Bring Me My Brown Pants . . .

It started as a normal day. Often, nothing good starts that way. I picked up a load in Michigan bound for Georgia. The load had a tight schedule and I didn't have enough hours to legally deliver. In this situation, the company will 'repower' the load. In other words, I had to meet up with a driver who had hours enough left to take it on to Georgia.

I met the guys [a team, hence plenty of hours], at the Louisville, KY yard. They had called me and mentioned driving through the projects to get there. I had once lived in the city limits of Detroit and figured they was just another couple of paranoid white guys.

I wove my way through the southside of Louisville to the yard. It didn't seem that bad. I was even watching for a place I could grab a bite to eat. The yard was, indeed, right across the street from a public housing project. There was a gate out by the street [open] next to a building. Behind that building was an alley and then another building. It was barren old manufacturing space; abandoned and then leased to a trucking company.

The guys were waiting inside the gate. I dropped the trailer right there and went around behind the back building to get an empty trailer. There were 5 or 6 trailers squeezed back in the back. I had the number of the empty trailer that the team had just dropped, so I didn't have to hunt around. I hooked up and pulled part way back around.

I was a bit behind the back building. There was another truck parked in the front drive. I assumed someone else would be sleeping here too. Beyond my truck was a large concrete pad with a 36" high cinderblock wall around most of its perimeter. It must have been another warehouse at one time; scrapped out or burned down. There were some bundles of wood and chemical totes placed around to prevent someone from driving outside the main parking lot. It wasn't very big as a trucking yard, but someone had painted all the buildings. An effort had been made.

I was out of hours, so I was going to crash in the sleeper there at the yard. I already had a load assignment for the morning and needed rest. It had been a long day. In the immediate neighborhood, there was no where to eat. I didn't feel like walking anywhere. I set an alarm, set the Opt Idle and hit the sack.

Opt [for Optimized] Idle is pretty cool. It is a thermostat controlled climate system for the cab of the truck. The truck will actually shut down when you reach a set temperature. A Comfort Zone is set; how many degrees above your set temperature should the truck engine kick over and run the air down to temperature again. Opt Idle makes life comfortable without having to run the truck 24 hours a day.

I also disconnected the electric line to the trailer. I saw that someone had flagged this trailer for a battery charging problem. The trailers have lights and a small GPS unit. Occasionally, something gets shorted or sideways and the trailer will drain your truck batteries down while you sleep. I was planning tomorrow's drive as I drifted off to sleep.

A couple hours later, I was awakened by noises in the yard. I heard a vehicle squealing its tires. Then I heard voices! I wasn't sure they hadn't jumped up on the DOT bumper on my trailer! I listened carefully. Bottles broke! More Voices!

I pulled gently at the velcro on the vinyl curtain that I sleep behind and peeked out. I really didn't want them to know that I was in here. More yelling! Tires!

Just then, I saw a pickup truck streak past the passenger window. I'm sure they didn't see me; the truck is dark. More tires! Laughing! Yelling!

I wonder how many there are. How many people? How many vehicles? I had considered calling the police already. I wonder what the other truckdriver is thinking. Then I had the dreadful thought that he wasn't even here. I pictured him pulling the truck in the yard; waving to his wife waiting in the family car. He locks the truck up and they go home for supper and to see the kids.

Now I here a vehicle revving, not squealing, but a low rip like they are pushing on something. That something is moaning across asphalt. Are they shoving the other trailers around? the bundles? More tires squeal! That damn laugh. More bottles break! Or is it a window? Crap, I should call the cops.

Then I remember that the trailer has no electricity. I pulled that plug. If I cut and run, I'll be driving through the streets of Louisville with no trailer lights. Huge ticket; best case. Cause an accident; only one worst case scenario.

The tires squeal again. That shoving noise! If I call 911, will my cell connect to Louisville or South Bend? Yelling. Bottles. Tires.

Then suddenly BBEEEEEEEEEEEEPP! GGRRRROOOOOWWWWWWLLLLL!!! The damn Opt Idle kicked on and started the truck. My breathing probably heating up the sleeper. The drumming hum of the diesel rips through the night like a belch at a funeral. There is no other sound. Everything has stopped. Silence. No squeal. No laugh. No nothing.



I decide I'm leaving. I rip through the velcro curtain. Jump in the driver's seat, crack the door open and look around. Jumping down the steps, I race to the headboard of the trailer, plug in the lights and bound back to the door. I'm in and releasing the brakes. The air brakes are just bleeding off as I jam the accelorator down. The truck strains against the last of the brakes and I turn toward the street.

At that moment, the pickup truck races out of the alley nearer to the road. Two stupid rednecks gawk at me as I barrel toward them and the gate. David and Goliath in reverse. I tower over them.

Those damn crackers made ME a paranoid white guy; if just for a moment. I hate that!

I slow down just enough as I pass the alley to look for their accomplices. There are none. I figure the two idiots had their fun. Drank a 12 pack and then threw the bottles around; probably MGD. I still don't know what they were shoving. I didn't investigate; I left. I feel stupid. Of course, I think I scared them as much as they scared me.

Even though I was out of hours, I headed for a truckstop about 30 miles east of town. Unbelievably, I found a parking space and slept hard for about three hours, but then it was time to head for Ohio. Not only had those stupid hilljacks scare the crap out of me, they ruined my night and wasted my sleep time. I was jazzed up the whole next day. As the Captain says in that old pirate joke: Bring Me My Brown Pants!

Off The Beaten Path . . .

For all of those who are always on schedule, never off route, you have my sympathies. Many of my greatest discoveries were amidst a mistake and I made a good discovery last night.

On the way to a delivery in Jacksonville, I had passed a truckstop about 12 miles before and went back after I was empty. The Pilot at Baldwin, FL was packed full and so was the TA next door. Then, on the way out to the highway, I missed the left turn to head back to Jacksonville. Headed west again on I-10 and grabbing the Pocket Truck Stop Guide, I found that there was a small Exxon two exits down the line. Soon after, I saw a billboard for a BBQ place on the same exit. I had been craving BBQ for a while.

I found the tiny Exxon and battled my way behind the convenience store to park in muddy sand. On the way in, I spotted a Chinese Buffet next door. Well a Chinese craving almost predated the BBQ one. Further, it would save me walking about a mile, so I bought a paper and went next door.

Now, a Chinese Buffet, one in tiny Macclenny, FL, is not apt to surprise or most especially not impress. Most of you could probably recite the menu at a Chinese Buffet; almost in order. Yes, there was par-boiled Sushi, Sweet and Sour Chicken, Vegetable Fried Rice and Pepper Beef. But along toward the end, past the delicate Spring Rolls, was something labelled Peanut Butter Chicken. I had to try it. It was boneless thigh crisply fried with, duh, peanut butter. The crispy crust of the chicken was infused with peanut butter taste. It was exquisite! I have never in my life seen or tasted anything just like it. It evoked Thai, but also PB&J on Wonderbread. It was very interesting . . . and delicious. I had seconds and later paid dearly. I just don't eat like that anymore.

I discovered Boiled Peanuts in a similar way. Boiled Peanuts are a southern delicacy. And are quite simply boiled peanuts. You get a peanut with a texture that is like a boiled potato not quite all the way done. They are very good. My man, Tony, used to bring them into the office thanks to his Georgia upbringing.

When I discovered Boiled Peanuts, I lived in Florida. About once a month, or twice in three, I would go down to Miami on business. From Tampa, I would go through Arcadia and cut across the Everglades. On the way, I always passed an old Black Man sitting by an old blue pickup truck with a hand painted plywood sign out by the road that just said "Boiled Peanuts."

After going by several times, I stopped to talk to him and he gave me a sample. Scooping down into a black, briny cauldron on top of a propane burner, like a turkey fryer, he brought out peanuts in the shell. I asked him how to eat them. "Most you Yankees crack open the shell and just eat the nut. We just chew and spit out the shell." I still crack them open, but I liked the sample. They were just a bit salty; warm and soft and delicious. For a dollar, he filled an oversized Styrofoam Cup with peanuts and a little brine over the top. I ate Boiled Peanuts all the way across the 'Glades.

Down the same road, following another old pickup, every minute or so the bones from a chicken wing would fly out the driver's window and arc around in the wind back to the road. One even hit my windshield. It was years later before I discovered Chicken Wings myself.

Florida was good for new food; beyond the usual seafood you might think of. I had Armadillo and Wild Hog for the first time in Florida.

I went to a cookout at my business partner's house and an amazing feat of Redneck Engineering pulled into the driveway. This guy had taken a 1000 gallon propane tank and turned it into a portable smokehouse on a tandem axle trailer. In the smoker was a deer chopped up, several chickens, a wild hog, an armadillo, some gator and 6 turkeys. The turkeys weren't even for the party. The women knew he was coming out and that he would have lots of room. The turkeys went home to six houses for later in the week.

The Armadillo was a bit like gamey chicken. The Wild Hog was very good. I had learned to eat Gator at Skippers Smokehouse in Tampa. Better than the Hog was the hog story.

There was a legendary wild boar out in the woods by Arcadia, FL [that's how I remembered]. The hunters knew him by his one ear that was almost torn off in a fight. As he lumbered through the woods, that ear would flop around; hanging by a thread. Everyone wanted to take him, but no sooner than they saw him, he would disappear into the thicket.

The guy with the High Class Redneck Smoker was out hunting. Most of these guys hunted hog with a long barrelled, high caliber handgun. I don't remember his name; I'll call him Earl. Earl had just parked his truck and was getting his stuff together when the hog, THEE HOG, came scrubbing out of the woods. Earl shook the holster off his gun and took a quick shot. The hog was hit, but just got mad. Charging Earl, the hog rammed him and bounced him into his truck. Squealling and loaded for bear, the hog came toward him again. Earl grabbed a shovel that was in the back of his truck. He was too close to take another shot; he wanted to miss his truck too. The hog charged; Earl swung. There was a tussle. The hog backed off just enough that Earl took another shot and finished the hog off. Earl was by himself and almost couldn't get the big old hog up into his truck. He told us at the cookout that if we tasted tomato in the hog it was because his wife had borrowed his shovel in her garden the day before he swung it at the hog. Anyway, it was Earl's story, but I don't think he bought any pork that week.

While I'm at it. I discovered Mango Con Chile out here on the road too. Mango Con Chile is like Chili Con Cueso or Chili Con Carne. Con is 'with.' Chili Con Carne is Chili with Beef; Chili Con Cueso is Chili with Cheese. Mango Con Chili is dried mango coated in chili pepper and sugar. Sweet, Tart and HOT! Man, tutorsey good! I bought some in Birmingham, AL. One of the cashiers asked mine what I was buying. She whispered "They're Mexican" like some Aunts whisper "Cancer" or "Divorce." I smiled and told her "I love mango and I love cayenne, so I must be gonna like these."


Try it you'll like it. Don't plan, just do it.

In My Sights.

I've had Corporate America in my sights. In conversations, emails and obliquely here on the blog, I've railed against their inertial policy filled, creativity killing, joy sucking, frustrating ways. I proclaimed I was free of them. I really am, but Corporate America recently got the chance to poke me in the eye.

In the mid 80's, I did a professional internship through Michigan State and worked for an automotive packaging company. It was a great little company, which may not be so little any more. We were working on the first designs of a revolutionary idea; returnable packaging. The automotive industry, starting with Buick City in Flint, were going with a concept where packaging was made to last for several trips. The racks and dunnage would collapse or nest and go back to the vendor who would use it again to ship parts. It has become the norm in many areas of manufacturing. I designed several systems as a part of my internship.

So, Wednesday afternoon, I am looking for an empty trailer. I hauled a damaged trailer from a customer to our yard in Irving, TX. Typically, I either get unloaded while I wait at a consignee or I drop a trailer and pick up an empty. Occasionally, finding an empty is a problem.

At a yard, drivers congregate for different reasons like repairs or inspections etc. Empties are a valuable commodity because there are so many drivers; a supply-and-demand thing. I was having trouble finding one. So I thought I was getting inside info from a guy who checks trailer lights on the yard. I went around the corner to a drop yard that was full of trailers! I found an empty right away. After doing the computer "trailer change," dispatch informs me I can't have that one it is reserved for an automotive load. OK, no problem. I found another. Same deal; can't have it.

Irving, TX is right between Dallas and Ft. Worth. Wednesday, it was in the mid to high 90's. I began to check the other trailers in the yard. This time before I bothered to hook up to them. :o) There must have been 50 trailers in the yard. I didn't look at all of them, but it was close! I was wandering around the yard; doing a cursory inspection. I opened the rear doors on at least 30 trailers. Frustrated; dying of thirst; getting pissed. EVERY SINGLE TRAILER was unavailable. I didn't have to contact dispatch for these. It seems that because the Automotive Industry has slowed a bit, there is a glut of the returnable racks and dunnage. The "Float" between vendor and customer to keep the shipments flowing was now backing up. All of these trailers were at least partially full of Automotive Returnable Dunnage. I'd open one, two thirds full, and move to the next. The next might be only a quarter full of racks that looked exactly like the first racks. It is like those debit card commercials where drinks and sandwiches are flying around, everyone is happy, the music is pumping along. And then someone wants to write a check. . .

So, TOUCHE! Corporate America. You got me.

Of course, I'd never been to the Irving yard before. They all work slightly differently. A yard dog driver came over and asked what I was looking for. "AN EMPTY!" I said. Oh, sorry. He tells me I should talk to Mike over at the office. He doles out the empties. "There's three or four of 'em over there," he says. So, in fifteen minutes, after three hours, I was ready to roll. Of course, my then it was about 6:00 pm. So I slept at the terminal and ran off in the morning to get my load of bottled water in Ft. Worth. Now, I know.

Alex Dorsey is in the South Pacific on a 28' Westsail. He ends his posts with "Peace, Love and Coconuts." I can't wait to say that my self.

So for now,

Peace, Love and Diesel Fumes,

TrT

PS - I've been on Diesel Fumes for two months now. I don't have any trouble with worms or long term relationships. I highly reccommend it. :o) [stolen and paraphrased from a Texas Singer/Songwriter]

Stardate 2007.08.16

Two days ago, I was in Laredo, TX. I've been to Grand Prairie, Irving, Tyler and Dallas [even though my cousin Steve was not!]. This morning, I drove up US75 through Choctaw Country in OK. It was a nice drive. Lake Eufaulla could be the coast of Maine. I am in Roland, OK tonight.

Nature's adaptability is amazing. Puts us humans to shame. There are these little black birds with long beaks in Texas and Oklahoma. They have discovered the smorgasbord on the grilles and radiators of semi trucks. The birds literally hang out at the Fuel Island at truckstops and pick the bugs out of the radiator. I even saw one fellow with his head cocked on a funny angle as if deciding whether it was worth jumping up on that grille or not.

Another fuel island folly, I was fueling and noticed that someone had dropped a ten dollar bill. My first thought was whether I should turn it in or pocket it. By the time I finished fueling, I forgot all about it and drove off.

As I was driving up US75, I was chanting the name of Checotah, OK. It just sounded cool; very spaghetti western indian-ish. When I finally got there, it is the hometown of Carrie Underwood. She wasn't home.

I also heard a song destined for my repetoire:

"I never kissed a girl until I was in college,
she got drunk and cheated on me.

I never kissed a boy until I was in prison,
murder in the first degree."

What a hoot!

Have fun!

You have new Picture Mail!

Cool bridge in ohio.

You have new Picture Mail!

Half a house on half a bridge.

It's never too early for Mea Culpa.

I am sitting in a truckstop in Greenville, VA. I'm not in Nelson County but I've never been closer. My uncle, Bob, lived there when he died. I can't say he was my favorite uncle; I have another who has done so much for me. However, from an early age, it was obvious he was a kindred spirit. He was Bob #2 in a family of at least four.

Bob was a free lance photographer. According to family legend, he did many covers for Stereo Review magazine. Bob and his family lived in New Jersey. I can remember a big tree in the backyard and some furniture made out of small barrels. Some time in the 1970's, Bob packed it all in and moved the family to a farmhouse in western Massachusetts where they lived off the land.

They sold chickens and rabbits to pay their property taxes. It was a big old farmhouse with a slate roof. I can still see the big garden, the barn and the yard. There was a big old pool table in a parlour off the living room. I ate cereal or oatmeal with milk still warm from the cow. We didn't have chicken one night; we had rooster! There is Uncle Bob sitting in the living room blowing smoke rings.

I remember playing pool downstairs at my other Uncle Bob's; #4. #2 and I played and talked for a long time. I was living in the basement at the time as I had just moved to the Detroit area. Another time, I was helping him grill snapper behind Grandma and Grandpa's Nokomis house. Uncle Bob showed me how the best part of the fish was the skin that peeled off as it grilled. While everyone else was waiting for grilled fish, we were eating fish skin like potato chips right off the filets.

When I started a business in Florida, I also went through a streak of empty headed conservative politics. I was rabid. We had a salesman working for us who was the only dyed-in-the-wool socialist I've ever met. His name was Ron something. I can't remember his last name for the life of me. Uncle Bob was in Nelson County, living with his ex-wife [something else we have in common] when he sent me a card and took a little jab at my politics. This was at the peak of the Clintons' Whitewater mess. I wrote back the worst, most immature, vitriolic letter. It began in the same fun his card was but quickly devolved into a mess. It must have hit him like a roundhouse slap.

When Uncle Bob got sick, I had just started a job in Sturgis, MI. Mom and Dad, Aunt Chris and Uncle Bob and Grandma and Grandpa went down to see him. As I waited for news on his condition and wrangled for some time off, he was gone. I have very few regrets in my life, but that letter is an open debt. I never had the chance to look him in the eye and talk to him. He probably would have told me to forget the apology. If we had talked, he would have known without me saying. We are still kindred spirits. I almost wish that I could believe in some way that he could be looking down on me; knowing that I am living my own life inspired by his. That is a salve I cannot afford.

If you have something to tell someone; especially someone you don't get to talk to often DO IT NOW! Just pick up the phone and do it. Uncle Bob always called at Christmas, I know that I was passed the phone. Just maybe, he could hear in my voice that I wasn't the guy in that letter. Maybe, but wouldn't it be nice if I had said it out loud.