Square Peg, Round Hole

Square Peg, Round Hole

October 14, 2018

On the road again. After a week of working against the clock at home, on the Passenger’s part, to prepare for an absence, to ten days or so of hopefully working with the clock, on the part of the Trucker.

The...well, let’s just lovingly call it the Wreck….is working its way eastward perched on a friend’s drop deck, to arrive tomorrow. While we are working our way westward, to arrive home again week after this. And the "fix-it-up-chappie" will not be ready to work his skills until the week after this, as well.

We are grateful the Trucker has a means of earning while we wait. And it’s a green Kenworth! But it is not home. Inside the green, much is different.

As tools, bedding, appliances, even utensils, are still in the Wreck, the Trucker spent days thinking through what is necessary to replace and what can be done without. And worked hard to make the accommodations comfortable for the Passenger.

Today arrived. A breakfast with the recently returned DS#2, and cheerful chatter about the day, the week ahead, the night before, and the friend’s engagement news. Tis the season, for him, to have friends in marrying mode.

Then packing last food supplies for the school’s week of meals. And worship with the family of God. We slipped out early then, for a quick, nearly Passover-style lunch with DS#2 (standing rather than sitting). Last bags were packed, goodbyes said, felines evicted from their warm rockers, and we were off.

The big green machine waited at the shop. 

The same size truck and bunk as the Wreck, though twelve years newer. Aerodynamic curves where the Wreck is rectangular.  But the Swan still leads the way!

The swan leading the way home on the hood of the Wreck.

The interior feels a bit cramped, as it is more configured. Seats are wide and comfortable, but as the Passenger is also wide and comfortable, moving from seat to bunk will need to be done less frequently for the sake of the Trucker's elbow room.

Here, there is plastic where the Wreck has metal. The engine noise is muted somewhat; a bit of the roar is muffled. The fridge’s interior décor is multicolored, which will be remedied on the earliest enforced break time. Windows are larger, they and door locks, electronic. Brakes are not as responsive as in the Wreck, and the Trucker is working on adjusting to the feel and handling of this version of Kenworth.

The Trucker plugged in his phone, and offered his Passenger first choice of music. How nice! And how good of DS#2 to set his Daddy up on Spotify. Music the Passenger can sing along with! Maybe pleasing to the ear, maybe not.

The most significant difference? A little black box with a voice, on the dash. We’ve a feeling it will be preventing a bit of our dash this week. From the moment the Trucker logged in, his every move and the timing thereof, dictated and monitored. Electronic Logs, Elogs for short.  Sounds like the name of one of Tolkein's goblins under the mountain!

Mark Weiler I bet it'll talk to ya 
If you set the buttons right 🤔

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Tim Frey You will never win !! I've had mine for 3 years and it's called "creative trucking" ..

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Larry Diller B safe. Happy trails. Good to have met u guys. We enjoy our breakfast at shady maple with u

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Mike Weaver Whole new level of hurry up and wait 👀👀🚶🚶🚶🚶

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The engine churned to life at 1:32PM, needing to idle fifteen minutes while the Trucker is to be doing his pre-trip. When the wheels began to roll, so did the countdown. Seven hours and forty-five minutes til a mandatory break, if not taken before the deadline. Twelve hours on duty coming up, no matter how weary the Trucker becomes.

A whole new routine here. After thirty-four years of planning his own schedule, that schedule is now the square peg needing fit into a new, round hole.

Crowded Sunday highways, construction, overcast skies spitting periodic rain. The ride is smoother, the music, calm harmonies. Mid-October nothwithstanding, trees are green. This is today.

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5:37PM.  The half hour break happened at a rest area in Barkeyville, PA.  Despite sunshine, air was cool, the sun slanting in from the west.  We paced the sidewalk bordering the restrooms, then the Trucker rested while his Passenger took a hike through the lawn behind the buildings.  Curiosity drove her, and another gentleman who turned up in a car, to check out the weathered, small, arched wooden bridge at the lawn's end.  What a disappointment!  It led to a short path through tall brush, which in turn led to a high, wire fence.  A dead end.

Back to the truck, and a quick supper of ham and swiss sandwiches.  The Trucker had been counseled to to extend his half hour break by a few minutes, to be sure he and the little black box were on the same clock.  A 29 minute break by mistake would not count, and another half hour break would need to begin immediately.  Not a risk he wanted to take.

The sun dropped lower as our trip resumed; we drove toward a glorious sunset painted in ever changing colors.  The temperature also dropped; we will meet snow tomorrow in Iowa.

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1:45AM, the Trucker pulled into the TA Truckstop at Lake Station, Indiana. Except that we are in another time zone now, so the clock reads 12:45AM...making it look like that last hour’s work didn’t exist. Except it did. Glad it’s not a time change weekend as well.

Steady rain through the evening created puddles through the lot. This Passenger is regretting leaving her winter boots behind – at home, they seemed excessive for mid-October.

A quick restroom stop, making up a bed in the upper bunk, dropping the curtains, and it was past time for sleep. The Passenger learned that a sleeping bag on the top bunk has the stability of sleeping on ice, and someone thought a low watt red bulb was a good idea for upper bunk illumination. Scripture reading on the phone, then, rather than out of the Book.

The curtains give a closed-in feeling not altogether to our liking, but it is to be hoped that will enable the Trucker to sleep longer.

Good Night.

The Telephone Book

Our new phone book arrived last week.  The Trucker retrieved it from the front lawn, where it had been delivered in a white plastic bag.  An annual publication from the (not so) local (anymore) phone company.  

We remembered these books from our childhood, and how they were delivered house to house by temporary workers hired by the phone company.  In bags hung on mailboxes, or tossed onto front lawns.

Thick tomes, hundreds of pages, with names, addresses and phone numbers in rows of fine print.  An entertaining diversion on a quiet Sunday afternoon, finding your family's number, or that of friends and relations.  An equal number of advertisements, and fun pages of health and safety warnings, and that list of all the area's zip codes, for when you are addressing Christmas cards.

The Trucker remembers a delivery lady having car trouble when passing by his home when he was in his early teens.  An attempt to assist her landed him in the hospital for a few days with severe burns.  Not a pleasant experience.

His Passenger remembers sitting on several at mealtime as  child, booster seats either not yet having been invented, or at least not having arrived in her home.  Why bother, when the phone book works just as well?  A phone book booster seat also promotes good posture; leaning too far in any direction would cause the whole thing to shift, possibly directing the person parked on the stack floorward.

That same small girl stood on a combination of phone books, a dictionary and her father's Bible concordance as a small child, in order to reach the sink to wash dishes before school.  Again an exercise in agility.  While the dictionary and concordance were reliable supports, the phone book was unpredictable.  A shift to the east would send the book scooting west, and vice versa.

Times have changed.  Those fun memories are just that.  Memories.  Last week's delivery measures 5 x 7 inches, as opposed to the 8 x 10 inches of yesteryear.  Not to mention being a quarter inch thick instead of two inches thick or more.  The hundreds of pages of fine print?  Have become twenty-seven pages of medium print, with a corresponding number of advertising pages.  The zip code page is still present, however.

The dictionary and concordance remain approximately the same size.  The concordance, at least, is still full of truth; the dictionary - well that may be debatable.

But it is doubtful today's phone book would help a small person reach the sink to wash dishes.

In Memory of Dad

It is a privilege to have both my parents still alive, still within reach.  At times I wonder why I am so blessed when the Trucker has suffered the loss of his, though we know that they are more alive now than they ever were on this earth.

Today marks two years since we laid Dad's body to rest, under the headstone that also bore mom's name, and looked toward the future through our tears.  Two years during which we longed for his listening ear and counsel like never before.

What the Trucker shared at Dad's funeral gave insight into the man he was, and who the Trucker is now.  And it was re-read this morning as I remembered:

There are many things I could say about my relationship with my father. I could keep you here for hours. I could tell you about all the times I rode with him. How I learned how to deal with people and how to get the job done, by watching him. He taught me a love of driving, and of seeing the country. But I will try to keep it short.

My father seemed to be destined to drive truck. Early on one of his teachers recognized this. As Dad told me, the teacher said, “Weaver, can you spell “go”? He spelled it, then the teacher said, “Weaver, can you spell “stop”? After he spelled it, the teacher said, “That is all you need to know.”

I have known few people who were better prepared and able to fulfill the job they chose. Dad was able to sit behind the wheel for hours on end and after a short nap be ready to go again. His 15 minute naps were legendary. When I was young he would pull over, look at the clock, and tell me when to wake him, usually 15 – 30 minutes. He would lay down and be instantly asleep. When I would say, “Dad, it’s time to get up,” he would stop snoring and say, “OK.” One time he told my wife that “When we ran together some times Ronnie would get grouchy.” She asked him if he realized “Ron might need more sleep than you do?”

From the day Uncle Titus took him for his driver’s test to the day he was diagnosed with leukemia, he was always ready to do whatever needed done. He never asked a driver to do something he would not do himself. At times he took on the hard runs rather than ask someone else to do it.

When a driver made a mistake, he was ready to tell him. After he said his piece, he was ready to move on, and help the driver do better. I have certainly been at the other end of some of those talks. When it came to trucking, he was always ready to give advice to an old friend or someone he just met. I believe I can say there are few that have worked for Dad or with him who have not come to respect him.

He truly loved what he did, and passed that love on to me. One time when I was feeling guilty about being gone so many weekends and missing church so much, he acknowledged that church was important, but he told me, “Sometimes when driving I feel closer to God than in church.” I knew what he meant. To stop in the middle of the desert late at night and see all the stars, or to be driving early in the morning and watch the sky slowly lighten til the sun finally shows on the horizon. Or doing battle with rain and snowstorms. I remember when riding with him and later when I was on my own, racing a storm across the country trying to stay one step ahead of the bad weather. This is all part of God’s creation that he taught me to love.

A man can develop a longing to see the plains and the mountains, and for a man and his truck to try their skills and power against the terrain and the elements. These are things that he (and I) enjoy. A man has a need to test himself constantly to feel like he can still do the job.

My sisters tell me he would often say, “The Lord and trucking have been very good to me.” I do not remember him saying that, but then he didn’t have to tell me.

And on the side of the green Kenworth today, a gold lettered tribute that reads, 

Riding with the memory of Pancho, 

and all he taught me.

Grapes from the Vine

The early morning call prompted the Passenger from her bed, just a few hours after she had collapsed there.  

Grapes were in, and ready to be collected.  A truck had left them at a local farm, stacked on the forebay, with doors open into the cow stable.  Two banana boxes reserved for us.  

The sticky sweet "grapey" smell was different somehow, this year.  A a bit sharper, maybe.  Definitely time to process them.  A few days ago would have been better.  Or maybe the abundance of rain aged the grapes more rapidly?

From my own small grapevine, complete with front

doors the small worms created, in the absence of

pesticide as a deterrent.

Memories of years gone by rushed in.  When children .lined up on the laundry bench to stem grapes.  Singing, arguing, listening to Adventures in Odessey CD's.  Or on the porch, swatting away yellow jackets while they worked.

Two years ago, grapes arrived the day of the funeral.  The day we said a final goodbye to the Trucker's father.  Dear friends stored the grapes in their cooler.  DS#2 picked them up after the funeral, and stayed home to help stem them, while the Trucker gathered with his siblings to process their grief in practical ways for the evening.

As we stemmed that evening, exhausted and numb from the day's events, conversation was quiet and intermittent.  No record exists of what was said.  But the caring gesture - that of helping to stem grapes - will always be remembered.

Today's temperatures were typical for fall, but the high humidity, combined with hours of steam generated by the canner, turned the kitchen into a sauna worthy of midsummer.  And for the first time ever, grapes were done alone.  

One may become accustomed to being alone.  And even rather enjoy it, in a way.  But the reason one is alone.....that pain never eases.

An intermission to transport a friend's children to their home school class while their mother/teacher was at an appointment out of town did little to cool the kitchen.  But by 10pm, when the weary Trucker rolled in on the prayers of his erstwhile Passenger, the last round was just beginning to boil on the stove.

And now the house is quiet.  Crickets energetically communicating outside, a cool breeze flowing through the screens, and the periodic snapping of jar seals make up the symphony of this night.

Two banana boxes.  63 jars.  126 quarts of grape juice prepared for winter.  Autumn's final chore  before the canners retire to the attic to await another year's summons.  Relief, thankfulness, and the satisfaction of a job well done.

Little Pink Candies

There are very few memories of Grandpa - my father's father - on his feet.

-  striding down the lane in predawn mist, calling the cattle in for milking.  Try as I might, I never could imitate that call correctly.  The cows just didn't hear me.  But they heard him.

- holding me up, so I could peek over the barnyard fence at the new bull.  On my own, I would not have been permitted to get close enough to see.  But in his arms I was safe.

- patiently listening to my childish chatter as he shoveled silage from wagon to feed trough for the steers on a frosty morning.  I was confused because he wore only one glove.  Mama made me wear one for each hand, ones she carefully knitted herself.  Grandpa told me that only one of his hands got cold; I wondered how that could be?  I still don't know where the other glove was.  Lost?  Carried away by the dog?

And then, when I was five years old, a severe stroke confined Grandpa to bed and chair for his last thirteen years.  Then the memories were of Grandpa in his chair by the barn-facing window, on the porch, or in a wheelchair down by the barn.   And slow, shuffling steps, leaning heavily over his walker, in between.  But one thing that did not change -   

- little pink candies.  They were always in Grandpa's pocket, or in a small, white dish by his chair.  They tasted like the PeptoBismol we had to swallow when our tummies were upset.  And their sugary, solid texture was much easier to tolerate than that thick liquid!

Little pink Canada wintergreen candies.

You could stack them....

...till they fell over.

You could try to read the word on the top...

...and eventually eat them.

Oldtimecandy.com tells us this:

Canada Mints first appeared in the Canadian Market during the late 1880’s and found an audience in the United States in 1908. They were first packaged in a 5 cent unit in 1916. Canada Mints remains one of the most popular sugar lozenge mints in the country.

While shopping at a local discount store today, I came across the candies again.  And bought some.  Ate more than was good for me.  And remembered.  

The Trucker called from Wisconsin while I was writing.  "Oh!" he reminisced.  "Yes, my Grandpa always had those things too.  He would give me some every time we visited."

Grandpas and little pink candies.  They just seem to belong together.

Now if I could just figure out why the PINK candies are winterGREEN flavored.  The white ones are peppermint, and the GREEN candies are spearmint.  Somehow that still doesn't make sense to me, why the GREEN candies are not WINTERGREEN flavored.

And I still don't know what that word on the face of each candy is.  Canada, maybe?

But they surely taste good.

Ministry of Meals

Someday will be time to explore the thought that God seems to be challenging the Passenger on her list of "I will not" in life.  

But today, the task of procuring, organizing, preparing, and transporting food for another week of warm meals for school children.

Last week looked like this... 

Last night looked like this...

This resembles planning and packing food for a trip to the mountains, every week.

The Trucker is very supportive.  Helpful when fetching and carrying.  Gracious when hours in the kitchen are wearying and long.  Generous with finances.

The Passenger is not a stellar preparer of food.  She gets the job done, but it is basic, not an art form.  Think, cook to live, not live to cook.

And here is what keeps her in a constant state of wonderment - while called to do this, she doesn't enjoy any part of the process.  

But what has been learned?  When God calls, one answers.  Even if it is not one's preferred task.  He will supply the energy, motivation, ability.  Certainly the time and resources.  And the protection.

The question remains, why do You want me to do This, when I'd really rather be doing That??

And until the answer comes, I commit to wait and do This, while praying about That.

Reminders of You

Morning has come.

No matter what the night held,

No matter how dim 

the hope of a new day seemed.

The newly risen sun 

joins with the dew,

and the spinners' handiwork  

to bejewel my window.

Even the most lowly creature

offers beauty to the world.

Beauty that would be missed,

had morning not come.

Thank you Lord, 

for the small glimmers

that pierce my darkness.

Reminders of You.