Road Journal Continues.
Well, hrm. We decided to jog over here early and now we find out there’s no parking here, period, and they are being pills about letting us in. We’ll see what comes next- Tim’s in the guard shack checking in now, it looks like. Hopefully they’ll get us back there now and we don’t have to jog back over to the Irving we were at. I’m bored with the scenery there and want to see something besides asphalt, you know?
The gate is up, so that’s a good sign. Ooo, I see pointing going on, which bodes well, too. And I see a signal here… *goes to test signals and see if I can manage to get intermanet in the McLane parking lot…* Nope. No dice. There’s a big propane tank blocking signal to the only unsecured network in the area. Phooey.
So, we’re in the gates, and now to wait some more. It’s a good thing I have my knitting and writing to keep me from being bored, ever.
Need to get Tim a portable hobby, too. Not sure what, though. He refuses to learn to knit, isn’t into computer games much, and he doesn’t write. Maybe I should just tell him to take another little nap? Maybe. We do have seven hours of driving tonight.
It doesn’t matter how many years go by, every single time I climb up into a truck, I’m reminded of my Pop, and just how good at this he really was. So, since I’m stuck waiting- my least favorite thing to do, I’ll reminisce about what that means.
My Pop learned to drive in my Grandpa James’ Model T Ford pickup truck. He’d got out, pull the blocks, jump in and kick start it by popping the clutch rolling down the hill. It was, of course, a crank start, which he was far too small to do at the age he was doing this- the grand age of eight years old. He learned to drive heavy equipment and semis much the same way- get in and figure it out. For Pop, a piece of equipment became an extension of himself. He could make a bulldozer or dredge do things most people wouldn’t imagine possible, and he could run slopes and embankments that most wouldn’t dare, with the impunity of a creature born to do this. For indeed, it seemed he was. In ’36, when he joined the Navy the first time, he became a ships’ engineer room hand, a skill he would use in operating heavy equipment for many years to come, and the hardest part of all these jobs he learned well in the engine room of the then brand new USS Saratoga CV3, one of the first aircraft carriers ever commissioned. He served aboard her from ’36 to ’40, when he finished his tour of duty, planning to go run heavy equipment elsewhere. Of course, it always takes time to find those jobs you really want, and he was after a job on the Al-Can Highway construction project- a dream job for him. Of course, WWII got in the way, and he enlisted just after things started, when the Navy began heavily courting men like Pop to serve in the SeaBees, the Construction Battalions. Their motto “We Fight, We Build” said it all. The Marines would take the beaches with the SeaBees on their heels. They often put in air strips while under fire, and definitely on occupied islands. Incredible men, the WWII SeaBees. Pop took shrapnel in his left arm during the war, and came down with malaria not once, not twice, but three solid times. After the second bout, the Navy offered, as they did all the guys, the opportunity to ship out home. Pop said that not one of their boys ever took the Navy up on that offer before the fifth round with fevers. Pretty impressive for the Old Men of the Navy, don’t you agree? When the war was over, and Pop was finally sent home, he went back to what he loved- heavy equipment. He worked for Bigge Dredge and Hauling in Southern California from ’45 until ’69, the year of the big Teamster’s strike. Bigge sold out at that point to Yellow freight, and we began moving, first from Fremont to San Leandro, then to San Ramon, and finally to the new Yellow depot in Barstow.
In Pop’s 40 years as a Teamster he had two accidents. He had just earned his third million miler award- an award given to Teamsters who drive a million miles without an accident. And this is bringing me to what I wanted to share, really. My Pop could drive a semi as though he were driving a tiny little car. He could blind-side park in a blind alley between two other trucks at the docks without even one adjustment- his greatest claim to fame as a driver, and a feat not pulled off by many drivers ever in their careers. He could do things with a semi that would make you gawk like a fool to watch him- gymnastics with a semi he called it, and it was pretty accurate.
Men like Pop, they identified themselves with what they did so extensively that to lose their career, as he did in ’75, was like an amputation or other serious, permanent disability would be. In effect, the accidents that took his career took away his self-identity, severing him from a huge part of himself. I always thought I would feel otherwise about losing my ability to work, but a few years ago this is precisely what happened, and I’ve been in deep mourning for my lost self-parts ever since. I lost huge chunks of who I am with my disability, and I wish I could go back in time and tell Pop what I’ve learned through this. I am not just this body, not just my ability to earn, not just the ability to do certain things. I have value that extends well beyond that, and so did he.
I’ve taken a long winded approach to my thoughts for the evening. My Pop was an incredibly gifted truck driver. But he was also an amazing person, funny and engaging. He knew how to do so many things so very well, yet he so strongly identified with what he did that when he couldn’t do that anymore, he was lost. I saw all of that and logically knew how wrong he was. Yet when it all got boiled down to the bone the truth is that I did the same damned thing. But I’m not just one thing. And valuing myself, even more than being valued, for who I am and not what I can do, well, that’s not something I’ve ever really done. I mean, sure, I valued my strong body, my quick wit and steel trap mind that could learn anything in short order. But what about the real me? The me that thinks, that feels, that IS? What value do I place on that me? I used to value myself only for my skills and abilities, but now? Now that I cannot work a normal job and earn a living, what am I?
I’m the arms that hold the crying baby and comfort him when nobody else seems to be able to. Riley, you, like your mother so long ago, are my rebirth. You gave me back something I never appreciated having. Value just for being me. Funny how someone so tiny can teach me so much without even really trying, isn’t it? I am not just what I can do, I am what I am. Another reminder of my Pop, who indeed was a living Popeye, without the popped eye. :D
I miss you Pop. You’d be so proud of our Boo. She’s all grown up and a mother now, and he’s a glorious little man with red hair and eyes that threaten to turn the wonderful green hazel yours were. I hope they do, because I would give anything to just look in your eyes one more time.
We’re out on the road again, heading to Maine. I’m navigator, so I’ve got the page with our maps from Google floating in the background. Handy to be able to grab the maps and just keep them up until we’re there. Hopefully we’ll find more WiFi tomorrow. Tonight, however, we’re rolling, and you can’t catch signal on the fly. You’re in and out of it too fast to get connected to anything.
Just rolled through a toll plaza. And of course immediately thereafter I get to go through the directions again. If only I could do the driving, since I can read directions, remember three or four at a go. Tim has to get them the same way I give instructions to Beth- one, maybe two steps at a time or we get confused and everything gets all screwy. :D And he WANTS to hear them out three or four or more stages at a time. But that gets me all frustrated, so no. I’ll just read one bit out, then wait, then the next, unless they’re too close together for that to work, like “Take the off ramp, immediately turn left and then take the next right.” Which for some reason he’ll track just fine, but “Take 93 to 101” will confuse him.
We’re now in Maine. I saw my very first Moose Crossing sign in the lower 48, which is awesome-sauce. I don’t mind not seeing a moose, however, as running into one, or having one run into you, is never a good thing and at highway speeds it wouldn’t go well for anyone, even in a semi. Cleaning the wiper blades (my suggestion) has improved visibility greatly as we’re driving in spitty little rain again. It’s not enough to call real rain, but drizzle as a description is even too heavy. It’s just heavier than mist. This is a pretty short run and we’ll be there within the hour. More water. Heading down to Massachusetts to hydrate the nice folks of Chicopee. Gotta love that name. I keep thinking of a friend of mine who is known as Chickpea. J I can see me calling her Chickopee now, just for fun.
Another silly load- this time it is two pickups, but only one order and pick number for the both of them. Poor guy on the phone was new and it showed, but thankfully he had our number and called back to let me know what was up with this. I was about to become concerned. Not really. We got the info earlier from a guy with far more experience, but he forgot to give us our pick numbers.
I’m not entirely sure where her place is up here, but I waved anyway, to Elizabeth Babb, a friend of mine who has a peony farm here. As much as Tim wants the West Coast run, I’d love to be able to drop by her place sometime in May or June, just to see the fields of flowers in bloom. The scent must be positively intoxicating, as if that much beauty to the eye wasn’t enough. How delightful of the gods to create a flower that truly embodies beauty in both form, color and parfum. I wish we were going to be here in daylight, as I’m sure that we’re passing through some incredible scenery, but alas it is night and all I can see is the sky glow behind the silhouettes of trees, the reflective barrels along the roads and the signs. There will, I’m sure, be other opportunities, but even still there’s the addition to my growing list of states I’ve been in. Even in the darkness, it is Maine and no other place, so I get to add to my list. I’m very close to filling in the map for “been to that state”. If only we could get our passports and get Canada runs, too, I could finish up my North America map, too.
Well, we’re about to reach the next offramp, so back to navigation.
Took a nap while they loaded us, then got up and navigated to the next pick up, where we are currently locked in at the dock and they’re loading us. Hopefully they hussle, because from here we have three and a half hours to drive and four hours to do it in, which sounds great, but we’re running fully loaded, probably 44,000lbs, which is going to slow us down a little.
We’re doing our best to be on time, but we’re legal and safe drivers, which of course means we don’t do over the speed limit, we don’t push our equipment to the very fringes of sanity and we don’t use illegal stimulants in order to stay awake- just caffeine. Our drug of choice. Just heated up another cuppa for Tim, who brought out a cup of French Vanilla Cappucino, which filled up his cup and gave me a little shot. It is useful to have a microwave and a coffee maker on board. We can fuel up ourselves to make the night runs far easier this way. I brewed a pot earlier, which is still warmish, but it’s already made, so a simple matter to nuke a cup to keep us going.
We’ll unload in Chicopee, Massachusetts, probably a bit late, but closer than expected with the delays at the last drop. He’s locking in the tandems now, hopefully, and then off we go again. Run, rabbit, run! And, we’re off! Here’s to smooth sailing, for everyone, on this fine morning as the sun begins to light the sky. Guess we’ll see a snick of Maine in daylight after all.
Taking a quick power break, because Tim’s drooping terribly, but we’re doing okay on time so far, so that’s good. Hopefully this little power nap will get him back to square again. I’m not feeling too chipper myself. No more than an hour of sleep last night, and that while they loaded us so very disturbed. He got none. He took a nap yesterday and that helps, but the overnight runs are rough, and this has been a quintessential overnight run.
Starbucks: When did venti come to mean 24oz? And what the hell- $5 for a regular coffee? Hi, Burger King, how much for the 20oz? $2.13? Deal. Not a great price but by comparison, a steal.
Hey, Rick, I’m spending your money to pay tolls- so I’m just relaxing and going with it. I’m not usually so cool about it, but it is faster, and today, speed is of the essence.
Tim’s out already. We’re taking fifteen minutes, just to get him back to being able to focus. Please, let this work, because we’re running out of time. I’d like one load to get delivered on time. One. We’ve been forced late to every other drop by circumstances.
Arrived in Canaan, Conneticut. Gorgeous little town. Again. *sigh* And worse than a tiny little town, tomorrow we pick up in Jamaica, New York. That’s Long Island for those not sure. You won’t find it on a map, either, without it being a very local map.
I’m wiped out. Tim’s wiped out. I’m ready to call it a day. And now we have to find fuel and a place to sleep, because we’re going into Long Island at night, when the traffic shouldn’t be so bad. In theory. This is the first time for Tim, the second time for me ever in New York City, and my last time was 20 years ago. Suffice to say that neither of us are looking forward to this.
Our load right now? 10 boxes. We’ll pick up here, then out to LI, then three more picks and we’re headed West. Tennessee. No doubt we’ll be back out here again shortly, despite our fervent protests. Neither of us likes driving out here. I hate trying to navigate out here. The signs are often weirdly placed, like so close to turns as to be utterly useless, there’s just too many dinky little towns and too few places to fuel up.
New York City wasn’t that damned bad. Okay, it was a little stressful, but we’ve been in worse traffic and pulled into harder docks. Plus New York drivers get a great big mwah from me, because they were CURTEOUS. They let us over when we needed to get over, and very few of them pulled moronic stunts, and those who did seemed to be aware of the risks of doing what they were doing and got their stunts over with as quickly as possible, like the guy who shot around us at an on ramp because he’d gotten trapped on the wrong lane too long, then had to cut in front of us, quick like, to get where he needed to be. But he didn’t screw around there. He also gave us that “Thanks for not running my dumb ass over” wave, which was great. And the convertible, but I have a theory regarding people who buy convertible cars that isn’t always flattering, I’m afraid, and it is backed up by the experiences I’ve had with every convertible on the road. I won’t elaborate, but suffice to say that DBAJ cards need to be handed to almost every one of them on a pretty regular basis.
We’re at our second NJ pick up, or trying to be there. We’re in the right general area, but we can’t find the address- Tim’s off seeing if the place up the road a wee bit is it and I’m waiting, because I’m not running around like a headless chicken looking for this place.
Another little road query of mine. Jug handle turns- why can’t Google identify that type of turn so you don’t miss the damned turn? Hrm? And Google really needs to offer an option for “Tall and long vehicle, aka semi truck” so we can avoid such oopsies as the low bridges and the narrow streets with sharp turns. There are GPS programs out there that do it, but hey- Google directions are always so clear and they do get you there, if you’re in a car. It is a very rare occasion when Google is wrong, while too often the GPS systems are. Either way, they’re both tools to be used knowing full well that on the ground, things aren’t always what the map says they are. Hell, today our truck apparently became about two feet shorter, as we went under a bridge marked 11’10” (the markings on the one side were gone, and when we returned, Tim was stunned- we’re over 12’.) Most bridges are marked a few inches shorter than they actually measure, but we shouldn’t fit under a bridge marked for 11’10”, ever. But we did, and without even touching anything. Go figure.
Yet another minor fixit on the truck- the driver’s side doors, both on the cab and on the trailer, have latch issues. Tim’s door doesn’t close unless you pull/push on it. Swing it shut and it bounces back open. The trailer door has no latch, so he’s rigged one with a trailer seal, but it isn’t real effective.
Found our pick up site and are backing to the dock now. Auto parking in the same lot as truck delivery/pick up seems stupid to me, but hey, what do I know? Right? Anywho, one more pick up today and then we’ll head back west again. I’m ready to head west, I can tell you.