The Blessing of the Trucks

 Late afternoon found us at the Elkhart County Fairgrounds.  A quick look past the Montana motor home convention, and we were nearly the first in a lineup of trucks. Supper was enjoyed with a few others - those in charge of the event, and early birds like ourselves.

Late evening found us closing up the truck and gathering what we needed for the night - he with his duffle bag and briefcase and she with her backpack, for the half mile trot to our Airbnb accommodations.  A ride was offered, and we were there in minutes.

Our hosts were gone for the weekend, but had left us the passcode to enter their lovely and very clean home.  Up the stairs to our rooms - a second floor bedroom with a delightfully soft bed and pillows, a sitting room with comfy chairs, a coffee/tea station, and TV.  A bathroom completed our suite.  All beautifully decorated in a travel theme.  Maps on the wall were tagged with the invitation to pin our home location.  Folks from all over the world have rested here.

_____

Saturday morning early the Trucker was up and gone.  His Passenger, who had spent an uncomfortable night due in part to bruises at all the wrong places, opted to forgo the fun of watching trucks roll into the fairgrounds, and instead relax a bit longer.

She set out for a brisk walk just before noon, arriving in time for a chicken and pork BBQ lunch and the afternoon service.  The afternoon was quite warm, and she wished she'd come in the morning and gone back to the house for the afternoon.  After the prayer time over each individual truck and driver, the Trucker opened the bunk doors to create a breeze while she caught a nap.

This weekend for the Passenger was one to sit on the sidelines and rest, emotionally as well as physically.  So she let the socializing to the Trucker.

A supper of pizza and leftovers, and conversation with one of the prayer leader couples followed.  Cleanup was accomplished with all hands on deck, then folks drifted outside.  The children ran off more steam, as a lightbulb is brightest just before it burns out.  One by one the trucks were fired up, grumbling quietly under their breath, their lights glowing amber in the dusk.  The Trucker snapped his last photos, and they pulled away to the front lot.

Then it was a quiet hike in the dark to their quiet and cozy rooms for the night.

__________

Sunday morning, 5:30am found them both awake, so why not?  A quick pack job and the Trucker and his Passenger were off, he with his his duffle bag and briefcase, she with her backpack, computer bag and stitchery bag.  Now the street lights lit their way, and a cool night breeze ruffled their hair. 

Morning would break in an hour.  For now, the predawn darkness, the empty road, was theirs.

Delivering Chicken House Ventilation Equipment with the Trucker

 

September 10, 2021

Hudsonville, Michigan, near Grand Rapids

Well, this morning began with a thud.

We set out from home mid-morning yesterday. The Passenger was slightly amazed at how quickly old routines settled into place. She added her backpack, sewing bag and computer bag to the trucker’s duffle bag and they were off. Previously the Trucker had cleaned, inside and out, and added bedding on the upper and lower bunks.

As the miles rolled by, she dispatched all the bits and pieces of her to-do list still swirling through her head. Recent, long overdue repairs to the truck made it possible to cross stitch without drawing blood from jolts to the needle. Sporadic conversation planned an upcoming event, and they even attempted to solve a few of the world’s problems.

The Trucker and his Passenger arrived at 10pm last night, having done the whole run from home to delivery point. A bit over an hour prior, the he had passed over a lovely, empty rest area, wanting to park a bit closer to the delivery point, and knowing a truckstop was a few miles out.

But, said truckstop had literally no room at the inn. They could have rearranged a few trucks to fit ourselves in, especially that pickup truck who had planted himself in a big truck’s parking space...but not for them to do.

So, on to the chicken location. The Trucker rolled through the lot, selecting a parking space he judged most likely out of the way for incoming morning traffic. Quiet and calm it was, a lovely place to sleep. The sky was clear and freckled with bright stars. No facilities, but we hoped for an option in the morning.

In the morning… the Passenger awoke at her accustomed time somewhere around dark-fifteen o’clock, and was feeling every bit of a night on a thin hard mattress in the upper bunk. The Trucker’s accommodation was much cushier, but not wide enough for two. Since he does the work, she decided not to disturb him by relocating into his space.

Long about 6:30am, lights began coming on in the warehouse, and the need for facilities was reaching a point of no return. The Trucker moved to the driver’s seat to pull on his boots. With him out of the way, the Passenger, who was delighted to discover the night before that she still had what it took to vault up to the top bunk, began her dismount.

This too, was a routine easily fallen back into. Unfortunately, literally. Learn forward, grab the ledge under the window. Lean down, grab the seat back with the other hand. Slide down to place a foot onto the lower bunk’s edge, and drop. Well, she missed. And forgot socks are a bad idea when traction is important. A free fall and a twist landed her posterior hard onto the floor between the seats, slapping the gearshift forward as the rest of her arrived. Thankfully that twist prevented a face plant on the floor. It all happened so fast...as they say.

Sound effects must have accompanied her flight, as the startled Trucker whipped around, but his grab was too late and too restricted in the small space. Visions of an ER visit must have danced in his head by his facial expression. But no injuries to report, except to her pride. And a bit around the edges, where the seat belt buckles on the sides of the seats attempted a grab of their own.

Ah me, those “edges” will feel every jolt of the ride, me thinks. This is embarrassing!

Recovery accomplished, the Trucker and his Passenger met a friendly farm employee in the parking lot, who commended the Trucker for his out-of-the-way parking choice. A “farm restroom” was offered “as-is” and gratefully accepted. Apparently the farm manager relied heavily on black permanent marker on a frequent basis, for it was employed to write instructions on the wall for use of the facility, on the back of the door for when it was to be left open or closed according to the weather, and on the lid of the throne for what should and should not be done there. But, any port in a storm!

A second manager arrived and led them across the road, down a field lane, to a row of layer chicken houses. The company also raises their own pullets; those were housed down the road at yet another facility. Sunrise Egg Farms is a sprawling place! All the buildings were surrounded by cornfields; the corn was barely five feet tall, and already quite dry.

Where the lane turned into the barns, the truck splashed gently through a gully running with an antiseptic solution designed to sterilize tires.  No stray, out-of-town germs were welcome in this biosecure area.  No provision was made apparently, for the human feet which hopped out of the struck and strolled about the facility.  Oh well.  On this crisp, jacket-worthy morning with a stiff breeze playing over miles of flat in every direction, was it really an issue?

A SkyTrak on puffy tires followed us. This was a glorified forklift, which reached into the trailer to slide adjustable tines under each skid of supplies and roll them from the trailer to the bottom floor of a chicken house under construction. Tedious work, this, requiring a man on the trailer, and the Trucker on the ground in addition to the driver. The SkyTrak could raise, lower, and twist every part of itself into every conceivable angle. The Passenger did wonder whether engineers who designed this creature consulted the insect world created by God for ideas!

Conversation between skids revealed that this particular farm is home to approximately 2.4 million laying hens, with an equally sizable amount of replacement pullets. It seems Michigan of the progressive governor, recently passed a law requiring hens to now be uncaged, for a more humane life. The farms are under deadline to rip out all their cages and instead house the birds on open floors. Which is a great expense, and much more risk, to the birds, to egg collecting, and to the farmers’ bottom line. The government, however, did not supply any funds to offset the farmers’ expenses to comply with the new law. They did, in response to the farmers’ lobby, include a provision that Michigan egg buyers may not purchase cheaper eggs out of state from farms whose prices do not reflect excessive regulations. But will out of state buyers purchase the higher priced Michigan eggs? Or will this begin the slow death of Michigan egg farms and cause greater unemployment? This, they are waiting to see.

The ventilation equipment transported by the Trucker has only been expected for the last whole month, delayed by lack of workers to produce the parts needed for the ventilation system. Which delayed all other aspects of the job, while the deadline for compliance with the new laws grows ever closer.

The house under construction will have three stories of birds, in long, high cages similar to dog runs. Within will be numerous smaller cages set at a higher level where the birds will hopefully learn fly into, lay their eggs, and roost at night. Lighting will be meticulously adjusted to control the birds’ habits.

All for now. Time to swipe the Trucker’s phone for a hotspot to send this epistle, as the laptop doesn’t recognize the Passenger’s phone hotspot.

_______

Later in the day, a stop was made for their meal.  At 76th Street Cafe, near Grand Rapids, Michigan.  Good food, way too plentiful.  A pleasant and very attentive waitress.  The special of the day?  Pig Pile, for $10.49 each.  Ah, nope.  Not when the Passenger's imagination eats before she does.  Probably quite a delectable dish, but not under that description!

Setting the Hens

A year ago, Daddy purchased a flock of teenage hens, and one egotistical rooster.  Feeding the chickens became our daily date, each afternoon.  Eventually, the first egg appeared in the vintage nest box hung on the interior barn wall.  In short order more, and then up to 18 eggs every day.

Later that summer, one young hen began vocalizing the distinctive "clookclook" language, indicating she was feeling broody.  Ready to "set," as Grandma always called it.  Daddy waved away the idea.  "Too much work," he said.  But Hen-rietta was persistent.  Every day for three months, either Daddy or I hauled her off her nest and retrieved the eggs she preferred to remain planted upon.  She was not impressed or appreciative and the sound effects were deafening. 

When Hen-rietta finally admitted defeat and rejoined fowl society, it was not welcoming.  She had begun to molt, and her bare skin offered no protection from her sharp-beaked neighbors.  She retreated to the nest box again, her place of safety.  The only time she ventured out to attend to her own needs was when the flock was let out to scratch and peck in the meadow.

Out of sympathy for her plight, I walled off a section of the pen with wire found in the upper barn.  Hen-rietta now had her own apartment, but a clear view of her neighbors and they of her.  Terrified at first, she, gradually regained both feathers and confidence, which put her neighbors on notice. Hen-rietta grew out a new set of fluffy underwear topped by lovely rust feathers with a unique design above her tail section.  All was well again, mostly.

Spring arrived, and a few of the hens busied themselves with cleaning out their closets, so to speak, and dropping old feathers along the way.  One was Harriet, though her timing was a bit off.  She began "clookclooking" around the barn, then parked herself in a nest box with an "I shall not be moved" air.  Here we go again.

Two weeks in, an echoing "clookclook" was heard.  Oh no, not again.  Hen-rietta?!  We've just been through this!  Daily, I uprooted both stubborn hens, who were quite willing to make their point with a sharp beak employed at lightning speed.

Tuesday evening was mild.  I let the hens and their crowing companion onto the newly mown meadow for scratch-and-peck time.  Hen-rietta and Harriet maintained their determined vigil in empty nest boxes.

I gave up.  From the upper barn, a wire cage was found, modified by Daddy in the past to have two small apartments, with a doorway in the center wall.  The wire had a tight enough mesh to contain peeps.  It was placed in the chicken barn. Further exploration into Daddy's stash produced two water dishes, and a long feeder suitable for peeps that fitted in the doorway between the apartments.  Their mothers could use it in the interim.  But what about nests?  Plenty of wood shavings and straw, but the eggs would roll about.

A second rummage through the upper barn's bin uncovered two discards from Mama's long ago kitchen.  An 8 x 8 square cake pan, and a handle-less round skillet of similar size to the cake pan.  One was placed in each apartment, softened with wood shavings, and they became home to 5 eggs each.

Then each wanna-be hen mama was introduced to her new abode.  They did not take it kindly, escaping quickly back to their nest boxes, completely oblivious to the fact that the boxes were empty but their new kitchen cast-offs were not.  I replaced them quickly, shut the door and let them be.

Next day, a visit showed instinct had regained the upper hand.  Each hen had claimed her nest, one in the skillet, one in the cake pan.  Upon describing the scene to my sister, I received this response:

"Umm, isn't it customary to remove the hen BEFORE putting eggs in the skillet?"

Well, yes, and we generally add flour and sugar and such like rather than a chicken, when eggs go in a cake pan.

But any port in a storm, and this storm seems to be over.  Except when I turn up to feed, or a fowl friend pauses by the wire for innocent conversation.  Then the sound effects are quite inhospitable.

One week in.  Two weeks to go, before the next housing crisis hits.  Oh me, what have I done??

In the Grocery Store

In the grocery store this morning, I witnessed a lady verbally assaulting a young man because he was mask-less. He stood quietly under the barrage of accusations ("Obviously you do not care about anyone but yourself, etc.") and when she stalked off, muttering, he calmly resumed shopping. Later, we met in the bulk aisle. I expressed my appreciation to him for standing by his convictions, yet not arguing, which would have escalated her intensity.

He responded, "Something rose up in me that wanted to defend myself, or at least try to explain. But I knew it would be wrong, so I didn't. And I knew that she didn't want to hear what I had to say. To her, only her opinion counted." Most insightful.

He added, "I trust God for my health and safety and refuse to live in fear. God created my body to handle germs."

His calm assurance encouraged me. This is not about who is right or wrong. Not about the issues at all. But it IS about the freedom we still (hopefully) have to think independently and live according to our convictions.

Somehow in the last year, arms that used to reach out to embrace and include, now stretch out to push away. What matters now is "me", not "you". Our verbal swords are sharpened and ready to slash wounds in those who do not share our opinions but prefer to develop their own.

Somehow I cannot think that the One who moved freely among the sick and the diseased and the dying, would now don a mask and social distance. He put others before Himself, and was crucified for His efforts. That sets the bar rather high for us, don't you think?