I found this cool Cherokee Legend in a book called "Buddha is as Buddha Does." In looking for a good picture, I found the legend plastered all over the web. I really liked it, so I'm going to show it to you anyway.
Around a crackling fire, a Cherokee Grandpa is attempting to explain life to his grandkids. He says, "There is a great fight going on inside me; a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf is evil; he is anger, fear, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, and guilt. The other is good; he is love, peace, joy, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, and kindness. This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person."
The grandkids thought about it for a while and then one asked, "Which wolf will win?"
The old Cherokee, looked off into the smoke curling up from the fire, and replied: "The one you feed".
My truck's starter was going out, so dispatch had me switch trucks to deliver the load I was pulling. This other truck was brand new; with just 16,000 miles. The truck I had been driving had 504,000 miles on it!
The interior was spotless. The transmission tight. Both completely out of my recent experience. I was having trouble shifting; grinding the truck's virginal gears. After a while, I figured out that the 'H' pattern of the gear shifter was on a slight angle; like the brand for the Lazy H Ranch. My old truck had an old-school, non-ergonomic, straight 'H,' parallel with the truck.
This may seem trivial, but muscle memory and habit were so strong that I could hardly shift. Not only was the 'H' ergonomically slanted but the tight, new transmission had very little travel between gears. I was moving the shifter too far to the wrong place.
There are only 372 RPM's between gears, I heard on a road test. So when I moved from a dead stop and missed the next gear, chances are when I fumbled to try again the engine had slowed more than 300 and some RPM's. My brain had to process that I couldn't shift to that higher gear and needed to put it back in the original gear. With a particularly heavy load or on a steep hill, the truck may have slowed enough that I missed the original gear and had to go one lower. Worst case scenario -- grind, grind, grind -- and I just had to stop and start from the bottom gear. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was doing all these things.
While having all this fun, I had to deliver on the northside of Cincinnati. The directions, of course, were confusing and I had to turn around in a fancy business park. Try that when you are 80 feet long. I was getting frustrated. Finally, after meandering down a curvy, tree-lined back street, I arrived at the Customer's facility.
Dispatch had sent me in early because I was low on driving hours, but I had to wait anyway. Three hours later, I finally headed out. I couldn't legally drive anywhere but back in the days of paper logs, I was going to find a peaceful parking spot.
Just as I wandered out the curvy lane, now in the dark, I could see headlights approaching the intersection from my left. As I slowed to turn, a big truck pulled up to a stop sign. Gliding into the intersection and going slow, I evaluated if I could get around this guy and if he was going to actually stop. And I was grinding gears, but managed to physically jam the transmission into a gear.
The other truck has paused long enough that I knew he is respecting my right-of-way and was going to let me proceed. I released the clutch to move, but was in too high a gear and stalled the truck. I was in the intersection but not so far that I had him blocked. Surely with some disgust, the other driver just went on by me. My face burned in the dark and he disappeared over the hill.
The Seinfeld Show was a cultural touchstone. People either loved it or hated it. It was just quirky enough to get my funny bone. In one show, the gang goes out to the Hamptons to visit some friends and see their baby. Their friends' place has a pool and it must have been cool outside.
Jerry's girlfriend Rachel was looking for the baby's room and opened a door to reveal George who had just removed his trunks. She screamed and said "Sorry, I thought this was the baby's room." Then her gaze lowers as George stands there in all his glory. She smirks, and with a chuckle, says "I'm really sorry."
Poor George's life story: Rachel had said so much in those last three words; gelding him more swiftly than with a scalpel, more permanently than with a rusty butter knife.
George yells after her, "I WAS IN THE POOL! I WAS IN THE POOL!"
Stalling your truck at a lonely intersection in front of another driver is almost the perfect equivalent to being caught in a diminished state with your damp swimming trunks around your ankles.
