Leaving Out

Leaving Out

August 18, 2017

In the humid stillness before dawn, I awake. As every morning, the first conscious thought is a plea. “My children, Lord, please hold my children today, wherever they are.” After a conversation with my Lord, I reach for His hand and face the day.

This morning is a list of lasts. A last breakfast for hubby the Trucker, remaining food freezered to await our return. A last load of laundry, hung indoors also til our return. A last check of the duffle and book bags and briefcase. Packing food and water, arranging it in the truck’s fridge and cupboard as compactly as possible. In the process, I pass through the kitchen to find the Trucker bending over the sink, washing the last dishes. How sweet of him! And he’s already taken out the trash! (He also vacuumed and wiped out the interior of the truck, which somehow I just didn’t get done this week. The exterior has also been washed and shined!) He then starts the truck’s engine and rolls down to the lower drive, where the empty trailer awaits, washed and shined as well. The entire rig gleams in the morning light.

I take a last look around the house, noticing that the Trucker has even carried out my bag. Flipping the lock, I pull the door shut behind me and walk down the road to met the Trucker, now sitting in his seat, making final adjustments. On the way, I meet Daddy, four-wheeling up from morning feeding at the barn, his breakfast egg tucked into a shirt pocket. He assures me, as he always does, that he will keep an eye on things in our absence. A last goodbye, and we part. When your Daddy is 75 years old, every goodbye could be the last. A quick call to sister around the corner, and we are off.

Not quite. Aarrrgghhh. Every time, it seems, I forget something. The Trucker just grins. This Passenger is waiting for the day when she has it all together; he knows that will never happen. Sigh. Fishing in a pocket for keys, I slide out of the truck and jog back up the road. This time it is my pillow that was left behind. I can do without many things, but nine nights without a pillow – that is worth a trot up the road to remedy. If an excuse would help, the pillow was forgotten because I did not make up the bed this morning. That doesn’t work either. Bonus points to the Trucker’s account for tidying the bed, and subtracted from mine for forgetting that as well. Then again, he was the last one out of it...

When I land back in my seat, the engine growls out the drive and past the empty, silent house. Somehow, emotions always bubble to the surface, whether the Trucker leaves alone, or I with him. It is home. And when will it again be the center of joyful activity, daily routines shared with others? What if someone comes by, and we are not there? Again, I reach for the Lord’s hand. “Hold me, hold them, hold us, until Your perfect time.”

Rounding the turn onto Route 23, we see sister’s front door blow open, and her four “littles” swirl onto the front lawn, she behind them. Daddy, coming up the drive from his garage. All six wave, some more energetically than others. The Trucker yanks the air horn, to the special delight of at least one of the “littles,” the rest of which clap small hands over offended ears. I reach from the window, until our loved ones disappear from sight.

On to the shop, where cousin Dennis hands over invoices for the load – packing material bound for a snack food company warehouse in Umatilla, Oregon - and contact information for the receiver. Cousin Mark grins over his phone and wishes us a safe run as we pass the dispatch desk. The Trucker tops off fuel tanks and does a final check. His Passenger stows luggage into crooks and crannies. Two thoughtful gifts are discovered: a new outlet on the shelf by the bunk for her cell phone charger, and a small fan, which also plugs into the outlet, for those hot, still nights, when a breath of air makes all the difference between some restful sleep, or none. She feels quite cared for!

On the way out, I ask the Trucker if he remembers the first time he drove a truck in this lot. Nope. Let’s just say it was well before a license lived in his wallet. He does carry the distinction of being the first person in the company to work on site. He was twelve years old the winter this shop was built. His father pulled a truck into the partially completed building, assigned him to wash it, and moved on to other things. From wash boy to driver to owner operator, with many steps between, the Trucker has a wealth of knowledge and experience.

Now at York, we park at Flexible Packaging, and the Trucker checks in at the office. Back into X door on the dock, when the truck occupying that space moves out. No problem. Except, that driver, instead of pulling out and to the side as a courtesy to the next truck, remains at the dock while catching up on his paperwork in the driver’s seat. After fifteen minutes, the Trucker walks back, and casually asks him to pull up. Thankfully, he does, and the green Kenworth can approach the dock. But, now it is break time for the dock workers. Sigh. Nothing to do but let it go. “If onlys” do nothing but rearrange one’s blood pressure. The Passenger is along for the ride, wherever that takes her. But the Trucker has to juggle schedule, delivery/loading times, routes, rush hours in cities, time and location of fuel stops, logs, and much more in his head.

Meanwhile, the Trucker catches horizontal time in the bunk. A local fly zips, dips and dives around his resting spot, while he grumbles that he did not sign up for the Fly Relocation Program on this trip. The specimen will be well traveled before we get him convinced to abandon his free ride.

And the Passenger prepares for a mouse hunt. On a previous excursion, our laptop mouse (which works much better on rough roads than a touch pad) somehow escaped. We have yet to trap it. A new one was recently procured, and packed, for this trip. It was snuggled into a cozy side pocket last night, but has since vanished. Are they in on this together? Remains to be seen! We hope.

12:30 pm. The truck is finally loaded. Time to go to work. Prep time: six plus hours. The Trucker’s day is just beginning.