Death is not the only way to lose a child, or the only kind of loss. No one of us has a monopoly on pain and loss.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Shoes
Death is not the only way to lose a child, or the only kind of loss. No one of us has a monopoly on pain and loss.
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
The Home Stretch
Fremont, Indiana. They awoke in the chill dawn of autumn, the Trucker and his Passenger. Hours left until legal to start the engine. Because there was time, and an extra shower on the account, they did. Breakfast then, after which the Trucker attended to business while the Passenger, with key and duffle bag, traversed the lot back to the truck.
A few seagulls floated lazily just above the rows of waiting trucks. And a bit of breakfast oatmeal remained in the bunk. It's was few days past human edibility. So she, and they, had fun with that. No photos here, but a few from Lake Point Utah, where there was another seagull encounter....
Any more food up there??
A row of beaks poking inquisitively along the trailer's edge, lookouts in the event more food appears.
The leader of the pack, peering down into the mirror.
And the one on the side view mirror, who eyeballed the Trucker sternly when no more handouts were forthcoming and rode that mirror through the parking lot before soaring away in disgust.
Tidying the bunk, packing clothing and bedding, consolidating. Almost home. At last.
This week has not gone as planned. When has it? But our God has provided every step of the way, even those times when fresh grief and betrayal again dissolved into tears that brought no relief. He has not promised to ease our path, but hold our hands securely while we navigate it. As illustrated in a small way in The Lord of the Rings,
Frodo groaned; but with a great effort of will he staggered up; and then he fell upon his knees again. He raised his eyes... to the dark slopes of Mount Doom towering above him, and then pitifully he began to crawl forward on his hands.
Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes....
'Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get!.... Sam will give you a ride.
Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes....
'Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get!.... Sam will give you a ride.
The the Trucker reappeared, the truck was fueled, the countdown complete and the day's drive could begin,
I guess I can go now. Splash in a little fuel and head for home.
Jolting out onto Ohio roads, the clock ticking. An onion truck ahead; the season is a bit late for onions on a flat bed, as they dare not freeze. Though the photo did not capture the black smoke pouring from his stacks when he shifted gears, it was plentiful. The Trucker commented that his load would be well seasoned and "fume"igated upon delivery.
The Trucker de-bugged the windshield this morning, though the squeegee provided was less than adequate. And the wiper fluid tank appeared to be empty, or the correct switch could not be located, or possibly both! So there are onions on the far side of those smudges.
Thinking back to the previous day in Nebraska. Crisp and clear and dry. Fields of corn and soybeans, while mature, were parched and brown-gold in color. Massive combines, tractors, and trailers traversed vast acreages, brown clouds of dust twisting above them. Forecasted rain for the week was measured in tenths of inches, unlike the deluges experienced on the east coast recently.
And before that, arrival at long last in Lincoln, Nebraska. Early Monday morning. To the Kenworth facility where the Green-and-White waited, wearing a new transmission. In the early morning, the Passenger packed up the Penske, transferred bags to the Kenworth, and remade beds and stocked cupboards while the Trucker settled paperwork and drove the Penske down the road from whence it came.
Upon his return, the mandated pre-trip inspection. And the un-mandated photo.
During which an air leak was heard. Too serious for the road. Replacement air bag needed. Another delay. Shoulders slumped, the Trucker returned to the shop. Yes, they can do this today. Give them an hour, and it will be in the shop. So far, so good.
The Passenger has been working this year on a project. Names of Jehovah stitched on fabric. meditating the while on reminders of Who He is. The hours in the truckers' lounge produced, among others, Shalom (He is Peace), Jireh (He Will Provide), and most needed for the journey, Shom (He is There). This last name is also the root of the word guard, as nearly as the Passenger can understand. So needed today, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.
The Passenger is rather slow on the uptake at times. Especially in the driver's lounge, when it dawned on her that the book she packed to study this week parallels her stitchery project. How could she not have made that connection before?? God Himself planned that!
And now, the homeward stretch. Five hours and fifty-two minutes til a mandatory "break" which is more like a high pressure rush to accomplish all that is necessary before hitting the road again. Careful management will allow the Trucker to reach Philadelphia, deliver his load
of pears, and arrive home, before the clock insists upon a ten hour break.
The sun is shining, the Son is here.
Friday, October 19, 2018
Moonlight on the Salt Flats
Eastbound rest stop on Route 80, 112 miles west of Salt Lake. The sun has already dropped off the western edge of the world, the moon has long since risen in the east, having showed its face over the mountains since midafternoon.
It was the hour of half light. That blue-gray time of not yet darkness, and not still light. But for the roar of trucks passing on the highway, the land rested quietly, awaiting night. The nearly-full moon spread its glow land-ward, mirrored in a small pond of water behind the buildings.
For many miles already, Route 80 had sliced through the Salt Flats. Here the land was low, and white. Occasional small bodies of water showed, and the area round them where water would be when more appeared. It was not sand, exactly, but not rocks either. Small pebbles, very small, but not rounded smooth as happens in flowing water.
With the Trucker's permission, the Passenger stepped inquisitively down the shoreline to meet the water that remained. Touched an experimental finger to the whiteness. The hardness was surprising. But firm pressure caused the white to yield like wet sand. Touching the finger tip to her mouth, taste buds assaulted by the extreme saltiness caused her to spit it out immediately.
Sprinting up the beach to where the Trucker sat, she kissed him. He too tasted the salt. Together they gazed across the land, the moon reflecting on the water, the vast expanses of salt glowing white in its light.
Then they walked back to the waiting Penske as darkness dropped around them. Sky became deeper blue, then blue-gray, ever darker but not quite black. Eastward on Route 80, the white land luminous under moonlight as a snowy evening in winter.
And the Passenger found an apple in her bag, though even that did not erase the salt from her highly insalted and unforgiving taste buds.
Level, straight Route 80 brought the Penske and Passengers toward Tooele, Utah. As the moon climbed through the sky, its light became sharper, brighter, and more focused. Dark changed shades to reveal outlines of mountains ahead. Behind and above them glimmered lights of Salt Lake City. Along the road now shimmered a lake, the moon spotlighting a path across the ripples. Beyond, lights of Tooele reflected white, yellow, red, orange on the water.
The Trucker remembers a time when this stretch of Route 80 needed rebuilt. The lake had risen, it's waves slapping the shore and overspreading the road, the salt damaging trucks and pavement alike.
Now a parking space at the Tooele TA. Weariness of yesterday is still present, and the pressure of schedule is done. Now to match schedules with the little black box when meeting it again Monday morning in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Curtains are drawn, paperwork completed. A small vibration in the bunk is creating cricket-like chirps. A homey touch. Good night.
It was the hour of half light. That blue-gray time of not yet darkness, and not still light. But for the roar of trucks passing on the highway, the land rested quietly, awaiting night. The nearly-full moon spread its glow land-ward, mirrored in a small pond of water behind the buildings.
For many miles already, Route 80 had sliced through the Salt Flats. Here the land was low, and white. Occasional small bodies of water showed, and the area round them where water would be when more appeared. It was not sand, exactly, but not rocks either. Small pebbles, very small, but not rounded smooth as happens in flowing water.
With the Trucker's permission, the Passenger stepped inquisitively down the shoreline to meet the water that remained. Touched an experimental finger to the whiteness. The hardness was surprising. But firm pressure caused the white to yield like wet sand. Touching the finger tip to her mouth, taste buds assaulted by the extreme saltiness caused her to spit it out immediately.
Sprinting up the beach to where the Trucker sat, she kissed him. He too tasted the salt. Together they gazed across the land, the moon reflecting on the water, the vast expanses of salt glowing white in its light.
Then they walked back to the waiting Penske as darkness dropped around them. Sky became deeper blue, then blue-gray, ever darker but not quite black. Eastward on Route 80, the white land luminous under moonlight as a snowy evening in winter.
And the Passenger found an apple in her bag, though even that did not erase the salt from her highly insalted and unforgiving taste buds.
Level, straight Route 80 brought the Penske and Passengers toward Tooele, Utah. As the moon climbed through the sky, its light became sharper, brighter, and more focused. Dark changed shades to reveal outlines of mountains ahead. Behind and above them glimmered lights of Salt Lake City. Along the road now shimmered a lake, the moon spotlighting a path across the ripples. Beyond, lights of Tooele reflected white, yellow, red, orange on the water.
The Trucker remembers a time when this stretch of Route 80 needed rebuilt. The lake had risen, it's waves slapping the shore and overspreading the road, the salt damaging trucks and pavement alike.
Now a parking space at the Tooele TA. Weariness of yesterday is still present, and the pressure of schedule is done. Now to match schedules with the little black box when meeting it again Monday morning in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Curtains are drawn, paperwork completed. A small vibration in the bunk is creating cricket-like chirps. A homey touch. Good night.
Back at Donner - Glacier Trail and Bear Proof Trash Cans
Arising before dawn, the Trucker and his Passenger headed out. From Yuba, on Route 80, through the Sierras. A more gradual ascent than when approaching from the east, but still a challenge for the Penske, toiling upward.
Forests of firs and pines line the roadways, punctuated randomly by clusters of aspens, already in bright yellow dress to celebrate fall's arrival.
At the top of Donner Pass, the Trucker entered and parked in the rest area, an empty parking space available this time. The morning was chill and still.
While the Trucker attended to paperwork and phone calls, his Passenger donned a jacket to supplement her California appropriate outfit of the previous day, and set out for a walk.
Behind the building, the Glacier Loop Trail, a half mile easy walk with "interpretive markers." She began walking, quickly learning that the "interpretive markers" were not adding much to her experience. Two markers in, she left the trail and began clambering over the massive, scattered rocks - glacier leftovers - in the loop's center. Much more fun, this, and more challenging.
Some rocks looked like they were placed purposely, cut intentionally.
Patches of fuzzy, yellowed and dead grasses interspersed the rocks. Where bare ground showed, small hoof prints could be seen. The Passenger kept an eye open for slither marks as well, though morning's chill would hopefully keep the source of such marks under cover.
Collections of dried leaves, sticks, and cones on the ground between rock outcroppings.
Intersecting with the end of the loop behind the buildings, a view toward the lineup of resting trucks in the lot.
And a look back, across the mountain and into the rising sun.
Split logs behind the building appear to provide a creative table and chair, maybe for the rest area staff lunch breaks?
Back on the sidewalk, the "bear proof" trash cans. Cemented into the ground.
When the lid is opened, a shelf is created, preventing hands, paws, or claws from reaching the trash inside.
Rejoining the Trucker in the cab, the Passenger shivers, realizing for the first how chilled she has become. "Had enough?" the Trucker inquired. Nope. Not even close. But warmer clothes are needed first. However, a shower is two hours away. Makes no sense to change now, and use up an extra set of clothing that will be needed later to finish out the week. Sigh.
This is life with the Trucker. Time to move on.
Delivery (and Reloading) Day, Part 2
Yesterday was the big day. Sunny central California. Just a smidge of a nip to be felt in shaded areas, though the Californians, mostly, were bundled in hoodies and winter coats.
BerkTek spools of wire to Hayward, where the Trucker didn't even have to back to a loading dock. Then into the traffic, and a few miles to Union City, for another delivery of wire. Very tight quarters this time, and the Trucker amazed even himself by swinging round and backing perfectly to the dock in one sweep. The Passenger was not amazed. She's come to expect such competence, even in a rental that has attitudes all its own.
We did get a chuckle out of the directions provided for this stop:
Ahem Avenue. Sounds like someone being caught in the act!
It was a typo - actually Ahern Avenue, to be exact.
A few minutes drive away as the crow flies, our final stop to deliver flooring supplies. Sadly, we were not crows. Nearly an hour of traffic later, arrival. Unloading was immediate, into an immaculately organized warehouse.
Back to play in the traffic, as the Trucker says. Including a trip over the San Francisco Bay on the Richmond Bridge. A lovely sight, but a bit out of the Passenger's comfort zone.
Forgive the bug graveyard decorating
the windshield in photos. Just Nevada
wildlife that came along for the ride.
Then, on to Finley for a reload of pears for the Philadelphia Market. More traffic. It never ends. This Passenger is....annoyed?...awed?...aggravated?...at the four wheeled vehicles that continually duck and dodge around an eighteen wheeler to "get there first." Do they realize they are putting their lives on the line? One of these times, when a trucker allows a few car lengths between his rig and the next for stopping, and not one but three little cars squirt around his bumper (a blind spot) into that space, he just may not be able to stop for them?
The route wound through places where the rich come to play. And through wine country, where rows of grapevines circled the hills and a sweet, grapey, winey smell filled the air.
The hill in the center back of the photo has a vineyard on it.
It had been twelve hours since the Trucker breakfasted, but the pressure was on to arrive at the loading point, and no place along the way with truck parking anyway. Eventually, the Scully Packing House came into view. So glad we had not stopped to eat, as we arrive just behind another truck, and a half hour before quitting time.
The man at the check in gate told us to follow as he led the other truck a mile down the road to a packing house where most of our load would be. Directed to back in off the road side by side, we watched as a wheeled ramp was rolled up and secured. A tow motor carried stacks of boxes out the door, set them down, and a skid loader slid its tines into the pallet and buzzed up the ramp and into the trailer. Very efficient and coordinated.
Nearly missed getting this guy on the photo. The tow
motor did the first run, then the skid loader took over.
A shot of the Penske rental. The Trucker told a friend he had
his doubts about the truck at first, but over the last two days has
really come to dislike it!
The truck loading ahead of us was run by an Indian couple about the age of the Trucker and his Passenger. They were from Toronto and driving team, expecting to have their load of pears back at Toronto in forty-eight hours. The lady obtained her license after raising their two sons, incidentally the same ages as our two sons. She told me in heavily accented English that the only difficulty they had when driving team was neither one wanted to give up the driver's seat! But using electronic logging required them to share. She was a beautiful woman, and by all appearances very cherished by her husband. (As the Passenger is by hers!) When they were ready to leave, she came to say an affectionate goodbye, even though we'd only just met. Another brief connection, with no opportunity follow through.
Then it was the Penske's turn, and very soon - as the workers wanted to finish as badly as we did - the load was accomplished, the truck weighed (how nice there was a scales on the premises), paperwork signed, and we were done.
Now a few minutes for personal needs!
The hombre went left, his Passenger, right.
Round the back of the mujeres' outbuilding.
The trailer wasn't going anywhere, soon.
And was the yellow chain between them
securing the building or the trailer?
On the road again. As the sun set in the west, the Penske rental rolled east. The "little engine that might" as the Trucker termed it, toiled up into the mountains. No place for a truck to park presented itself. Finally, a small convenience store with a lot behind it. The sign required registration and payment, but no one seemed to be about. The Trucker, exhausted after a short night, eighteen hours of heavy traffic, climbing in and out of the truck, schedules and deadlines, parked and collapsed into his bunk.
The dust settled soundlessly around the Penske. A clear, sky adorned with a sprinkle of stars flung around the moonlight's edges provided a canopy of beauty. The Penske and its inhabitants slept undisturbed.
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