Of Bunnies, Buggies, and Bumpy Lots

January 26, 2018

Rolling forward on I 90/94 West. A quiet morning. Small farms line the highway, nice small houses and decrepit barns. Fields of corn stubble show black soil between small piles of leftover snow. Occasional tufts of trees break the landscape. Under a clear sky, the temperature stands at 34 degrees.

It was especially difficult to leave home this time. Needs at home and on the road, that sense of “unfinished”, yet the “finish” is out of our control. Tears did not mean unwillingness to go, but yet another wrenching of the emotions the Passenger has little reserve to handle these days.

The Trucker and his Passenger are a fine pair this trip. He is suffering damage in his ear, causing constant pain and diminished hearing, the result of a rather aggressive procedure a few days ago. She is bearing the symptoms of the season, most notably in the lack of vocal ability. It could be argued that makes her a more valuable Passenger? This inability to speak? We won’t risk expanding that topic at the moment. Suffice it to say, communication is whispering on the part of the Passenger, with the usual response of “What’d ya say?” on the part of the Trucker. This in competition with engine noise.

A light load, this time. From the Palmer Company in Reading, PA, a full load in volume, but not in weight. According to the packing slip, 19,950 hollow chocolate bunnies have been herded into the trailer. I use the word “herd” because that is what a large group of rabbits is called, provided they are domesticated. The Trucker assures me his rabbits are indeed domesticated, as opposed to a “fluffle”, which is a large group of wild rabbits. (Huh. Really? I’ve been using that word as a joke for years! Nice to finally learn it is a real word.) 

Included in this bunch of hollow bunnies are such characters as Peter Rabbit (4,320 of him), Bunny Big Ears (2,412 of them), Professor D. Crisp (1,500 of that esteemed variety), and so on.

Being hollow, the bunnies actually weigh less than their packaging, the lot of which adds up to less than 11,000 pounds. Lord willing and the wind doesn’t rise, this load will make it over the Rockies with all 18 wheels on the road.

A day of driving brought the big green Kenworth to the 5 & 20 Country Restaurant in Shipshewana, IN. A large dirt lot, a warm building, a tasty supper. The Trucker parks in the row, wearily noting that some, at least appear settled for the night. We, however, have miles to go before we sleep.

The dining area was packed with black garbed Amish. The only relief in the sea of home-sewn black were white shirts on the men, and stiff, almost cylindrical shaped caps on the women. Amish in this area do not farm, for the most part, but make up a large part of the work force in the local RV industry, for which the area is known. Out back, the horses attached to their black, square buggies were having their own social gathering.

While debating her order, the Passenger hesitated over the buffet’s price tag. The softspoken, middle aged, Beachy Amish waitress kindly offered, “Did ya wanna chust try the soup & salad, then if yer still hungry, ya can do the whole thing and chust tell me how much ya ate?” Ah, no. “Still hungry” will not be a problem. While seated, the Trucker asked his Passenger, “May I take your photo?” OK. “And may I post it?” Sigh. I guess. He had a specific reason for this, which will remain undisclosed for the moment. She should have known better than to trust his evaluation of her appearance, though…

Back on the road, to put Chicago in the rearview mirror, as the Trucker says, before morning rush hour. Chicago at night equals rush hour in Lancaster county, in the Passenger’ uneducated opinion. The city never sleeps. When traffic keeps moving, approximately 90 minutes is required to cross the city. Which it did, this time. Tall office and apartment buildings, some old, some modern, most windows still lit at 8pm. Twined around them, a tangled jungle of streets, roads, highways, over and under passes. The Trucker is heard to wince on occasion, as a particularly sharp pain slices his ear.

After debating fuel prices at two locations, the Trucker settles on a fuel stop at Elgin, IL. Cheaper fuel was an hour down the road, but the likelihood of a parking space there was slim. So, a bit of fuel, then a tight maneuver into one of the few remaining parking spaces. Just as it was accomplished, the Trucker noted a “reserved” sign. No way to know if the truck for whom it was reserved will show up in the night. 

Across the street, to try again. Blutzing through a rutted, unpaved lot, with random snow and ice patches, the Trucker backs his rig into the last row, bordered by a collection of discarded tires and assorted trash. Finally settled and able to relax in the bunk, as sleep was drifting in, a firm knock sounded on the door. The Trucker got up, to see a security personage who inquired, “Didya know ya gotta pay $10 to park here?” Too exhausted to argue, the Trucker paid, and collapsed into sleep.

Awakening in the early morning darkness, stumbling through the rutted, icy lot between rows of sleeping trucks, the Trucker and Passenger find the buildings closed and locked. A trip down the road will be required for “facilities”. Welcome to another day in the Trucker’s life!

Sandwiches warmed in the microwave constitute breakfast on I 90/94 West, as we watch a new day dawn. The Trucker’s pain has increased, the Passenger’s voice has not. On to Chehalis, WA, with the hollow bunnies!