Two Wolves

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".

The book is excellent. Find the book here.

Find out about the author.

See the author speak about his book.

My George Costanza Moment

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.

IT'S NOT MY TRUCK! IT'S NOT MY TRUCK!!!

Courtesy of Youtube, Here is that scene:

Can you really forget?

In a little more than a week, the Beijing Olympics will start. I won't be watching. The Chinese have done little to honor the commitment they made, in receiving the hosting of the games, to improve their human rights record.

In 1989, as many as 3000 people [Chinese Red Cross number] may have been killed when the government suppressed the Tiananmen Square Protests. Ten years later, the Chinese cracked down on the Falun Gong movement. This peaceful movement grew rapidly and threatened the government by peaceful protest of thousands of people throughout China. Their movement was banned and suppressed.

The Chinese Communist Government is virtually the only country doing business with the Military Junta of Burma. Chinese silence during the slaughter of Burmese Monks allowed it to continue. China could have shut the Burmese response down, but, apparently aware of the contradiction, they did nothing. The Chinese have their own problems with Buddhist Monks in Tibet. They couldn't very well admonish Burma for doing something they have been doing in territory they claim as their own for years. The recent violence from both sides in Tibet is unfortunate and unhelpful.

Against this backdrop, it was amazing to me China was allowed to host the Olympics. The International Olympic Committee claims it is nonpolitical. By giving the Chinese Communists this venue for whitewashing, they have gone beyond mere politics. In turning a blind eye, they have given the Chinese an undeserved platform for propaganda; let alone the international recognition.

Further, the construction of Olympic Venues has resulted in the destruction of historic neighborhoods in Beijing and the forced evictions of many people. I've heard a report that I can't confirm of a Human Rights Activist whose release from jail has been delayed. Who knows what else is happening behind the Silk Curtain?!

This is easy for me, I am not a sports person. Moreover, I am not asking for you to do anything but remember who you are dealing with.

Quiet Graceful Power

I find the most unusual books to read. The latest book outlet find, "The Cruelest Journey" by Kira Salak, I recommend for would-be vagabonds like me and for anyone seeking reassurance either that one person can do great things or that we can rely on each other even in the most barren environments.

Not only did Kira paddle 600 miles down the Niger River to reach Timbuktu, she often relied on locals for shelter and food. She writes of many historical and current issues in the Sub Sahara with a comfortable style and an accessible readability. And! then buys the freedom of two slave girls at the end of her journey. Ms. Salak carried two gold coins the whole length of her trip to give the two girls a start on their new life.

Her trip recreated the planned journey of a little known English explorer named Mungo Park. His journey began but did not finish for the inhospitable terrain and the ferocious local people. He died on the Niger. Some rumors have him killed after reaching Timbuktu, but history just doesn't know. Kira met some of the same ferocious people almost unaffected in the 300 or so years since Park's disasterous trip. She met many people with a third world kindness and generosity that far exceeds what most of us in the first world will ever do.

Kira is an adventurer who holds a PhD in literature. She writes with a depth and ease that anyone wishing to write would do well to imitate. I was greatly inspired by Kira and her adventure. Not only for her fearless grace but for her quiet Buddhism as well.

I think some people misunderstood my epiphany last Christmas. I really haven't changed much at all. There were no signs squinted at from Milvian Bridge. I merely shifted (overtly) one fundamental leg that my personal philosophy stood on. To me it was as casual as shifting a foot I had stood on too long.

I spent 15 plus years calling myself an Objectivist; atheist by default. I was inspired at my cousin's house to look at the leg I had been leaning on. It wasn't where I thought it was.

Objectivism advocates the raw power of the individual. I don't disagree with all of this but, in many ways, I haven't been living my life that way. I have been helped by so many people; in large and small ways. I've managed to help a few, I think.

In my rediscovery of Buddhism [it creeps up at the weirdest places, see above], I found a "faithless faith" that honors a man, not a deity. While many strains of Buddhism are polluted by the gods and godheads of other faiths, at its core, Buddhism is a way of life that accepts cause and effect, and the efficacy of the human mind and senses. It is simply a path, a method, to discover the true nature of our existence. But it does it in a way that includes all of us. Rather than emphasizing a lone pursuit, it is the power in each of us because each of us is all of us. Buddhism is monistic. We are all one. If you're on Myspace, I highly recommend my friend Emily's latest blog. It reminds me of an intriguing comment by Brad Warner, the punk Zen Master, he described 'getting it' post enlightenment, when looking at a stranger, and feeling a recognition "like looking at himself in a mirror."

Imagine how our politics, and our world, would be different if more people had the realization that we are all one; the same. Imagine spending a billion dollars a day helping each other, ourselves, rather than to tear another country down. The Buddha said "If you want to get rid of your foe, you have only to realize that that foe is delusion."

Locked and Loaded

I pulled behind the building with a delivery. All the docks were full, but a trailer was one of ours. I'd have to drop mine, hook to that one, pull it out and drop it, then grab mine again and back it into the hole I created. As I walked into the Recieving Department, I noticed a sloppy gang sign scrawled on the nose of one of the other trailers. It looked for all the world like it said "Crochet Furies;" like a gang started by Martha Stewart while she was in the slammer.

The Crochet Furies would roam the streets in comfortable shoes and stretch jeans. Their hair short and spiky; equal parts Pixie, Punk and Butch. They all have black leather, but little cropped jackets with just enough ruffle to be more cute than biker. On one sleeve, a quill of knitting needles as throwing knives. They cruise in Minivans with Low Rider Hydraulics to bounce and roll and shuck their way down the avenue.

Back in Columbus, I got unloaded. Just as I was about to pull back out on the road, I decide to run into the store and grab a sandwich. Inside, I found Ham and Havarti and a drink. Almost back out to the truck, I reach for my keys. Yeah, you're way ahead of me. No keys. I know I locked the truck on the way in. Now I'm stuck. I'm supposed to be on the way to another stop and I'm locked out of my tractor.

At first, there's no panic. Often a key is hidden somewhere under the hood. This is not my truck it is a floater/loaner. I snap open the hood and root around. The engine compartment is huge with all kinds of nooks and crannies. There is no key, no key box, not even a crow bar.

The next place to check is the back of the cab. I close the hood and wander back. I'm looking near the wire harness and the air lines; checking by the load lock rack. I look inside the frame and under the sleeper. I open the battery box and poke around. I check near the fuel tank and the steps. Nothing. I switch to the passenger side and check all those spots again. I even started to look in the nose box of the trailer, but how could a key to my tractor be hidden on some random trailer.

I check every place I could think of and then rechecked them again. That's when I realize my phone is locked inside too.

At Orientation last week, the company issued all of us the "Green Book." In it are procedures, directions, ComCheks, trailer inspection forms and all the contact information for anyone I would ever want to talk to in the entire company. The Green Book is not something I carry when I run inside for a sandwich. It too is locked up tight in the tractor.

This is my first week at the company. There is no chance that I've managed to memorize any phone numbers. I don't dial numbers anymore. Nobody dials numbers anymore. In this age of speeddial, anyone in my phone can be called with two clicks; letters not numbers. There must be a phone number on the truck. I wander around again.

On the truck, there are D.O.T. permit numbers, an IFSA sticker, even the 'Last Six' of the VIN number. All the way out back, on the trailer door, there is the ubiquitous recruiting sign. "We're Looking For Quality, Experienced Drivers." These recruiting 800 numbers are always some easy to remember acronym. This is good; I have nothing to write on.

I have a bite of sandwich and a drink. My lunch has been sitting on the step to the cab. Walking back to the store and a payphone, I wonder if anyone will answer at 5:30 AM. Sure enough, the 800 number is into the recruiting department and not the main switchboard. I can leave a message for 'recruiting, press two" or "Safety, press three." Nobody is home. I tried pressing zero and a even couple random extensions but don't get through to a human.

Back out to the truck, what's left of my lunch is still sitting on the step. The truck is parked along the outer edge of the property against a curb. Past the curb is a low cinderblock wall, a chain link fence and some bushes. Some trees are evenly spaced from the road back past me and out to the property line out back. Over the fence and in the back is a nondescript apartment building. No one is stirring. Right over the fence near me is a business that goes out to the road. I can see their loading dock and random skids laying around. Not enough clues to guess what they do over there.

Then a semi pulls up into the lot across the fence. Occasionally, a fellow truck driver can get you back into your cab after you've locked your keys inside. The trucks don't have unique keys like a car. One company, one model year might only have one, or more likely, just a few key patterns. Alas, this guy is driving a Kenworth; mine is a Freightliner.

I'm back to driving a Freightliner at this new company. My first truck last year was a Freightliner, but this year, driving out of Grand Rapids, I've been driving a Kenworth up until I started the new job last week. This seems appropriate as "Freightliner Blues," by Townes Van Zandt is one of the favorite songs I play.

I finish the last bites of sandwich and just as I drain the last of my Berry Boost Bolthouse Juice, a thought seeps into my feeble brain, addled by diesel fumes. I wonder if I can jimmy the little triangle side vent window somehow. Maybe even break it to get in. I stood up from the curb, where I was sitting. My gaze drifted up the side of the truck to the little triangle of glass. In the triangle, is a little black knob. This knob is the outer part of the handle/latch that opens the vent window. The black knob is all chewed up. Someone else had locked themselves out! They must have used pliers to twist the latch from the outside. Brilliant!!

I step up the side of my tractor and grab the chewed up knob. It turns at the slightest grip. I push one corner, then grab the opposite one and twist the window open. There is just enough room to stuff my forearm in and open the door! I'm back in business!

I look at my phone and I've only lost a half hour. I'd have burned through a half hour if I had stopped somewhere else for lunch. I twist the key and the diesel growls to life. On the road again.

Career Changer

I have made another change. I switched companies and am driving for a regional carrier. The deal is that I'll be out 5 days and back for two; every week; the same two days. I won't even know how to act.

This will grant me the freedom to work on the boat many, rather than few, weekends this summer. In my previous 'Over The Road' positions, I was out 3-5 weeks and home for 2 or 3 days. I wasn't going to have much time to accomplish much this summer. That has all changed.

I am very excited! This could take several months off my potential departure date next year. Thanks for your support!

Niles Bluegrass

I surprised some friends and showed up at the Niles Bluegrass Festival. Chuck and Deb, Mike and Sally, were camping along the river. Tom and Sharon came by later; as did Lynn. I was going to come Friday but had driven the big truck since midnight and some weather blew through. I wimped out and ended up missing Jason and Hope and family. The Niles Fest is a great festival. And it is FREE!

Niles' downtown is downhill toward the river. At the bottom, on the north of the main drag is a nice park. The park has a large pavilion with the perfect grassy hill for an audience. Downriver from the Pavilion is a playground under some trees and then a large open field. Under the trees next to the playground, the Festival puts up a second stage. The open field is available for camping with the local Boy Scouts keeping it cleaned up. Between the main stage on the pavilion and the second stage was a parking lot where food vendors, trinkets and other stuff was available. There were also some tents for workshops. You could learn some bits about Guitar, Fiddle, Singing Harmony, Banjo etc.

The Niles Fest is Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. It is really done very well. Check out their site. Also, on the same site is a summer schedule. Niles has free music on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Sundays all summer. If you can make it, don't miss Cornmeal on June 15!

On Saturday, I got up on stage with the Open Mic. It was really an Open Jam. I wasn't expecting to be on stage with a band. Usually, an open mic is everyone getting a turn on the mic. As I walked across the grass toward the guy running the PA, the band waved me up on stage. There was another guitar, two harmonicas, a fiddle and a standup bass. They were all very good. After they got done with the song they played as I got there, they looked me and said "What's your name and you're up, what are we playing next?" Wow! I don't know many bluegrass standards, but I like to play "Roll in My Sweet Baby's Arms." They all jumped in behind me, I sang, the others soloed and then we wrapped it up. It was great fun! Then we stumbled through a version of Freightliner Blues, one of favorites. The band did well hanging on behind a song they didn't really know. Our audience was 20 or so people on lawn chairs and the Boy Scouts back in there camp. The pictures look way better than the performance was, but I had so much fun. I haven't played in front of people I don't know in 20 years; especially in front of people I was reasonably sure were sober! :o)

Here are some pictures Chuck took for me. Click on the picture to see it full size.