Delivery Day, Hayward & Union City

The Penske Rental stopped at last, in the rest area on top of Donner Pass.  The small lot was full, but the weary Trucker created his own parking spot along a sidewalk, which still allowed traffic to proceed out the exit.  Ever parallel park an eighteen wheeler?

Weather is cold up here, so the Passenger added a turtleneck and socks to her ensemble.  In May, the building's doors were closed and the building was heated.  Now in October, doors were propped open, and the restrooms shared the 30 degree outdoor atmosphere.

We arrived after dark, and left before dawn, still managing seven hours of sleep for the Trucker.  A busy busy day ahead, three deliveries and a reload, all with unforgiving deadlines.  And the Penske is pre-programmed to limit speed to 72 mph, and be difficult to keep at a slow speed, and furthermore, die out when accelerating in traffic.

A quick stop for breakfast, as there is time.  The Passenger declines, being on the edge of a migraine and feeling queasy.  Taking the key, she heads back through the large, dark parking lot in search of the Penske.  Now the green Kenworth is distinctive, easily located.  A white Penske....what if there are others in this lot, and she attempts to unlock the wrong one?  Heaven forbid, with someone else inside?  Only one thing to do, circle the lot (a walk in early morning air feels good, even if the ambiance is lacking), and approach the row from behind.  Find the familiar trailer, and the tractor attached should be safe.  Got it.  

Shortly a text from the Trucker.  "You find it?"  Yep, she did.  And the bunk will be tidy when he returns.

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Through the hills toward Sacramento.  Dry grasses, scrubby bushes clinging to the slopes.  A few cattle grazing, seemingly on nothing here, areas scarred by fire there.  Small developments huddled between the hills.

Day has broken.  A bank of dusky clouds hang low overhead.  The Passenger chooses music for the morning, vintage 2nd Chapter of Acts.  An instrumental rendition of "O Sacred Head Now Wounded" sets the Trucker to thinking.  Yes, it was, he remembered correctly.  Paul Simon's "American Tune" uses nearly the same melody.  We listened to both.  Lyrics of one express hope and gratitude.  The other, pain and unanswered questions.

Winding through the hills toward Sacramento, the Passenger thinks wailing violin background music would be appropriate.  The fog from the bay drifts eastward, mingled with pollution raised from the city, to create smog.  No definitive beginning, just wispy gray tendrils.  Coiling, writhing, reaching toward us with claw-finger shaped extensions of mist, drawing us into the dimness.

At the top of the next hill, strong wind scrapes away smog to reveal clear sky above, and homes below.  Then back down to the valley.  Traffic thickens, six lanes each way, with frequent entrances and exits.  Small cars dart back and forth, changing lanes, seemingly oblivious to the trucks bearing down on them.  Helmeted and backpacked motorcyclists weave their bikes between all, roaring down the dotted lines that separate lanes of traffic.  

Still on Route 80, a bridge over a bridge, over the roadway that is on solid ground.   (The Trucker had offered to alter his route slightly to allow his Passenger to experience the Golden Gate Bridge, specifically the "sway" out in the center.  She decided photos were quite sufficient.)

Traffic increases.  

And increases again.

In Oakland, 9;30AM PST, bumper to bumper vehicles, now at speed, now almost a standstill.  The Trucker wrangles steering wheel and gearshift, and grumbles.  "Isn't it time you all were at work, and off my road?"  Commercial airliners drop from the clouds earthward, aimed at runways far below them and to our right.

Three deliveries today.  Berk Tek insulated copper wire to warehouses in Hayward and union City, California.  Then flooring products, also to Union City.  Backhaul will be pears, from Finley, California.

This is today.  Barely begun, and already we are dreaming of the high desert, the endless level plains, the empty roads.

Thank You for What You Do

October 17, 2018

Just after dawn the Trucker guided his Penske rental (which seems to be designed to make a skilled professional appear an inconsiderate ignoramus) into the Little America Truckstop, Wyoming. He’d brought the Passenger here before, but this time it was not for the well known 75 cent ice cream cone.

This time, it was breakfast. But first a few repairs were in order.

The Passenger entered the empty restroom, and began brushing night time's effect out of her hair. Yes, one doesn’t bother with such things in the truck unless there is no other option. A quick finger comb, and a reminder to self not to obsess about what other people think, has to do when entering a truckstop early in the morning. Time is of the essence, and staff are well accustomed to apparitions climbing out of trucks at all hours.

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Shortly, a young woman, gloved and bearing paper supplies, entered. She went about her duties quietly and efficiently, sober faced and not acknowledging my presence. We worked in silence for a minute, I on hair, she on restocking, then catching her eye in the mirror, I said, “Thank you for what you do!”

Her face transformed - became softer, more alive. “Thank you!” she responded. That was all. She left, and returned with still more supplies. Then I heard it. She was singing quietly, and a peek in the mirror showed a smile on her lips.

For her, as for all of us, a little recognition goes a long way.

We chatted, then, I asking which stall to use that would least interrupt her routine, she giving me tips on managing the electric “eye” on the faucets. We laughed together at the indignity of technology that forces one to stand, hands soaped, waving at an unsympathetic sensor which may or may not condescend to offer water.

We parted then, her to mop the floor, and I to join the Trucker, who stood waiting at the service window with two orders of eggs and toast. I wished her blessings on her day, and she safe travels on mine.

This is life on the road. Momentary connections, but no opportunity for lasting relationships.

But I will always remember how those seven ordinary words changed her face, and brought a song to her lips.

The Transmission......and Associated Struggles

October 15, 2018

A cold, day with small patches of snow in shady corners. The sun was shining. The Passenger was reading The America that Almost Was aloud to the Trucker, and fighting sleep that slurred her words.

The Trucker shifted gears, and a grating, grinding noise emanated from under the hood. He quickly shifted back. Time froze. The wheels kept rolling. The Trucker tried again, the noise repeated. He said, “This can’t be happening. Not again.” The words came out as a groan.

It was October 15, eleven miles outside of Lincoln, Nebraska, and the transmission had given notice.

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Early June, leaving the Philadelphia Market in heavy rain, a car hydroplaned on the Schuylkill Expressway, bent the truck’s bumper, took off the driver’s steps, and added a few scratches. No injuries, but no insurance on the part of the other driver either.

The next trip, in mid June, a draw tube broke off in a fuel tank.  This called for a tow, out in Idaho, and a comedy of errors til the cause of the shutdown was diagnosed and remedied, a two and a half day delay.  Had the cause been known at the beginning, simply shutting off that tank would have sufficed.  

The following trip, in July, the turbo went out unexpectedly and way before its time, calling for another tow into Kearney, Nebraska. This was a two day delay. The engine was not properly cleaned out, resulting in the new turbo being ruined immediately, with great risk to the recently overhauled engine. After babying the hesitating truck to the west coast and back, the damage was discovered, cleaned out, and yet another new turbo was purchased and installed. The shop where the original work was done refused any responsibility, so the Trucker paid, again.

Mid September, the call came from Ritzville, Washington. An accident. Again. A woman had a diabetic issue, accelerated across the median, and rammed the driver’s side fuel tank, after taking off the step once more. The front drive axle was knocked askew, the stack elbow smashed, more scratches, the suspension broken. It is believed that tears were shed on both ends of the phone connection. Discouragement, frustration, the cumulative effects of two years of grief, loss, and wondering where to go from here, coupled with extreme gratitude that the woman lived, and no fire resulted from the crash.

There was the obtaining of a rental, finishing the trip, returning the rental to Seattle, and various modes of transportation to Bozeman, Montana, where DS#2’s car had been abandoned for repairs a month earlier. Then the driving home of a small, troubled car. A very stressful trip for a Trucker running on fumes himself.

And the dear lady of the diabetic issues had no insurance either. A wait of two plus weeks before the insurance company’s verdict: repairable. We’ll send a check. God be praised. A friend committed to do the repairs. More decisions. The hunt for parts. More waiting.

On the morning of October 15, on the drop deck of a friend’s truck, the Wreck arrived at the shop to await further treatment. The Trucker could not be there to meet it, as he and his Passenger loaded up and headed out in an E & F truck the previous day, working for driver’s pay in the interim.

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The afternoon of October 15, the transmission.

The Passenger will spare details of limping eleven miles to the Kenworth dealer in Lincoln, Nebraska, the night in a motel, the Trucker’s mile hike to Penske for a rental, the switching of belongings, tools, food, and electronics to the rental, the deciding what to replace and what could be done without, the adjustments to use said rental efficiently.

The Passenger’s plan to experience electronic logs, and journal such, has evaporated. Best laid plans of mice and men once more. The Trucker is back to paper logs until switching back to the repaired truck enroute home. For now, deadlines loom, the load must be delivered.

But we wonder:

Is this normal life for some people, and we have been marvelously spared til recently?

Is this sequence of events somehow the Trucker’s fault?

Is this a spiritual attack?

When suffering a trial, one is tempted to think they are the only ones to have life so hard. In reality, as the Dread Pirate Roberts said to the Princess Bride in William Goldman’s classic, “Life is pain, Highness! Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

In every accident and breakdown, the Trucker was confirmed by the powers that be, to not have been the cause. Yet, doubts continually creep in. Am I still an able professional? And “what will people think?” But “people” were not there.

Just as “they” were not there when we raised our family. The only first person witness of our efforts is our God. Yet, “people” all have an opinion, for good toward us, or ill. And this is a perpetual weight, and a filter through which our emotions perceive all other events, despite our constant efforts to the contrary.

So, spiritual attack? Destroy our family, then level personal attacks. And when we were found still standing and moving forward by the grace of God, target the Trucker’s livelihood, which is to some degree a personal attack yet again.

It’s possible. But it then begs the question, why us? We, who desired to live quietly, serving where needed, the “quiet in the land?” What serious threat were we, to the physical or the spiritual world? No spiritual giants, we. Just average and striving for growth, honoring God as best we can.

After every round of grief and questions that have no answers, we come back to the same conclusion.

We cannot change a thing. There is nothing we can do. Except one.

Pray. Without ceasing.

Even when the heavens are silent. Even when we have no words. Even when nothing changes. Even when we falter, feeling unworthy to approach His throne. Prayer is commanded of God’s people. And He will answer, in His time.

Psalm 13 King James Version (KJV)

How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me? Consider and hear me, O Lord my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death; Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing unto the Lord, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.

Habakkuk 2 King James Version (KJV)

I will stand upon my watch, and set me upon the tower, and will watch to see what he will say unto me, and what I shall answer when I am reproved. And the Lord answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it. For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.

Say What? I Learn About the Language

Today, the Passenger asked the Trucker about CB lingo - what are some phrases and what do they mean?  Use of CB radios is less frequent since the advent of cell phones and headsets, but still the radio is a standard in trucks.  The Passenger sees them used mostly for traffic condition updates.

What about the number codes?  These came into use in the 1920's and 1930's when law enforcement began to use radio.  There was a need for clear and concise communication on those early radios.  There was also a need for a few seconds for the radios to warm up before use, which often cut off the first word.  The ten code, which can be looked up online, seemed to solve that problem.  It was first used by the Illinois State Police, and gradually was adopted across the country.  The two the Passenger has heard most frequently:

10-4 = I agree, I understand
10-20 = your current location

Then there is CB lingo.  Again for clear, concise communication, but maybe more so for a sense of community.  And humor.  Again, these can be obtained online, but here are a few which the Trucker provided, in no particular order:

smokey bear = policeman
bear trap = speed trap
bear in the air = law enforcement aircraft
bear bite = speeding ticket
paperhanger = an officer giving out tickets
scales = chicken coop (referring to the small building with glass window where the officers sit

Tijuana Taxi = fully decked out police car
plain wrapper = unmarked police car
bubble gum = lights on top of a police car
fender bender = accident
meat wagon = ambulance

covered wagon = trailer with a tarp
bobtail = tractor only, no trailer
18 wheeler = tractor trailer
4 wheeler = car/pickup truck
on the side = stop talking for a while

skateboard = flatbed trailer with no sides
bull hauler = cattle hauling truck/driver
bucket = dump trailer
thermos bottle = high pressure propane tank
tanker yanker = driver who pulls a tank trailer

portable parking lot = car hauler
stagecoach = tour bus
person who talks a lot = ratchet jaw
alligator = a piece of rubber (usually from a re-capped tire) on the road, that when hit, can fly back and "bite" or do damage to the truck

anteater = a Kenworth T600, which has a sloped, aerodynamic hood
back door = behind you
Bambi = deer

And there are many more - the list could be almost endless.  Trucking has changed over the years, and with it, the language.  Some would say the sense of community and camaraderie has been lost, in favor of each driver for himself.  This Passenger is not an authority, just an observer, supporting her Trucker as best she can.

Day Two

Despite the drawn curtains and the dreary morning and the short night, the Trucker was wake at his usual time.  The thermometer read 41 degrees.

A leisurely breakfast in the restaurant because we had the time, then out to the Truck.  It would seem, with 90 minutes til we are released to travel, that a good stiff walk would be in order.  However, wet and cold feet carried us back to the truck.  

How do you use the extra time?  Tidy up the bunk.  Journal.  Check email.  Realize the fridge is set to extra cold, as everything in it froze over night.  Arrange the cord needed to charge the laptop.    Learn how to connect the phone and radio via Bluetooth, which negates the need for the short cord purchased last night.  Oops.

When all is done, time remains.  The truck is cold.  The outside thermometer reads 42 degrees.  The Passenger has added heavy socks and a blanket.  

Here is the thing:  if the truck is turned on, and the Trucker hits one button on the screen by mistake, even with only a few minutes left, we would be stuck in this parking lot for another ten hours.  There is nothing practical about this arrangement.  All is pre-programmed and one-size-fits-all.  No room for mistakes.

The cloud cover is breaking up.  Breeze is graduating to wind.  After four hours of wakeful waiting, the day begins.

West on Route 80, near Des Moine. 5PM.  The sun shines warmly from a clear sky.  The predicted rain-turning-to-snow from yesterday's forecast has not materialized.  A herd of mustang ponies along the highway appear oblivious to traffic.

The little black box has been rendered speechless by the Trucker.  The display, however, announces five hours and fifteen minutes of driving left for today.  Another half hour break will need to happen sometime; most likely that will be shower time.  The Trucker and I can shower and be back in the truck ready to roll in 25 minutes, so that will work.

The Passsenger has noticed the Trucker is more tense this trip.  Not on the down hours - may as well relax, can't travel anyhow.  But when driving, the pressure is on to make every minute count.  It is not the low key enjoyment of doing his job well, as when he is not under electronic scrutiny.

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.