

The company has a thing called a "Less Than 75". If you do a short run for them, they will put you way up in front of the line for a load opportunity. I took a short load from Dallas over to Mansfield and became a smiling and shining "Less Than 75" man. Such accomplishments. Being at the front of the line was kind of a bittersweet feeling. It meant that I would probably be blown out of Texas as fast as I blew in. But, I did have three great days in the big one.

Sure enough, the Q-comm rang up a run I couldn't refuse to Romulus, Michigan, right next to the Detroit airport. My prospects now were a return back to winter. This would be my third trip to that exact location. Now it was time to ready up that pile of winter clothes at the end of my bunk. I knew right away from the destination of Romulus that this would be a transfer to another truck headed to Canada. I've got all the papers to go all the way myself, but my fleet owner won't govern the throttle on the truck, which is mandatory for travel in Canada. That's ok, I don't need a slower truck and I'll pass on that bunch of Gestapo’s at the crossing to Ontario I encountered earlier. They told me there was a dungeon there for detaining rule violators. I don't intend on breaking any rules, but they looked like they would try real hard to find something to give themselves something to do.

It would be a voyage back up through Arkansas, a corner of Missouri, over the mighty Mississippi into Illinois, east on I-70 around Indianapolis and up I-69 to Michigan where I saw lots of people skating and fishing out of little holes on a lake just over the state line from Indiana. I was right about the winter part. Constantly passing time zones is one thing, but experiencing slide show seasons is yet more confusion to the body. I'm confident it will be springtime everywhere, eventually. But, eventually, this year might be a long, long time.

The Good, The Mad and The Stupid

2010-03-10T22:36:00.000-08:00

I’ve almost lost track of how many times I’ve been in Cincinnati on this trip. Just to clarify things, I consider a trip the entire time that I’m on the road away from home. A run is an individual leg of that trip. That is, a pick up from a shipper to be delivered to what they call a “consignee” is a run.

Thursday morning, February 25 found me in Walton, Kentucky at the Pilot, having a breakfast of a bratwurst and cheese link with Sumatra coffee. The bratwurst is actually a good excuse to consume a tube of fat. Healthy choices of food on the road are a challenge when you’re in a hurry. Some days, I end up eating like a billy goat. I know I have to make a more concerted effort to eat well. My favorite healthy dish is a bowl of chopped spinach with just enough liquid for cooking. Not creamed, cheesed or combined with any other flavor enhancers, save some fresh garlic. I don’t know why, but this dish scares the bejeebies out of a lot of folks. I love it. It makes my stomach feel good and it digests well. Maybe it was all those Popeye cartoons when I was a kid to drive me to this phenomenal vegetable. A frozen box of Pic Wik Chopped Spinach at my neighborhood Publix Grocery store is around 90 cents to a dollar. Now, there’s value!

I rubbed the Q-comm as if to induce some good luck in a run and it rang up Paterson, New Jersey, delivering on Monday morning. OK, I’ll go there for the weekend and plant myself in the middle of my original home area. I could spend months there and not see all my old friends. Somebody has got to be around. This will be a good run, provided I get to stay for the weekend.

I pointed the Fat Cat back up I-75 to Cincinnati, again, to the shipper to pick up a hazardous load for a food processing company in New Jersey. Think about that one for a moment. It was an easy navigation over the mighty Ohio River to the Queen City. I don’t know why they call it the Queen City, but I’ll report the news to you when I find out. My Grandmother, Dad’s Mom, lived in Cincinnati as a young girl, and I recall seeing some sort of paperwork describing Cincinnati as the Queen City. So this nickname isn’t new at all.

All loaded and fueled up, I cracked the whip on the Fat Cat and it was on to the Garden State. As I rolled her up I-71, the temperature dropped considerably and snow began to fall as I had Columbus in sight. Here we go again. I think this was snow storm number ten this year. The storm strengthened through Pennsylvania and by the time I was in the middle of the state, I was down to forty five miles per hour. My driver’s side windshield wiper blew out on the top, leaving me only a three inch slot to look out. I adjusted my air ride seat to put my eyes right at the little arc of relative clarity as conditions worsened.

I finally came upon a truck stop and ventured in for a replacement. I approached the parts counter and inquired about such a part. The gruff looking man there, seated comfortably on a stool, grumbled to me that I had to go into the other part of the store. When I found myself on the other end of the building, a young fellow behind the counter retorted in an annoying nasally voice that the wipers were somewhere along the back wall. Well, there were no wipers along the back wall and I kindly asked again and received a rather rude reply of “you got to look, they’re there someplace.” I did find some on the end of an aisle and thought, the hell with this, I’ll just go further down the road looking out a sliver of clear windshield. I’m not going to reward this crappy behavior with my business. I put my drink that I was going to get back in the cooler and left.

I found another truck stop of better people about twenty miles down the road and located the perfect replacement. Now that I could see clearly through the windshield, the snowstorm was beginning to subside approaching eastern Pennsylvania. Figures.

Before long, it was over the Delaware River and back home. Sort of. I was tired from driving in the storm and dropped the Cat down in the TA at Bloomsbury at Exit 7 in familiar territory. I'd been here several times before and the TA has a good restaurant.

Every time I come into New Jersey, I’ve been in a fairly good position to visit old friends in relation to my location. Time can be tight and sometimes I get called right back out when I think I’m going to have a little visitation furlough. This time, I would get to visit with some good old friends. It was great to see our old friend Lori Dobson in Clinton. We laughed so hard telling old stories over Pizza, I could have had mozzarella cheese come out of my nose. I’ve known her and her sisters and brother since the Seventies. We talked about Bob Swensen’s annual delivery of “S” and “O” cookies at Christmastime. We knew what the “S” was for, but the “O” ones have remained a complete mystery all these years. I worked at the A & P with her Mother, Ma Dobson in the store butcher shop. The meat room stories that came from that era at that grocery store is a War and Peace sized book in itself. Top comic writers couldn’t come up with the stuff that went on there. There are lots of people even today to attest to that collection of characters who worked, and I use that term very loosely, at the Pluckemin, New Jersey A & P. We had a lot of fun in those days. Someday, I will tell those stories when I can come up with enough fake names to protect the innocent.

Sunday arrived and I met up with my long lost pal, Jeff Crosby for lunch at Cracker Barrel. Jeff lived in my neighborhood and we went all the way though grade and high school together. It was good to see him and re-live some old memories and talk about where we’d been and hope to be since our last visit. Jeff reminded me of the last time I saw him and his better half, Bonnie. It was when I worked at Magic 98 in Central New Jersey in the 80’s. They came in during my evening show there for a tour and nice visit. Too much time has gone by since that time.

Early Monday landed with a thud and way too quickly as I awoke to the Waltons Theme on my phone alarm. It was time to head up I-287 and 80 to Patterson for a 7:30 am delivery. The early morning commute was surprisingly smooth and I made good time getting there. As I’m driving around downtown Patterson, I’m continually amazed at the stupidity or boldness of people here walking right in front of my moving truck as I drove nearer to my destination. Were these people brain dead? Or perhaps trying to be knocked down so they could sue me and get some money? Personally, I’m not walking in front of any moving truck, I don’t care if you’re going to hand me a million bucks. As I continued, a guy on one of those motorized scooters that people who can’t walk use, drives right off a perfectly good sidewalk right into the middle of the road right in front of me! He’s not riding near the side of the road, or next to the curb, but right next to the yellow line in the middle of traffic! Does this man have a death wish for himself? Is he deaf or even blind? Maybe this man is just plain stupid. All these thoughts ran across my mind in an instant. My favorite funny man, Ron White, put it best in one of his routines once. “You can fix bad eyesight, you can fix bad hearing, but you CANNOT fix stupid.” Then again, maybe there were Superfund Toxic Waste Sites here that polluted the environment so badly, that people are missing key brain functions from ingesting that stuff in one way or another.

I was glad to get out of a town where everyone was trying to kill themselves . I scurried back to the relative safety of the Hampton stop off I-78.

After a short rest, my Q-comm offered a run to Dayton, Ohio from Collegeville, Pennsylvania. Now, it would be back to the Buckeye State and another visit to Dayton. From Dayton, I would travel back down to Cincinnati for another pick up. I’ve got to get a clicker counter to gauge the number of visits there. Then from Cinci, I would get to travel back down south again to the Lonestar Nation. Time to rummage about and come up with the appropriate hat. I like Texas. A lot.

She Knows Where She's Going

2010-03-10T22:30:00.000-08:00

Once again, in this business of mine, there is no predictability. Some of my friends produce a puzzled look on their faces and ask “you mean you don’t know where you’ll be?” The answer is quite simple. No, I have absolutely no idea. There are certain areas where I’m pretty sure I’ll be passing through again, based on past trends. The metropolitan New York area is one of these areas. I think I’m one of the last idiots left who will agree to navigate New York City. However, I won’t go there cheaply. It’s a hard place to drive a truck when you consider all the road restrictions, challenging traffic configurations and high cost of tolls. Go over the Outer Bridge Crossing, Whitestone and George Washington Bridges and you’ll pay 25 to 30 bucks a pop. The Verrazano Narrows will burn a hole right through your pocket going both ways. Long Island is perennially congested and people drive like their hair is on fire. But, this old place has an air of home, having spent more than half my life living on the New Jersey side of this mess. I know these roads. In all, there are no definite lanes of back and forth dedicated familiarity with my company. It’s the life of a gypsy. Here today, gone tomorrow and somewhere else the next day. Go, go, and go. Hurry up and wait. When it’s time to go, my onboard computer flashes the message in all cap letters “IT’S CRITICAL CHECK OUT TIME!” We ain't talkin' about a fancy hotel here.

The preceding couple of weeks have been an exercise in back and forth. I’ve felt like I have been running up and down a basketball court. I picked up a load in Seneca Falls, New York, in the heart of the Finger Lakes region in Upstate. For those of you who are history buffs, Seneca Falls was ground zero for the Women’s Rights Movement led by the likes of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony in the mid 1800’s. It's a beautiful and bucolic area situated between two of the big Finger Lakes. My load was an enormous pump, headed to an oil refinery in Plaquemine, Louisiana. This run took me back down the New York Thruway, around Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus and Cincinnati before heading due south on Interstate 75 through Kentucky and past the famous “Florence Ya’ll” sign on the water tower and then over to and around Louisville. The route then led me to where I make a right hand turn at Nashville to Memphis and then down I-55 through Mississippi to my drop, outside of Baton Rouge at Plaquemine. For those of you who remember Pluckemin, New Jersey, it kind of sounds like that.

When I got to Louisiana, it was full blown springtime going on. Blinding sunshine and mild spring fever producing temperatures were now replacing the frigid Upstate New York variety. I felt like just walking around with a grin and asking everyone “how ya’ll?” But, I didn’t. All these hardhats would have thought me nuts. At the refinery, there was no loading dock. Here I am, scratching my wooden head, wondering how they’re planning to take this contraption off my truck, when this pre-historic sized back loader comes romping up with the longest forklift forks I’ve ever seen. The operator simply slid those forks into the cargo hold of the Fat Cat and pulled out the pump on the pallet. I forget how many thousand s of pounds it was. Well, ok then. Thank you very much, we appreciate the business very much. Now, it was on to the truck stop and some recuperation time.

As I approached the truck stop in Denham Springs, Louisiana, I passed the largest Bass Pro Shop known to man. It had a huge lake around it, with a restaurant and more square footage than you could possibly wander around in your lifetime. There were interesting Cajun establishments surrounding the stop itself. This wasn’t a truck stop, but a paradise! Those who know me well know that Cajun food makes me crazy. All that rich sauce based French cooking causes me to resemble a hungry wolf. My nose grows long and the tongue kind of flaps out one side. Henry's Louisiana Grill in Acworth, Georgia back home is my absolute favorite restaurant. The Atlanta Constitution-Journal rated his "Ooooh La La" dish one of the ten best in Atlanta worth driving fifty miles for. When I entered the building and made my way back to the driver’s lounge, all the truckers were smiling and heaping praise on what this little corner of the world had to offer and plotting where they would visit first. This atmosphere was a whole lot different than the usual grousing that goes on. One driver turned off his phone and stated “I don’t want my company to know where I am...” I am now invisable, he proudly announced.

I got myself cleaned up and partook in a little snack and was dreaming about the Cajun cuisine scene, when my phone went off with Kim from the company on the other end. Kim is the regional fleet director over a long list of dispatchers and it usually means business when she calls. She wanted to know if I got the opportunity going to Cincinnati and what I would do it for. Ooops, I had forgotten to switch the onboard computer over to my phone when I left the truck. Kim described the opportunity and I responded with a figure higher than the stated rate. Kim countered with a figure higher than mine! At this point, she had me a little confused, but I just kind of went with it. We’re not talking pennies higher, but a substantial dollar more. THAT has never happened before! Maybe all those voodoo pins I had imagined when I pulled into town were actually good luck charms. I don’t know, life is kind of quirky at times. I just agreed and said “I’ll take it!” Now, there would be no Bass Pro Shop, Cajunfest Feast on a long groaning board or prolonged exposure to Vernal Equinox sunshine. This mule team is heading right back up the same road I came down. Before this week would be completed, I would feel like an Etch-A- Sketch being run back and forth by a first grader. Now, I really think the object of this whole trip out has changed to “how many times can we run through Cincinnati?” I think I had enough practice a long time ago on a Friday night with the fellas trying to see how many times we could go around the Somerville Traffic Circle in my youthful home area. But, I don’t think there’s a Mr. Bee’s in Cinci or a circle. If there was, I'd probably be going around it. Put the map away and turn the GPS off, the Fat Cat knows where she’s going.

A Celebrity, A Monkey and A Rock Star

2010-03-10T22:22:00.000-08:00

Now that I had made it back to Georgia, from my extended west coast swing and 2800 plus mile run from Washington State to Florida, I decided to pause from long haul routes just to do some regional running around after a weekend at home. Once again, I looked forward to seeing the girls and all my four legged children. After I walked in the door, Mr. JJ, my big amiable, Maine Coon cat, jumped up on the table, waiting for me to pay attention to him. His big patient eyes looked for a good long pet from his two legged Dad. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed and feel real heat from a furnace. As the weekend progressed, the mild air ramped up and February became the month I recognize around here. Typically, temps reach mid 50’s during the day and 30’s at night in the first couple of weeks of the short month in North Georgia. For you Northerners, the sun shines at a more direct angle at this latitude and the days feel warmer in the sunlight and often contradict the actual temperature in favor of warmth. My biggest complaint about living up north was my aversion to the weather in terms of direct sunlight in the first quarter of the year. I find myself moping around a lot less and not longing for the arrival of spring as much. In some years, the Bradford Pear trees start blooming in their white, dogwood-like blossoms during the final week of February here.

As the weekend ended, I accepted an opportunity to Huntsville, Alabama that would lead me on a big circle arcing in west Tennessee in Jackson not far from Memphis. The travels took me through a part of the Volunteer State that I didn't know existed. Lawrenceburg seemed like it was a long way from civilization. No national chain drug stores or grocery stores hung shingles here. It is also the hometown of actor and politician Fred Thompson. I give him a lot of credit. It had to have been a long steep climb out of here to where he ended up.

I wound my way through little hamlets on a four lane highway, reduced to a two laner because of construction. On up to Nashville and then to Chattanooga was where this odyssey was taking me. My delivery was to a key United States Postal Service facility there. I backed the truck to the loading dock and headed inside with my paperwork to the shipping and receiving department. A nice lady looked over my big metal box clipboard and proceeded to call someone in another department. After she hung the phone up, she looked up at me and announced that "Monkey" will come down here to meet you. I said Monkey? She said yes, her name is Monkey. I said, oh, you mean her last name is Monkey? Like organ grinder Monkey, Miss Monkey? She replied "no, her first name is Monkey." Oh, ok. So I waited for "Monkey". "Monkey" arrived and said "I'm Monkey, what do you have for me?" Monkey was a slender woman with reddish blond shoulder length hair and wisdom denoting crows feet lines around her eyes. Without thinking, I just blurted out "I was born in the year of the Monkey" (the Chinese Zodiac calendar that is split into 12 animals) She quickly returned "I was born in the year of the Monkey too. Were you born in 1956?" I said well yes, indeed, I was. Monkey probed further and said "don't tell me September of 1956." Again, I sort of squinted and said slowly, yes, September of '56. Monkey sang me too with an exclamation point, her voice getting a little higher. She pressed on and stated that she was born on the 19th. I smiled and said, ahh, my birthday is on the 29th, but, my mother told me I was due on the 19th, but didn't arrive until the 29th, just takin' my time..kind of the story of my life. Oh, and by the way, my mom's birthday was on the 29th too. Monkey laughed and amped up her inquisition with where were you born? I replied, in New Jersey. She said where?! I wrinkled my forehead with an answer of Morristown. Monkey just about shouted out "I was born in New Jersey too!” She continued that she was an Army brat born in New Egypt, New Jersey near Fort Dix, the famous Garden state Army base. She promptly added that this exchange was getting a little weird, and I had to agree. But, Monkey was very helpful and quickly put together a team to take a complicated load of furniture off my truck to be delivered to the new Chattanooga Postmaster. Monkey signed my "bill of lading" shipping paper and at that point I got the spelling to her name correct...it was M-O-N-K-E-E. Like Davy Jones and Peter Tork the Monkees. There wasn't really a connection there though, because the Monkees became popular in 1966 and she...errr...we...were born in 1956. I should have asked how she got her name, but I was afraid she would have replied that she was named after her Great Grandfather from Scotland, like me.

Once I delivered in the train town, I hopped down to the Dalton, Georgia, the Carpet Capital of The World for a rest at a Pilot before accepting a load that picked up in Social Circle, Georgia. Yes there is a town with that name. This one was going to Belton, South Carolina. I took it and ended up searching for the recipient in a place that didn't exist, at least on GPS. Frustrated with the written directions on the Q-comm and lack of street signs, I stopped at a convenience store to plead with the clerk for direction. The quick stop cashier was friendly and ready to help and replied to my request with "I know exactly where that place is, they done run me off from there last summer, follow me and I'll show you where it is." For a moment, I thought he was going to leave the store and hop in his car have me trail him there. So I followed him outside and he stood on the sidewalk and pointed down the road as if I was able to see two miles off this finger and said go this way and turn that way. OK, thanks pal, you're a life saver. After finding this place in a very dark and extremely remote boondock, I presented my goods to waiting hands. Next, it was a short ten mile ride down to a Pilot Travel Center I had been to back in November. A warm sleeping bag and a good slumber on a not so cold night would be my reward.

The following day, just when I was getting comfortable in 60 degree sunshine in Piedmont, South Carolina and examining the prospects of laying over for the weekend, the Q-comm beeped off an opportunity picking up 64 miles away in Arden, North Carolina, then going to Rochester, New York. Whoa, this run proposed to be a nice weekend jaunt up north. I knew I was going to have to trade the sunny southern weather I had been craving for so long for a Siberian-like forecast, but, the longer the run, the better in this business. Ashley, from dispatch was agreeable to working out the details on this 848 mile run. After catching up on my obligatory driver’s logbook and bills of lading paperwork for the load, it was time to roll.

In the northern corner of South Carolina near Travelers Rest, the mountain tops were snow covered and the terrain a familiar hilly ride as I prepared to cross into North Carolina to the Asheville area for pick up. I know these roads well from my days in Johnson City, Tennessee as it was my preferred route down to Atlanta for weekend visits with friends and Braves baseball. By the time I got to Flatwood, West Virginia, the air was decidedly chilly where I could see my breath and the mountainsides on Interstate 79 were dominated in snow cover from an earlier fall. This must have been a sizeable accumulation because in a lot of places on the highway, the shoulders had disappeared completely with mounds of plowed snow.

As my mind wandered and XM 27, The Bridge played the soundtrack to my tour up a winding and wandering interstate, weaving around the mountain grades and short valleys. Before long, in the abundance of sunshine, the Pennsylvania, State of Independence sign appeared and the run up through Pittsburgh and then to Erie on the lake was on. Pittsburgh is a family city for Cheryl and me. My aunt and two of my cousins live there. It's always a treat to see Carol and Mary Joan. Always on the "to see" list is my Aunt Win, an extraordinary woman and icon to me at nearly 95 years old. Cheryl’s aunt and her cousins live there as well. It’s definately a city of aunts and cousins. Cheryl was born in nearby McKeesport and I always enjoy accompanying her to a visit her Aunt Delores’ in old Tenth Ward there. When we visit town, it’s kind of like a fork in the road for us. She visits with her family there and I visit with my family. Then, we’ll meet and visit either family together. Cheryl’s cousin Edie has a quirky and fun tradition of "The Birthday Ride". She has a shopping cart and when it’s someone’s birthday, they get in the basket and are treated to a ride up and down the street. Grown people ride too. Haven’t you always wanted the spectacle of a ride in a Giant Eagle cart? I do. It’s just never my birthday when I’m there.

Louie always gets to come along and some occasions we have stayed in a nice hotel near downtown that caters to pets. I’ve never seen an animal make himself as comfortable as he does in these places. He’ll begin by giving the place a good sniff down and then, jumps up on the bed, paws the bedspread down to find a good pillow. His routine continues by doing a little “circle walk” on the bag of head comfort before plopping down sideways for a nap from a day of travel. This dog loves to travel. He’s been everywhere from Georgia to Maine. Mr. Explorer has been RVing with us and has slept in a tent with me on the rocky coast. Even watched a Moose trot by us near Old Orchard Beach. He delights in meeting new people and attracts attention everywhere he goes, like a little celebrity dog. I’m merely his assistant.

I made the right hand turn on to Interstate 90 and into New York at Ripley. Almost on cue, as I pulled away from the first toll booth on the Thruway, Billy Joel’s stalwart “New York State of Mind” just happened to play on the radio. This is getting a little spooky for me! Whew. In addition, the sun was still shining and I almost wanted to pinch myself. There hadn’t been this much of that big orange ball in the sky on any trip I’ve been on in almost a month. The temperatures felt pretty good to me as well. This was a scenario almost too good to be true!

My destination of Rochester was in sight and I wanted to ride by the drop off point at Kodak to see where it was before “holing up” for the weekend at the Flying J in Pembroke, about 30 minutes down the road. My delivery appointment was not until Monday morning, so I would have plenty of time to stretch out and catch up on domestic things, like a big canvas sack of laundry and pay some attention to the buffet. On the way back to the truck stop, I passed a few small quaint villages including Genesee. The winter temperatures never crossed my mind. Upstate New York never seems to lose its charm.

The next morning, I made my way to the Trucker’s Lounge at the J where I found a nice booth to enjoy a breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Coffee. There, I met Bill, a fellow Expediter from Michigan who had parked near me and we stuck up a good conversation. Bill appeared to be in his late 50’s with curly hair and a big handle bar moustache. He wore a rumpled leather range hat with an “IBEW” pin on it, the Internationl Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. We conversed about trucks, electric, the expediting business and trout fishing in Michigan. Nearby, in the lounge, I spied a Hispanic looking man with two young girls with him, maybe 10 and 6 years old. The younger one was drinking a can of Rock Star Energy drink. These drinks are packed with enough sugar, caffeine and who knows what else to make a mule kick. A can gives me the heebee jeebees. I felt an overwhelming urge to speak up, so I interrupted my conversation with Bill and called over to the man “is there anything in that can of Rock Star that she’s drinking? The man casually responded “oh, she really likes that stuff, so I just give it to her whenever she wants it.” I had to know. About a half an hour later, this kid is running around banging into doors and shrieking with joy. Then she falls down and is screaming like a Banshee. I would have put money on that bet. And I thought this lounge was just for professional drivers. Occasionally, there’s entertainment. Gee whiz. Some people should be licensed to be parents. Even money says I’m heading for New York and New Jersey from here. It’s Just a hunch.

My Version of Why I Love Her

2010-03-10T22:16:00.000-08:00

A long time ago, John Wayne recorded a recitation called "Why I Love Her". It was a poinant narritive penned by John Mitchum to the tune of "America The Beautiful". The best part of my profession is travelling throughout the United States and seeing first-hand on a daily basis what make up this land. This experience has given me an overwhelming feeling of gratitude to be an American. No where on earth is there a country so diverse in its people, its land, its beauty and its faith. In a world of dispair, poverty, war and strife, it is America who strives to make the world a better place. Following, is a renditon of my version of that classic piece voiced by the Duke.

You ask me why I love her, give me time and I’ll explain. Have you ever seen the sun set on Georgia’s Island coast at St. Simon’s pier? Would you delight in being the first in America to see the sun rise at Cadillac Mountain in Maine? Can you imagine the cool clean waters and tall northern evergreens way up north in the land of ten thousand lakes that makes Minnesota the paradise that it is? Do the pristine palm trees way down south along the Rio Grande in McAllen, Texas make you warm on a cold winter’s day? Can Rhode Island’s massive ocean frontage cause you to gaze for hours at the choppy white capped sea?

Did you leave your heart along the California coast somewhere from San Diego to San Francisco travelling the miles of winding and awe inspiring Pacific Coast Highway overlooking the Ocean? Do mountain sides of golden aspens in early autumn in the heart of Colorado fill your eyes with wonder? Can the Rocky Mountains in Northern Utah be blanketed in winter with the “Greatest Snow on Earth?” Does the rich, black soil of Idaho make you feel blessed for our natural resources?

Have you ever floated with a big old truck inner tube on a summer’s day down the Itchetucknee River in Central Florida where cool and crystal clear water flows from a natural spring? Can the smell of spicy Cajun food make your mouth water with hunger along Highway 49 in the heart of Mississippi where Spanish Moss hangs from live oak trees? Do the expansive prairie plains of Nebraska inspire you to reach for the horizon?

Have you ever been to Washington Crossing State Park beside the Delaware River in New Jersey where General Washington and his men gave up their Christmas holiday to fight for our freedom? Does the Arch at St. Louis make you think of fearless settlers who raced west in a hostile land with not much more than a dream and a prayer? When you see cactus and dusty mountains at Tombstone, Arizona, does it give life to a righteous lawman who tamed a wild west? Have you ever tasted a “ramp” harvested in spring from the mountains in North Eastern Tennessee? Does the mighty Ohio River with the skyline of Cincinnati as a backdrop viewed from Devou Park on the Kentucky side delight you with picturesque wonder?

When you see the unmistakable Mount Rainer in Washington State, do you marvel in astonishment? On Mt. Washington across from the three rivers where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers converge to form the Ohio, do you admire the city of Pittsburgh at its famous scenic “point” and pay homage to workers who laid the foundation for our country's historic buildings and industry in her steel mills? Have you witnessed the expanse of Lake Michigan from Chicago’s shoreline? Do you offer a tribute to our ancestors when you see the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor? Does Oklahoma’s Native American heritage remind you of a people who came before us?

From Puget Sound in the Great Northwest to Islamorada in the Florida Keys, from Chula Vista along the Baja California border to Bar Harbor, Maine, from The Mackinaw Straits of Michigan to South Padre Island, Texas on the Gulf, from amber waves of grain in the heartland to the Carolina pines, from the gigantic Sequoias in the Golden State to the bright red maples of Vermont in fall, my heart beats with pride and emotion for my beautiful America. You ask why I love her. There are a million reasons why. God shed thy grace on thee and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.

Thank you for letting me describe my beautiful America.

A Nice Thought While It Lasted

2010-03-10T22:03:00.001-08:00

Tuesday arrived and it was time to make the scenic drive back down the state of Washington on I-90 past the Cascades and the unmistakable Mount Rainer to Ellensburg where the highway splits, forming the southern entrance to I-82 which runs magnificently through apple country in Yakima to the Tri Cities of Richland, Pasco and Kennewick, Washington. This is where the legendary Snake and Columbia Rivers intersect and become one mighty Columbia. The waterway at that point, makes up the border a short paddle down river between Washington and Oregon and flows west beyond Portland with a prodigious current to the sea.

I found Kennewick, the terminus for my load to the Toyota Exposition Center, to be a tidy and pleasant town filled with interesting places of business along with the usual national franchises. With the goods dropped, I continued on to layover across the Columbia at Stanfield, Oregon. The drive there produced unusual grassy hills without a tree in sight. It reminded me of one of the famous wallpaper photos to the MS Windows system.

My plan was to make my case to the company to move me to Los Angeles, where I was certain there would be ample load opportunities and perhaps a run back east. The last two times I have been in LA, the Q-Comm beeped continuously with opportunities of every description. New York and Chicago are similar in nature. At this point, it had been weeks since I was in the Eastern Time Zone.

The following morning after a good night’s rest, I spoke with Kelly and attempted to “nice” her into finding me a way south to the City of Angels. She said that I should wait for a load opportunity and that I could end up going east. I could see her “winking” through the phone. After literally ending the call, the phone rang with my little automated friend announcing a run from Mountain Home, Idaho to Orlando, Florida. I felt like I hit three cherries on this one and the coins were clinking non-stop from the machine. In an effort to secure the load, I almost punched the number three accept key right through my phone. Success! Three thousand miles paved in green. Pick up was to be at Mountain Home Air Force Base in Mountain Home, Idaho, an empty run of about two hundred miles away. Any of my faithful readers will automatically know how I feel about Famous Potatoland. Based on that fact, I was looking at win-win cards.

Mountain Home is just east of the state capital city of Boise and a charmer of a town. Friendly people propagate this place and good will abounds. There’s a certain laid back atmosphere here and the expansive range landscape is encased by mountains and the Columbia Plateau. Riding around the area, you get the feeling that this is a “close knit” community dominated by the United States Air Force. After loading up, my young 40 something retired Air Force civilian representative presented me with a pen and pencil set commemorating my part in supporting the Eagle F-15 program. I’m proud to be involved in anything for the good of this country. I consider it a privilege to do so.

The ride through the remaider of Idaho, Utah and Wyoming produced breathtaking scenery until darkness blanketed the land. It doesn't matter how many times I travel through the Rockies, the view never gets old. The welcome sign to Wyoming says it all, "Welcome to Wyoming, Forever West".

This assignment was actually split into two parts, with the first part of the load dropping off in Saint Louis, Missouri and a final stop in Orlando. I love driving though the Gateway to the West with its imposing Arch and premier American river, the Mississippi, flowing powerfully to the Gulf of Mexico. One day, I would very much like to have enough time to revisit a city I enjoyed at an earlier time. You can find big steaks, good baseball in the hometown Cardinals and an interesting museum beneath the Arch itself. Riverboat restaurants stand moored along the riverfront and complete the ambiance that this Show Me state scenario has to offer. Like the Terminator said, “I’ll be bock.”

The highway wound down southward in a series of Interstates, all of which I had been on before. Georgia disappeared into Florida and I found myself stopping in my old domicile of Lake City for about the fourth time in recent months. When I stepped out at the beehive of an intersection at I-75 and 10, I suddenly felt over dressed in winter wear. The old man season suddenly turned into spring and the air felt warm and humid. It had a certain feel of being surreal as I had endured yet another snow storm outside of Denver through Kansas on this run. Travelling through so many climates and time zones has confused my body. It was akin to channel surfing on cable TV at fast clip with images flashing by and not really knowing where to land. Snapping back to reality, I grabbed a Java Monster Mean Bean at the convenience store and wheeled the Fat Cat back on the highway to Mickey Mouse Land.

Now at the aerospace company in the big O, I found myself jockeying with security to get my load into the company. No one on the contact list was available to receive the shipment. No answer, not in the building. I was on time, all my paperwork was correct. After a half an hour at the gate, the guard tells me “if there is no one to receive the load, I can’t let you in. You’ll have to come back on Monday.” I countered with “not a problem sir, let’s see, today is Friday...I get a pretty good hourly figure for detention pay. Hmmmm, Monday is roughly 72 hours from now, so I’ll be more than happy to come back. What time would you like me to arrive?” This man started pulling out papers and phone lists from everywhere in a mad attempt to find someone to escort me into the plant. I was hoping he wouldn’t have any success, but he finally came up with someone. About an hour later I was in the plant unloading. If I hadn’t said anything, dispatch would have confirmed my delay with him, so keeping my mouth shut wouldn’t have helped. 72 hours of detention pay, a nice though while it lasted. Ok, time to do an about face and head back to the house for the weekend and catch something heading out of the Atlanta Express Center.

Me and Cousin Frasier

2010-02-10T22:10:00.000-08:00

I ended up January in Salt Lake City, on a lay-over at Sapp Brothers Truck Stop. Along the way their trademark roadside coffee pot sign popped up just off the Interstates on other runs travelling through Nebraska and Iowa. I never gave it much thought, just another place to warehouse drivers for the night. Driver chatter on the CB recommended the stop, so I set the GPS to take me on over. Upon entering, I wheeled over to the big yellow Idle Air tubes. Little did I know at the time, but it would be the last weekend for it. Bankrupt and unable to find a buyer, they suddenly shut down the last day I was there. Too bad, it was a great service for truckers. For a $1.85 an hour, you could hook a big vent-like tube to your window and get hot and cold air, an electric outlet, cable TV and internet. It was great, because you could save fuel by not idling the engine and burning fuel at roughly a gallon an hour. Figure about $2.80 a gallon now for diesel. At least I got to see the AFC and NFC Championship games on the final hurrah.

Usually, when I try a new stop, I’ll case the joint to determine what it has and where everything is. When I entered Sapp Brothers for an initial tour, I sensed an atmosphere geared toward comfort that I had only seen a few times on the road. Big green rugs with the rubber boarder led the way to the rest room. What a great idea. A lot of floors in the rest rooms at stops are just a big wet mess by virtue of melting snow in the parking lots being tracked in by truckers. During the course of my stay, I saw these rugs being changed out a couple of times a day. Just a simple detail, but a nice warm and dry rest room made a big difference. Dam, I wanted to go to the bathroom when I didn’t have to!

The restaurant offered a complete buffet with plenty of healthy selections, including my favorite, chopped spinach in natural sauce. Not creamed, or with a bunch of cheese added. Just spinach. A lot of stops revolve around fast food and I try to avoid it as much as possible. Talk about the movie “Super-Size Me” and I could have written that screenplay. Based on the spinach alone, give this restaurant an “A”. From my booth in the restaurant, I had a nice view of the snow covered Rockies through an impeccably clean window. I like this place.

My exploratory expedition brought me to an elevator leading to the second floor Driver’s Lounge. I felt like I was in a nice hotel on the way up. Level number two offered an ample number of late model washers and dryers along with the shower facilities, a big screen TV room, a chiropractor’s office and a dentist. Long Haul Dental seemed like an appropriate name. Later, when I used the shower facility, I found granite-like counter tops and a quality nozzle in the shower itself. On top of a “How Are We Doing?” scorecard, there were red and white swirl peppermints. On the wall next to the sink, I found a hair dryer for those with long flowing locks. I might have made use of it in 1975 on my long golden locks. If you spent ten dollars somewhere in the travel center, the shower was five. Most showers on the road are ten, but I get most mine free on fueling points. If you purchased fifty gallons of fuel, it was free. Add it all up and you’ve got little touches that made a big impression on me. I carried the survey out and ended up writing a book of accolades. In addition, the entire staff was schooled in customer service. I found them friendly, talkative and accommodating. It’s the honor roll for these folks.

January was an off month with the Fat Cat in the shop so much. Follow that with a 28 day February and a better “get on my horse” attitude was how I felt. Now, being in a nice truck stop is one thing, but when you’re not rolling, it’s a whole ‘nother story. Truckers in general get antsy waiting around for anything. Just when I was beginning to feel weary about being stationary for two days, my phone sounded off with the Price Is Right theme and my little automated friend described a run from right in Salt Lake going to Auburn, Washington. I jammed “3” for accept and Washington State it was. Wouldn’t it be great to hear Frasier on the radio up there, I mused. I’m actually supposed to be related some in some way to Kelsey Grammar, who portrayed Frasier the talk radio shrink from Seattle on TV. His mother was a Cranmer and I've always mused that our paths intersect generations back. Everyone knows all Cranmers are related. He states in an autobiographical piece that he marveled at how his mother and father’s last names were so close phonetically and how close he was to his mother and the Cranmer’s. In addition, one of my best old buddies, Dave Whiting, lives in the Tacoma area near Seattle. Dave and I go back to fifth grade where we traded WABC music surveys. Later on, we shared many adventures in the Boy Scouts. Our travels included a legendary journey to Phimont Scout Ranch in Cimarron, New Mexico in the summer of 1970. A year later as part of a fearless expedition, we canoed two hundred miles into the Canadian wilderness from Boundary Waters at Ely, Minnesota. On local campouts, we brought more lighter fluid that food! Tall flames were a great pastime on these outings. You can’t put a price on the memory of two young scouts squirting streams of Kingsford’s finest flammable on open flames to exponent the effect. It was kind of like Tom Hanks in the fire scene of Castaway. To all young scouts today, I wouldn't recommend our use of fire. I'm sure you're smarter than we were. Lighter fluid is very dangerous, be sure to use it properly. Dave went on to make history and become the youngest scout to earn the rank of Eagle at Troop 154 in Pluckemin, New Jersey at age fourteen. It’s a record that still stands today, if I’m correct. We’re talking about more than 50 years of Troop 154. An obligatory call to him was in order with the good news. During our phone conversation, Dave promised good food and a tour of town when I got there. This voyage would be fun, I can’t wait to get rolling.

The run up through northern Utah, Idaho, Oregon and Washington itself would prove to be a most scenic excursion, even though a majority of the trip would be in the dark and the fog. Imposing Rocky Mountain Peaks are no match for any kind of weather or darkness. Thousands of twinkling lights in the adjoining valleys bounce off these majestic behemoths. A new day would dawn in Oregon leading up to the mighty Columbia River which separates Washington and the Beaver State. As I crossed over into Washington State, I felt an air of accomplishment by setting foot in the Great Northwest. Now, I could “notch” all four corners of America. Maine, Florida, California and Washington were now securely under my belt. The completion of visiting every state in the continental United States was within sight. I love this big beautiful country of ours so much that I want to cover it all. In a figurative sense, I want to meet all the Americans that make up this land of the free. Wyoming on the way back east would make 45. For me, there’s only three more to go from sea to shining sea. Montana and the Dakotas are all that’s left of my lower 48. Now, I’ll have to figure out how to get to Alaska and drop in on Sarah Palin. Hawaii is going to be a trick, I hear the bridge toll is a whopper.

Fruits and Nuts

2010-02-01T21:41:00.000-08:00

Morning arrived and yet another trip to the shop to repair the truck. One of the air bags for the air ride on the cab busted and created an ox cart out of the Fat Cat. The resulting sound of escaping air from the air lines sounded like the hissing of a big, mean old snake. If I had to drive a truck like this for any length of time, I’d be in daily chiropractic care, riding around in a motorized scooter. I felt bumps in the road that didn’t exist. The Freightliner became a Freight shaker.

Sacramento Truck Center seemed like the logical place to go since they had a big Freightliner sign out front. Once inside, the shop appeared orderly and the service writer assured me that they would fix the problem easily. They had a good selection of refreshments and of course, being in California, good gourmet coffee. The driver’s waiting lounge featured leather recliners with TV and reading material. I privately thought, take your time guys, I could catch a nap here.

About an hour passed and I poked my head in the shop to check the progress of the work. Now, California seems to offer some odd behavior in people from time to time. Some are actually creative, like the homeless guy I saw on a street corner in Oakland holding up a carboard sign with a drawing of a house with a circle around it and slash through it. That guy deserved some dough based solely on creativity. Anyway, the old saying goes “Californians are like breakfast cereal, once you take away the fruits and the nuts, you’re left with the flakes.” Upon entering the shop area, I saw about five or six mechanics standing around in a circle playing a “happy sack” game. For the uninitiated, the object is to kick a bean bag around and keep it in the air, not letting it fall to the ground. Depending on the agreed on rules, you can use any part of your body or just feet or hands. In a strange kind of way, it's like an aerial game of twister, without the big polka dot mat. Some are very good at it and can keep it up for hours. These wrench turners were giggling, screeching and carrying on like a bunch of school girls while playing the game. Maybe it’s me, but it seemed very odd to me in this setting. What's next? Hide and go seek around the trucks or pin the tail on the grease monkey. I hope they don’t add playtime to the hourly rate. So wonder they don’t want anyone in the shop area.

Once again, with the truck repaired and my skeletal frame preserved, it was time to move on. This time, it would be a layover in pleasant Ripon, California at a comfortable Pilot Travel Center. Finally, the ever present rain subsided and I could await a new opportunity in dry air. The next day, the Q-comm offered up a run to Salt Lake City, Utah. Ok, we’ll go there. Pick up would be back down to the Bay Area community of Hayward and delivery 800 some odd miles to the Salt Lake City Airport. My thought was `excellent’, I had been to the Salt Lake airport in September, so I have some familiarity to the place.

Back out on I-80, headed east, night fell and a return trip to Utah had begun. This time, I would travel a route I hadn’t been on yet, through northern Nevada. I didn’t know what to expect, although I have always pictured that part of the Silver State as a barren desert highway to the Beehive State.

At Truckee, California, as you prepare to climb over the Sierras, they have a check point where they ask you if you have chains for your truck and understand that there are hefty fines should you get stuck in snow. A toll type ticket is issued reiterating the warning in plain language.

This part of Interstate 80 wasn’t what I thought it would be. The terrain was continually hilly and mountainous. Winter temperatures replaced mild California air and evidence of an earlier snow fall blanketed the landscape. Daylight broke over Carlin, Nevada and I found myself stopping at a Pilot stop for some coffee. Upon entering, I chuckled to myself because I spied a rather large casino in the corner of the building. They will put a one armed bandit anywhere in this state. I wandered over to get a look and became mesmerized by the flashing lights and clanging bells familiar with a money grabbing operation of this type. Drivers stared at spinning cherries, numbers and bars. They mechanically poured coins in the slots with a determination to win.

With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and some small talk conversation with the checkout clerk, I remarked at how chilly it had gotten since California. I said “it’s got to be about 28 degrees out there now.” Her reply was “it’s colder than that.” In the next instant, she picked up a phone and pushed a speed dial number. After a short while, she hung up and announced that it was 19. All of a sudden, I felt colder.

The early morning sunshine, yes, wonderful sunshine, glistened off the snow covered peaks framing long, expansive ribbons of highway winding around extensive grades off high lands leading to flat valleys. This part of Nevada was more picturesque than I was prepared for. So much for the dry and exclusively flat land I had imagined previously. I live for drama in the scenery on the road and this view was gift to me.

In little time, I was at the western Utah border and on the Salt Flats leading to the Great Salt Lake. The mountain peaks became more dramatic and increasingly snow covered. The native license plates carry the slogan “The Greatest Snow on Earth” and now I could see why. The summer mountains I saw here were rather craggy, brown and barren, but the snow covered version appeared magnificent in all their winter glory. Wow, I’m glad I got to come back this time of year.

I met Bob, my freight contact at the airport for delivery. This jovial 60ish man with thinning gray hair was anxious to get his special delivery on a Sunday afternoon. He led me to a remote part of the airport, a different way than I had been before because the Sundance Film Festival was beginning and hordes of celebrities were winging their way into town. Security was ramped up for all the commotion and Bob played down the importance of these people and the paparazzi that followed. I commented “I guess the Osmonds, if they’re going and resident Robert Redford are already here.” Bob chuckled, “probably so.”

The freight transfer was now complete and the obligatory papers signed which signals my “happy hour” so I pointed the Fat Cat to the big coffee pot sign in front of Sapp Brothers Truck stop not far off I-80. Trucker chatter on the CB recommended the stop as one of the best. I’m always apt to take a fellow trucker’s referral, so I was looking forward to somewhere different than a Pilot, Flying J or TA. My hope was the food would be good and the internet reception strong.

It Never Rains In Southern California

2010-01-29T20:39:00.001-08:00

On the range in New Mexico, I was directed to a remote area about five miles from the entrance gate to unload. All I had was one lonely crate to be taken off the truck. With the mission in the desert complete, it was back to El Paso for a layover to await the next assignment. The weather, at least was co-operating and pleasant sixty degree sunshine dominated the afternoon.

Just when things were looking like I might be able to catch a late afternoon snooze in the breezy Texas sunshine, The Price is Right theme sounded on my phone, telling me the company was calling with a load opportunity. When I answered, it wasn’t the usual automated female voice announcing my prospects, but Nicole, live and in person asking if I had a generator on the truck and if so, what year was it. I replied that I had no “Alternate Power Unit” or APU as they’re called in trucking circles. Why do you ask, I quizzed her. Nicole continued that there was a new law in effect in California banning older model APU’s. I followed that comment with “do you have an opportunity going to California?” She said, well yes, I have one going out from Tucson, Arizona to Sacramento tonight. I pressed her further and inquired about the terms. She responded with favorable numbers and I was quick to commit. Cal-li-forn- I-A here I come! I envisioned continued favorable weather, a plethora of gourmet coffees and a bunch of valley type people ending every sentence with “it’s like, ya know, ya know?”

About the only thing I got right was the coffee selection. I didn’t see any Valley Girls and there wasn’t much sunshine. This has been a rough winter for the Southwest too. Storm after storm has been pounding in off the Pacific with record amounts of precipitation. Mudslides and treacherous freeway driving dominated travel to and around the Golden State. The rain started in earnest around the New Mexico-Arizona border and the winds picked up dramatically, buffeting the truck with force on I-10. I had planned on running through the truck wash before this trip to wash some of the winter off the Fat Cat. The white wheels were black with road soot and salt. When I finally got out at a fuel stop in Tucson, I marveled at how the strong winds and heavy rain had sand blasted them pure white again. Amazing. I have never seen so much rain in this part of the country, but then again, I’ve never seen so much wacky weather in one season. It only figures that this is my first year in trucking.

By the time I made California, the rain had subsided enough to make travel a little less hectic. This run would take me up through the high desert of California and into the central valleys of this beautiful, but much maligned state. I like both of these regions very much. This was my second run on the desert and second up the San Joaquin Valley. The high desert has a certain kind of appeal to me with miles of straight highway, dotted with small roadside cafes and gas stations surrounded by distant mountain ranges. Trailer homes and old boarded up businesses pepper the journey to Bakersfield. And then there’s Boron, California. Two thousand people live here. Lots of towns across America are proud of something. Notwithstanding, Boron’s claim to fame is being the Boron Capital of The World, the home of the largest borax mine in the world. Yes, that’s the stuff they make the cleaning powder Borax with. This city of interest is on the western edge of the Mojave Desert. In the area, you can view both the highest and lowest points in the lower 48 United States. We’re talking about Mount Whitney and Death Valley. If it’s a desert scattered with bleach white bones or a snow capped mountain you like, this would be a great place for you. Also, of interest, if you’re so inclined, is the 20 Mule Team Museum.

The scenery along CA 58 produced signs for Edwards Air Force base and far off mountains that I would soon be travelling through. The air was mild and the skies toggled from overcast to a faint sunshine filtered by a dominant cloud cover. With a cup of Sumatra coffee acquired at a Pilot Fuel Stop at the intersection of CA 395 and 58, I was content to ease on down the road with the Fox News Channel as my company on XM satellite.

Highway 58 took me to the towns of Monolith and Tehachapi; the terrain quickly became mountainous and quite scenic. The winding road led to Bakersfield and the southern end of the renowned San Joaquin Valley. San Joaquin is one of the most fertile growing areas in the world. In places, you can see the rich, black soil plowed and ready for planting. Good portions of the produce we consume, especially in winter, come from this crown jewel of American agriculture. The climate is conducive to year round vegetable and fruit production. I saw miles of orange, grapefruit and lemon groves that made me want to pull over and gather some that had fallen on the ground. I might have done this had there not been an imposing barbed wire fence to dissuade me and others with the same notion. But, hey, they don’t use the ones on the ground, do they?

Next up, it was the towns of Selma and Fresno, where undisputedly, you could literally find yourself in a sea of raisins. They call this area “The Raisin Capital of The World”. Lore tells of the raisin being invented here, but how do claim fame to something that shrivels up and dries out? The Sun Maid lives prominently here. We'll proudly take two scoops in our raisin bran.

The precipitation persisted and the old Albert Hammond song that was popular in 1972, “It Never Rains in Southern California” played in my head. “It never rains in Southern California, but girl, don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours”, the line goes. Modesto popped up and so did the vast expanses of grape vines. Would a good deal on a jug of Gallo wine be at hand? Unfortunately, in this situation, a cheap bottle of wine would not be in the cards for me. Not on duty anyway. If the authorities find any kind of evidence of alcohol in my truck, I’m toast. Drinking or transporting, it doesn’t matter.

Sacramento appeared within sight and the jumping off point for my tour of The San Joaquin Valley. North of town, there is still another full third of this massive and wonderous valley left to ponder. I feel that we are so blessed with natural resources here in this country where the Joaquin plays a vital role in the food basket of America. As I pulled into the 49er Truck stop, dusk enveloped the landscape. The next day I would unload and get ready for another day in Northern California. The strategic location that the capital of California occupies on the Interstate 80 corridor has always intrigued me with sights and places that can be visited easily. You can find Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Reno, Carson City, Virginia City and some excellent ski resorts to the north. Go the other way and you’re in the San Francisco Bay area, one of the most beautiful and diverse cities in America. Tony Bennett wasn't kidding when he sang "I Left My Heart in San Francisco". "Where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars..." This is pretty heady stuff. Oh, and let us not forget the world famous Napa Valley. That place speaks for itself. Talk about wineries. Some of the best wine in the world comes out of there. Also, you’ll find some of the most scenic countryside known to man. They even have a radio station named KVYN here...K-Vine. At certain times of the year, you can bounce back and forth from winter to summer by cruising up and down 80. I especially like Santa Cruz Beach with its barking Sea Lions begging to be fed. They sell fish on the pier for that purpose. “Feel Free to Feed the Sea Lions”, that's what the sign says. That's California. To live here has got to be a weekend trip paradise. This is a great part of the country. I’m happy to be here.

1,611 or Bust

2010-01-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

I hadn’t planned on my home time stretching out to January 13, but it did. When you drive a truck that has 860,000 miles on the odometer, it needs attention on a regular basis. My fuel lines froze in the very cold weather and there were other repair issues that needed to be attended to which prolonged my stay at the homestead. On the positive side, I don’t think anyone on their deathbed says “I wish I would have worked more and spent less time with my family.”

Towing the truck was a major undertaking and took 2 hours to hook up and drag 5 miles to Pike Diesel Repair in Hiram. The shop owner, Jerry, assured me that he’d get me running as soon as possible. My silver lining was that the breakdown occurred in my home area and not some place like the Bronx, New York. The lot at Pike was jammed full of tractor trucks begging for repair. The cold weather it seemed gave me lots of company.

Finally, The Fat Cat was ready to go and she purred like a kitten at the Petro Stop in Atlanta as I awaited an opportunity of freight. The Qualcomm chirped out a trip from Murphy, North Carolina in the mountainous west part of the state to Urbana, Ohio, just west of Columbus. The downside of the trip would be a winding and hilly ride out of Carolina at night because I-40 is in a long term shut down westbound, caused by a major rock slide. It not only sent large boulders onto the roadway from steep grades, but ended up damaging the highway severely. Tennessee 69 was the alternate for my trip and had me wishing I was driving a sports car, instead of a truck on a roadway with more hair pins than a beauty shop.

Once in Ohio, I bounced to Detroit and then over to Ann Arbor, where I had a nice stay in November. They always say “be careful for what you wish for, for you just might get it.” Well, I got it. I rubbed the “Load Genie Lamp” and was granted a cannon ball run from Coldwater, Michigan to Laredo, Texas. Success! My frozen body would thaw and warm 70 degree sunshine would shine on my face. Fit me in a sombrero and provide me with a taco. With that thought, it was on the road to my reward.

Sixteen hundred and eleven miles of interstate droned and by the time I got to the end of Interstate 35, I was like a man in the desert laid prone on the ground reaching for the oasis. One minute I’m stone throwing distance from Canada, the next, I’m sitting on the southern border at the Rio Grande. This was my third trip to Laredo. Always hot, always kind of quirky regarding some of the people I’ve talked to and always very Mexican, considering its proximity to our neighbor to the south. Mexican works for me because I can speak Spanish, enjoy the food and I would actually wear a poncho like Clint Eastwood.

The nighttime air was 50ish, the coolest I’ve experienced there so far. After enduring plenty of record cold elsewhere, this was indeed a treat! My load delivered on Sunday morning where sunshine and 70 degree weather shined down on me, just like I pictured it.

Not much freight comes out of Laredo. It is primarily a drop off point for goods heading into Mexico. There aren’t many companies that send trucks into Mexico these days. It’s just too dangerous, especially around border cities on the Mexican side. The area is dotted with numerous warehouses where the hand off to Mexican truckers occurs. It is an orderly operation and hundreds of trucks cue up at the truck stops to deliver at their appointed times.

Now that my load was deposited, I pointed the Fat Cat to San Antonio for a new destination. It’s a very straight shot to San Antonio with scrubby looking, desert-like landscape dotted with classic ranch entrances displaying various brands that get stamped into the livestock. I like this drive. There are no hills, congested traffic, ice or snow. Set the cruise control and let the XM play.

Like clockwork as I pulled into Alamo Town, the Qualcomm chirped out a run from the next town up in Austin to White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico. My first thought was landing three cherries on a one armed bandit. I opened the map and it said “Not Open to the Public” at White Sands. Give me restricted places around Roswell, Area 51, Cape Canaveral, Edwards Air Force Base and other places where the security is as tight as the back end of a clam, and I’m there! I live for this stuff. After all, I’m the guy who has a profound interest in the National Institute for Standard Time (NIST). I want to know exactly where the Camak Stone is. What really happed to D.B. Cooper? It sure beats delivering ball bearings to Flint. I knew from the location of my New Mexico destination, I’d be layed over in El Paso, Texas. I like El Paso, so this would be a win-win deal. Maybe California would be next.

13 Degrees and Getting Colder

2010-01-08T08:07:00.000-08:00

What a WINTER this has been thus far. The forecasted high temperature for my hometown which is forty five minutes northwest of Atlanta is 25 degrees today. It's 13 now. I have NEVER seen a high temperature that low for this area...living here or not. Typically in January, depending on the year, it will run from the upper 40's to low 50's for a high. Overnight readings will run in the upper 20's to low 30's. For a normal year, we might see one or two overnight lows in the teens. During some cold snaps, we might see a day or two in the upper 30's for a high temperature, but NEVER in the 20's. Atlanta TV said this is the most prolonged cold stretch since 1985. The coldest I've ever seen it get in the 8 years I've lived here was 12 degrees one year for an overnight low. I think the earth has tilted, or we're seeing a trend not seen for many years. Maybe it's an anomoly.

Early this morning, on my way to Birmingham to pick up a load headed to Connecticut, there was a major accident on an icy Interstate 20 somewhere in the vicinity of the Georgia-Alabama state line. Authorities shut down the highway for 3 hours, preventing me from getting to my destination for pick up. They had to re-dispatch the load to someone else. Even though the highway was re-opened, traffic was grid-locked heading west with the majority of vehicles being overnight trucks heading west out of Atlanta.

Now, my own state of Georgia is on my list of winter buffoons. This interstate roadway was not treated with anything. A midday snow...albeit light in nature the day before, had iced the roadway by the middle of the night. This area is prone to ice, and after scratching my wooden head, I can't figure out why they weren't prepared for this. All I can say is that, the further into the future we travel, the more incompetent road departments have become. Is state government to blame or has the poor economy affected budgets so badly that there is simply NO money to insure the safety of the travelling and commercial public?

I do believe a good deal of the problem lies with ignorant drivers who refuse to slow down when roadways become treacherous. I spoke with a clerk at the Temple, Georgia Pilot Travel Center who related to me that there was a muli-car pileup on I-285 near the airport (probably people trying to escape the cold and ice)on the infamous beltway that encompasses Atlanta. The posted speed limit is 55 miles per hour on the entire stretch of that highway. Most of the time, people travel 70 to 80 miles per hour on the perimeter.

I think they need to install gates on the entrance ramps of interstates and shut the freeways down if they're unwilling to treat the roadways. They have them out west and they use them when conditions prevent safe travel. People also need to learn that they could die or kill someone if they don't slow down in this kind of weather. The forecast is for an even more frigid weekend in Metro Atlanta. Get me to Arizona.

Farewell To The Christmas Goose

2010-01-03T19:24:00.000-08:00

What a holiday season it's been. Just getting home was an exercise in strategy reserved for the finest of board game players. Somehow, I was able to pull it off, landing an assignment in Raleigh, North Carolina transporting some computer equipment over to Durham for enough moolah to put in the tanks for the run to the ranch in Georgia.

By the time I turned into the winding driveway to my castle on the hill, night had fallen and my mercury vapor barn light was burning in all her glory. As I pulled the Fat Cat up to back her in next to the old red and white edifice out in the yard, I could see bright little feline faces along with one noisy canine son in the kitchen window to greet me with enthusiasm. Upon entering the house with my duffle, I could smell the holiday season in the form of freshly baked cookies. I slid open the pocket door to the cooking room and there he was, in a prominent stance facing the door...the Christmas goose. A venerable wooden fellow he is, about two feet tall with a Santa hat and gold tassel. Candy canes and goodies hang from his neck, draping along his back. Two big webbed wooden feet keep this purveyor of good cheer in place, even from scurrying kitties. This is a proud bird displaying his bill pointing upward. The goose has become a sort of tradition over the years at our house, taking his prominent place beginning at Thanksgiving and making his stand until the New Year. Said quite plainly and simply, when the goose goes up, it's Christmas.

The girls were glad to see me as I was to see them. With Louie and the kitties gathered around, coming home never gets old. I blinked my eyes and it was Christmas Eve. Cheryl and I travelled around town in an effort to finish some last minute shopping. Streisy kept busy with her work schedule at the grocery store. Busy is an understatement for what they do around the holidays. I'm proud that she's in that business. Grocery people are a hard working and genuine people. I know, I knew some from my days at the A & P.

My holiday is not complete until I attend worship services at my little hometown church. The final candle of advent was lit, bread was broken, the cup was raised and meaning restored to why we celebrate the birth of Christ.

Don't misunderstand and believe that my home time is one big vacation. I wish it was. How nice it would be to lay around continually watching The Sound of Music and Miracle on 34th Street. I did, however, get to see an encore of The Nativity Story. Now there's a great story of the birth of Christ.

Household chores and piled up yard work take time away from a good old fashioned slack. Don't get me wrong, working around the house gives me a sort satisfaction and if it didn't, I don't need to be living here. Two acres of yard and grass don't take care of themselves. You have to love mowing grass, and I do. Two days after Christmas, I mowed grass. And I loved it. You can do that here in Georgia this time of the year.

I did get to smoke a Ghorka "Assassin" while incinerating trash in the burn barrel. Now THAT was a stout smoke and it may has well have been a bullet in the noggin right between the eyes. I guess that's why they call it what they call it. If they come out with an "Oswald", I'd have to pass on that one. I like the "shaggys" or the "Black Dragon".

A whole week blew by and all of a sudden, it was New Year's Eve. Hey, wait a minute, aren't we entering a new decade? Wow, I remember when that kind of New Year was exciting...like ten years ago. TEN YEARS AGO? Has it been that long ago already? Dam. The turn of the century. Even ten years ago we were homebodies and didn't do anything special, but it was fun to watch all the big celebrations around the world beginning around noon on the eve. When I was a teenager, I would marvel at the fact that I would be forty three years old on January 1st, 2000. I think Dad helped me figure that out on a slide rule. I recall when 1970 came in, it seemed so modern. Back in those days, I kept track of the fact that the last number one song of the sixties on WABC in New York was Steam's "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". The national charts would have you believe it was "Leavin' On A Jetplane" by Peter, Paul and Mary. For 1980, I remember being at a party in a house trailer in Florida, watching the ball drop on a thirteen inch black and white TV. Now THAT, was a glamorous New Year's. These days, we begin our New Year's Eve at seven and end it at ten.

I stayed up to watch the ball drop in Times Square in sweats at home. It would feel odd to miss that. Dick Clark was still there. After suffering the kind of stroke he did a few years back, I give him a lot of credit for getting up there in front of millions in an effort to preserve tradition. It can't be for the money, lord knows he's got plenty. The bands of today on the broadcast sure weren't KC and The Sunshine Band or Bob Seger. The only one I recall was those Black Eyed Peas.

New Year's Day came and so the decorations went. It was a good holiday season, it's what I hoped for. This Christmas was better than last year's after the bad economy closed the auto dealership I worked at and put me in the bread line. Maybe next year will just as fun, or better. Hope never disappoints. Farewell Mr. Goose, see you next year.

A Three Hour Tour

2009-12-25T10:18:00.000-08:00

With Atlanta and the soaking rain behind me, the mission was now to pick up freight in Cleveland, Tennessee and simply transport it to a location outside of Harrisburg, PA. The route would be a straight shot up I-81, an interstate I have travelled more times that I could possibly remember. I know every crack in this road. My travel on this freeway has included all the seasons over many years. Your friendly author here has been on it in every kind of weather event and yes, snow on several occasions.

By the time I arrived in Southwest Virginia, this storm had dropped perhaps 8 inches of winter, making travel slow, but not impossible. The highway was relatively clear, affording me the opportunity to make up a little time lost by slow going in Tennessee early on created by road crews salting and sanding. Christiansburg, Virginia popped up on the GPS prominently pearched on the dash of the Fat Cat signaling to me that Roanoke wasn’t very far up the road. Traffic began to build and then suddenly stopped cold. Trucker chatter on the CB turned to the hold up and before long it was being reported that there was an accident up ahead at mile marker 128. Dam, I’m sitting here looking at mile marker 111. This is going to take a while. Motorists began to pop out of their vehicles and a concerned looking man from a four wheeler (trucker slang for a car) came up to my window and asked if I heard anything on my CB radio. I told him what the truckers were saying and that he should make himself comfortable, this was going be a good wait. He thanked me shaking his head as he walked away. I rummaged in my on board food cupboard for something to eat and came up with a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee over stuffed ravioli to throw in the microwave in a Styrofoam bowl covered with wax paper. From my vantage point in the truck, I watched kids play football catch on the shoulder of the road and folks standing around in conversation circles on the roadway. After lunch, I called my brother Tom who was on his way to New York with his family by car from South Carolina. They decided to take I-95 and avoid this mess. They usually take this route, but changed their plans after seeing the back ups on TV.

Hour number four was approaching and my thoughts turned to who was involved in the accident. It must have been very serious for the highway to be shut down this long. A wave of sadness passed over me with the thought that someone might not make it home for Christmas. This person or persons were on the same course as I was. Now, they might not be. Like Don Henley once sang, life can change in a New York Minute. Always consider the important things in life. That’s what the song says.

Finally, after four hours of listening to truckers grousing on the CB, copious texting on the phone and a pipe full of Kate’s special blend from the cigar lounge back home in Hiram, traffic began to move. As I moved forward, I discovered abandoned and snow covered automobiles littered both sides of the interstate. Some were pointed in unnatural positions. I spotted a U-Haul moving truck with a trailer and a late model Honda Accord on it in a ditch. Now, that had to be a moving experience someone will never forget. Further up the road, I encountered two more stoppages, for additional accidents that weren’t as long as the one in Christiansburg.

As the clock ticked 16:00, evidence of nightfall began to appear. In yet another backup, I passed an intermodal tractor trailer jack-knifed across the highway. An intermodal is a container trailer that comes from a ship or a train and is attached to a trailer assembly with wheels to be pulled by truck. There was just enough room to fit my truck between the back end of the jack knifed trailer and the guard rail. Lucky for that, or that would have been another four hour wait.

Abandoned and snow covered vehicles continued to show up on the sides of the highway. Supposedly, the National Guard rescued countless motorists from those cars and ferried them to shelters. This travelling public wasn't prepared for this challenge getting home for the holidays or finishing up Christmas shopping.

I began to see electronic message boards that spoke ominously about trip fortunes ahead. They displayed the same passage of “Heavy Snow, Avoid Travel, Seek Shelter!” Well, it’s a little late for that message. My trucker friends on the CB complained of jammed truck stops that were running out of food and fuel. Truckers were beginning to line their rigs up on the sides of the roadway and off ramps. Truckers are only allowed to drive a total of eleven hours a day. When your time is up, you have to stop driving and shut down for a ten hour break.

The road surface was now converting from a slushy snow and wet arrangement to ice. The ride became extremely bumpy driving over chunks of ice we affectionately call moguls. Just like the kind you ski over, except bigger. I had racked up a grand total of 79 miles from the point of the four plus hour highway shutdown and was now in Lexington, Virginia. All the trucks and cars had come to another complete stop. Now what? I said out loud. The CB chatter now turned to a foreboding hill up ahead as slippery as a used car salesman on a third rate lot after a flood. In yet another traffic jam, drivers and passengers got out of their vehicles to see what the problem was now. By this time, there were countless motorists searching for a place of personal relief. Truckers offered buckets and empty truck trailers to persons in need. Some auto drivers were beginning to panic for lack of fuel and food. This was turning into an ordeal for some.

The theme from Gilligan's Island popped into my head...."a three hour tour, a three hour tour..." The Virginia DOT was nowhere in sight. No plows, no salt, no nothing. I had never seen it this bad in recent times. Virginia was always fairly good at snow removal. I drove this route by car in the 90’s at the end of a snowstorm similar to this one. This amount of snowl didn’t seem that unmanageable to me. This DOT would be fired in Upstate New York. Virginia is a snow state; they should be prepared for this sort of thing. Sadly, thousands of motorists were left with the short end of this stick.

Word then came on the CB, several truckers and cars attempted the hill and slid into the guardrail in a crunch of metal. 911 was called, but no one came. With no authorities in sight, we truckers took matters into our own hands. Three rigs lined up blocking the highway so no one else could get by and suffer the same misfortune as the ones who attempted the hill. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries from the mishap down the hill.

The truckers gathered and plotted a course of action to get down this steep grade. It was decided that we would send the trucks and cars down, one at a time with instructions to stay in the middle and don’t exceed 1 mile per hour. The middle truck behind me would come out of the three across line and follow me when I descended to the bottom of that roadway disguised as a slab of ice. Me and the Fat Cat were second in line, behind a power company truck. The power truck radioed that it was slushy at the bottom of the hill and to take it very slow. My truck has what they call a “Jake Brake” which is a type of brake that employs engine compression to slow and eventually stop the truck. It works without supplying any stopping force to the wheels. It’s great because I can reserve my air from braking and also avoid skidding by not applying pressure to those wheels. This was one time I was extremely glad I had this kind braking system. Thank you Mr. Jacobs for figuring that one out.

As I watched the power company truck disappear out of sight in front of me, my knuckles grew white gripping the big steering wheel. My thoughts raced with scenarios of doom on this highway as I prepared to descend this mighty grade. Once you start a slide on ice, there’s not much you can do to get out of it. Steering and braking disappear and then it’s up to the man upstairs.

I dropped Miss Fat Cat into the lowest gear possible and let my emergency spring brakes out. I usually start off in a higher gear, but not this time. My heart beat at an elevated rate as I eased her onto the hill. Perspiration rode my brow. Creeping down the decline at maybe 1 mile per hour, I could feel the slippery road surface from the tires right into my hands. If I went any faster, I would surely become another mangled storm statistic. I tried to keep in mind the slush from which I would gain traction at the bottom. I hoped the reports on the CB were correct.

I passed the crashed trucks on the way down, but couldn’t rubberneck it too much for fear of joining them. I caught a glimpse of a white late model Volvo in the mix. I talked the big Cat down the hill the whole way. “Come ‘on girl, I know you can do it.” There was no salt, no sand or cinders of any kind on this decline of treachery. My only way down was a steady hand, a “fully jaked” engine on the Caterpillar 500, a resistance to hitting the brakes and faith in God.

As I sensed the road evening out, I felt the wonderful slush they talked about. Me and the big Lady made it! I wanted to get out and kiss the big slurpee. The highway was still slippery and offered ice chunks to make the ride rough. The Welcome sign to West Virginia couldn’t have come soon enough and signaled better roads all the way into Pennsylvania. The remaining state road departments on the run had the interstate under control. I watched busy plows with salt spreaders clean up Old Man Winter’s gift. I got to my destination in one piece, only nineteen hours late. And yes, Natasha back at dispatch central said they wouldn’t count it against me. This trip took a total of thirty six hours to go 622 at an average of 17 miles per hour. I feel for the families who lost a family member, especially this close to Christmas. Wrecked cars and trucks can be fixed or be replaced. Injuries heal. Effects of some of those injuries can linger for a lifetime. But, lives are lost.

It’s been a crazy and bewildering few weeks of driving up and down the east coast in a variety of climates. This was the third snow storm I’ve been through, combined with a pleasant 82 degree stopover in South Florida. I thought about that as I sat in the truck stop here in Pennsylvania, peeling another seedless naval orange picked just over a week ago.