OldTroubador's Blog - page 4

He’s just your average gear jammer
Hitting the road like Thor’s hammer
Dragging a box every night and day
Hauling your freight cross the U.S. of A.

Drop into ninth, the gears catch with a growl
Go over the top, hit tenth, let her roll
Playing leapfrog passing one truck at a time
Then into the rocking chair; damn, need a rhyme

Fuel stop
Scale house
Construction cones
Accidents
Brake checks
Tire chain zones
Damn GPS
Recalculating
Speed trap ahead
Smokey is waiting

After he gets through all that he……
Has to push a little harder to show up early
And has to keep smiling when the customer’s surly

Rolls into a truck stop to park the old xxxxx
Still light in the west, but dark in the east
Graze through the salad bar, hey those are the breaks
Trying to eat healthy but missing those chicken fried steaks

Walks back through the lot, his bones aching, joints creaky
Climbs back into his rig, feeling weary and sleepy
He rolls into his bunk and lays down his head
A few hours sleep and he’ll do it again.

Running the roads like a hound from Hell
Sometimes that old truck feels like a prison cell
But there’s a special kind of freedom when pulling a load
Driving five hundred horses He’s the King of the Road

He’s just your average gear jammer
Hitting the road like Thor’s hammer
Dragging a box night and day
Hauling your freight cross the USA

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in the year 1918, an armistice was signed in a railroad coach in Compiegne, France which brought an end to the hostilities in Europe, Africa, and parts of Asia. After six months of negotiation in Paris, the Treaty of Versailles was signed which brought an end to World War I, the War to End All Wars. The reality is, the Treaty merely set the stage for another century of conflict.
The end of hostilities led to the 11th of November being set aside as a day to celebrate the end of the war and also as a day to remember all those who fell during the war. In the United States and other countries, the day is now used to honor the veterans of ALL the wars fought since that time. In this country, the roll call of conflicts is long; it is equally long for many of the other countries in the world.
World War II
The Korean Conflict
The Vietnam War
Gulf War I
Gulf War II
Afghanistan
Iraq
In addition to these, there are many other regional conflicts fought where our troops were sent to try to keep the peace or rescue civilians.
The Cold War
The Middle East
Somalia
Kosovo
Grenada (United States)
Falkland Islands (England)

The one thing all these wars and conflicts have in common is that men and women were sent to fight to uphold whatever cause was at stake. Whether or not you agree with your country’s rationale for entering into these battles, the fact is that the troops sent to these places have earned and deserve the respect and honor which is due them. And today is that day.
While every day should be a day of remembrance, this day is set aside as a day to honor all those who have stood in harm’s way, safeguarding our liberties and freedoms. Men and women who were sent to do battle, sent to heal injuries, sent to stand guard, at the ready to jump into the fray. Whether friend or foe, ally or enemy, nearly every person who has taken up arms in the defense of a cause deserves the respect of their fellow man. These are the men and women who have sacrificed their time, families, safety, and in many cases, their limbs and lives.
On this day, the 11th day of the 11th month, let us honor our veterans. Let us thank them for the work they do. Let us thank them for our freedoms. Let us rejoice that most came home. Let us mourn those that did not. Let us stand, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm with those who grieve. Now and always.

Thank You Veterans.

Lest we forget.

Freebird IV









This iteration of the Freebird is a 2016 International ProStar. The interior is a lot different than the Freightliner Cascadias I have been driving for the last five years. There is a lot more room to move around, a lot more floor space so it doesn't have that slightly claustrophobic feeling. There is more than enough storage space for all the things I need to get through my six week runs. It even has a bunk bed, or a guest room as someone said to me. The guest room even has its own set of windows, seen in the attic.
Being a company truck, she is still turned down to 62 miles per hour, with a concurrent cutting of available power. I have to get used to a different set of gauges and switches. There are some things that have been changed for the better and some that aren't, in my opinion. Probably the best change is in the engine brake programming. There is a one second delay after I lift my foot to allow for easier shifting before the rpm's drop off. Unfortunately, there is also a rev limiter set at 1450 rpm, so I cannot wind out the gears before shifting. But the engine (2016 Cummins ISX, NOT the MaxxForce dog) is strong and will grab hold and accelerate even from just under 1000 rpm. So I just have to adapt my driving to fit the truck. Once we both get used to the other, and I shake her down a little to find her other quirks, I think we will get along just fine. I am looking forward to a long career with 'Bird IV and will continue to let everyone know about our adventures and misadventures along the highways and by-ways of this wacky life we call TRUCKIN'
See y'all out there, where the highway meets the sky.

After solving a few problems with the shipper, I was finally able to put the Freebird on the dock. The customer loaded her, I signed the bills, buttoned up the trailer, and rolled out. I eased her out onto the town road, turned right onto the main drag, then left onto a two lane headed north to the interstate.
The sun had just about gone below the western horizon by this time. My gal and I scooted between farms, some with their fields shorn, others waiting for their turn at the harvest. I noticed a light ground fog was rising from the newly cut fields, spreading across the land. In the damp coolness of the evening, one could faintly smell the aroma of freshly cut corn and grass. Up ahead, some of the fog drifted across the road; it was mindful of an old black and white movie, maybe a Sherlock Holmes, the way it spilled across the two lane. We topped a small rise and, looking out, I saw a field of hay that had just been cut and baled. The fog rose heavier here, making the bales sitting out in the field look ethereal and haunting. A combine was coming down the road. I slowed the ‘Bird down and eased onto what passed for a shoulder, as did he. We waved as we passed. As I throttled the old gal back up, a large tractor pulling an equally large grain bin drove by us. The farmer and I waved at each other also. We reached the interstate, I geared down, took the ramp, and headed west to Des Moines.
By this time, the sun was fully below the horizon. The sky in the west was a light brass color, fading to a sort of green, then pale blue before melding into indigo then black. It is a special time of the evening, the gloaming. It is a time for the day creatures to hurry to bed; the sky was alive with birds doing just that. People also, scurried along, headed for home. Trucks large and small headed for a truck stop or terminal. The lights on the trucks glow in a special way, looking like iridescent gumdrops. One could still see the color of the trees and the towns as we passed; slightly darker at this time, yet still discernable. In the western sky, at the transition from brass to blue, the merest sliver of the moon hung. It seemed more of a papercut in the sky than an orbital object. I stared, transfixed. As night continued to encroach upon the land, the trees lost their coloration and stood as dark sentinels along the highway. Night continued to pull its blanket across the land.
The air was cool as we motored west. I had long before closed the windows and now eased on the heater to burn away the night chill. All had become dark; I could no longer see the trees on the side of the road except as ephemeral shadows in my peripheral vision. The only things to be seen now were lights – streetlights, store lights, traffic lights, headlights and taillights. And of course, the endlessly scrolling dotted lines marking my path into the night.
I could not have asked for a better night to drive; especially as this might be the penultimate leg of the final trip for the Freebird and I. Either today, or possibly in a week, I will turn her in for a new truck, a new Freebird. The fact that our run might be coming to an end did not deter the old gal at all. She still pulled the hills, growling and snarling at the effort. The turbocharger still sang the same happy song it did when we first met, two years and four months ago. The engine brakes still chuckled, her sense of humor undeterred by the past 320.000 miles. She was enjoying the night, and I was enjoying her company, and her passion for work. I reached forward and patted her dashboard, much as a cowboy would pat the neck of a favorite steed.
No matter when I return her, it has been a wonderful run with the Freebird III. All those miles. All the states and highways. Thousands of different towns have felt her hooves trod the streets. It is a bittersweet time for me; I anticipate eagerly the new Freebird I shall acquire yet, will miss this iteration immensely. We have seen and survived so much together, both bad and good. The storms, the floods, the wrecks and fires that have littered the road leaving behind the hurt and the dead. The colors of spring busting through the harsh winter, the colors of autumn as summer lays down its head. The hills, the plains, the watercourses from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes; from the Atlantic to the mighty Mississippi River. She has been my home, my friend, my confessor, my protector.
Just before the night took over fully, in the faintest light in the west, a small cloud hung, black against black. One last vision before the darkness finally won. We kept pushing west, driving hard; she was singing as she pulled 21 tons of H. J. Heinz best and I worked the gears and the wheel, keeping her moving and out of the ditches. After a couple hours, the false sunset of the lights of Des Moines shone ahead. We roared through the city, turning south now. In a couple more hours, it would be time to stop for the night. Her song never faded through the hours. Crossing the line into Missouri, it was time to start thinking of a place to stop. Just north of Kansas City, we did. As I set the brakes and shut off the engine, she gave a final shudder, shaking off the last 500 miles before drifting to sleep. Tomorrow, we will go again, her and I both rested, unsure just yet of our destination and destiny, yet working together, hand in hand, my old faithful companion and I.

Sometime back, about a year ago, I was talking to my daughter on the phone. We were talking about songs and I mentioned one that I thought she knew. She said that it sort of sounded familiar, but could I sing a few bars of it. So I did. And now, for the rest of the story.
Me: “That is the one. Do you recognize it?”
Her: “Yeah, I do now. But Daddy, you sing like John Wayne.”
Me: “Sweetie, John Wayne is dead.”
Her: “My point exactly.”

The last time I was home, we spent a day fishing in the Gulf of Mexico. We weren’t doing well with the catching, but we were having fun chunking lures, watching the birds dive on bait, and, of course, picking on each other. At one point, I was looking around and saw a Spanish mackerel jump clear of the water. I spun around and asked my daughter if she had seen it. Her reply:
“Daddy, you ain’t gonna catch any fish if you keep letting your lure dry off!”

Speaking of fishing, a couple years ago we were at a canal that parallels the Trinity River. We were catfishing. The few times before, she had taken me to school there. But this time, I had two catfish on the stringer before she had her first nibble. Next thing I know, her rod is bent double and she is really fighting a fish. She reeled it in, flipped it up on the bank and took a good look at it. She turned to me and grinned and said:
“Look at the size of that one Daddy. Those two you caught might as well go back in the water. Or the bait bucket, if you prefer.”

Ten speed stick and concrete slabs
Dotted lines and exit ramps
Running the roads and bumping docks
Making a livin’ draggin’ a 53 foot box
Sleeping the day, running the nights
Chasing the false sunrise of those distant city lights
Speakers cranking southern fried rock, playing outlaw country
Allman, Betts, and Skynryrd, Willie, Waylon, and me.
Or tuning in to an all-night station, just to hear them play
Six Days on the Road, and Convoy, and He Stopped Lovin’ Her Today.
And every time he hears it, he still sheds a tear
Whenever they play the ballad about a boy called Teddy Bear.
Thinking about his friends and family and the girls he’s left behind.
Thinking about how things went wrong, they sometimes prey upon his mind.
It’s a hard life but he wouldn’t trade for one in an office and he’s
Dreading the day they call him in and ask him for his keys.
Lakes, rivers, and streams are marked by mist hanging in the air
In the cool of the night he cuts the fog as if it wasn’t there.
Interstates and two lane highways, flying from town to town
Slowing down to pass the darkened houses, then on the other side hammer down.
Then it’s upshift, downshift, lean into that turn
Get over the top, grab a gear, let that diesel burn.
Just a few more hours, one more ramp and he’ll call this workday done.
So kick that horse, drop those reins and let that big gal run.
A crescent moon and stars that shine have lighted up his way
But now the dawn is breaking, the start of a brand new day

Rich woman, poor woman, beggar woman, thief
Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.
Rebecca would have been 15 years old today. One year, eight months, and three weeks younger than her sister. I have wondered many times what she would be like. Would she have been studious, athletic, artistic, or some wonderful combination of these? Would she have raven hair or blonde? Blue eyes or hazel? So many imponderables that we wonder about with our children, made even more so because there is no way of telling now.
I sometimes sit here and wonder if she was able to dream in the womb, and what she might have dreamed about, for she never had a chance to dream here. Other times, I wonder what life would be like with two little smart alecks in the house. Each one aiding and abetting the other as they get into mischief. And then watching the wonderful transformation of each into her own persona.
I know many here don’t believe in Heaven. But I do; I have to. I have to believe that she is there, running and skipping and doing all the things that little girls do – things she never got a chance to do here. Because I have to believe that I will see Rebecca again and that this time, she will be perfect, as all angels are.
I don’t ask God for much for myself anymore. Just a couple things. First, that when my time on Earth is done, I be taken home after my parents. And secondly, I’m pretty sure that I am going to spend my eternity in Hell. But I ask that I be given a bit of time with my daughter, so I can hold her in my arms, kiss her, and listen to her tell me all that has gone on since I last held her. I want to see her with her family and friends. I want to tell her that I love her – always have, always will. After that, He can do with me what He will.
Well, life goes on. It has to. And I am extremely thankful for the daughter that I have; maybe more so than most. And I cherish every moment on the phone or in person with her.
But I still miss Rebecca, terribly.

I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. DC a few years ago. Such a lovely couple, and obviously very much in love with each other. I knew of the troubles she was having, but she came out anyway and we all had a great time together. Talking with her and Mr. over the years, I learned how she bounced back every time her Atrophy, or its side effects, knocked her down. I knew she was a fighter, a survivor. More than that, I knew she didn’t let anything stand in her way - that she was determined to live life to its fullest, no matter what her “disability”.
Those of us that knew her on status knew of her quick wit and her irreverent, naughty nature. She was wide open, no holds barred, pedal to the metal all the way. Whenever she made an appearance in status, she quickly had the joint jumping. Through it all, she kept a golden heart and soul, both ready to help anyone that was in pain, physical or emotional. Testimonials and tributes to her generous spirit have flooded her Facebook page, all coming from those she has helped reach their true potential over the years.
I spent a couple of hours talking with DC this morning. I learned a lot more about the lady whom he loved beyond all measure, and who loved him equally. She was a fighter, right up to the very end. Even with the sepsis ravaging her body, she tried to battle back. It took a word from DC for her to let go, else she would still be fighting.
Mr. DC will be the first to tell anyone that Mrs. has inspired him, from the time they first met, to be a better man. Through all the pain, she never lost her devotion to her man, and worked hard to show him her love every day. I often told my brother that I was envious of the depth of the love they had for each other. And I only said it because it is the truth. Through all the years and tears, they never lost sight of this most important fact of life.
One other aspect of her life that not many knew about was her unshaken Faith in the Almighty, and in a life everlasting in Heaven. Her one wish, when she ascended to her new Home, was not to have the wings of angels, but to be able to run free. Unchained from the pain and the limits her body imposed.
Brother, this part is for you. As your beautiful wife passed from this life to the next, you saw a smile on her face. She may have seen someone on the other side, but I prefer to think that she heard your final words “I Love You”. And that this is why she was smiling.
And when next you see her Brother, she will be waiting for you, with a body that is as perfect as her heart and soul.


This song was a favorite of Mrs. DC. It was played at her funeral service. I can think of no better song for her than this.

[img] http://i1227.photobucket.com/albums/ee424/tuxedojunction/Sunrises%20and%20sunsets/83e52e0b-a2df-4a39-a95a-d705b8d73f11_zpshxn4hmwm.jpg [/img]

I sometimes feel like I am running. I'm not sure if I am running to or running away. Almost like Forrest Gump, when he ran back and forth across the country. He had no idea why, he just ran, until it was time to stop running. My answers are out there, I know they are - somewhere between the ditches, somewhere between the sunrise and sunset. I'm not even sure of the questions, maybe that's what I'm looking for. Or maybe it all doesn't matter and the journey is my raison d'etre.
I have stood in the valley and looked up the hillside; I have driven the ridgeline and gazed into the valley. I have scanned rivers and streams, asked the lady in the lake, watched as countless waves lapped against the Texas coastline. My eyes have searched the Great Plains; my thoughts have questioned the great mountains of the west. I have found no questions, no answers in any of these places. But I have learned of the poetry of Nature.
I have listened to the wind sighing through the pines; heard the gentle murmur of water tumbling over the rocks. The birds of the woods and grasses have spoken to me, but only to say hello, or good-bye. My questions have gone unanswered, but I have learned the music of the land.
I have felt the icy blast of winter as it crawls down my neck. I have been touched by the soft night air, a gentle caress upon my cheek. I have experienced the tranquility of the quiet places. I have been burned by thoughtlessness, or hate, touched to the very depths of my soul by kindness. Yet none of these has yielded that which I seek.
Death’s cold, clammy hand has patted me on the back, as he whispered, “Not today boy, not today.” And God’s protective hand has taken the wheel, when needed, to steer me to calmer waters. And yet, neither has told me why.
Some of these journeys, I have taken with each of you with me, for I wanted you to see what I see, hear what I hear, feel the things I feel. At other times, I have shared these sojourns with only one or two, for the moments were too preciously personal to share en masse. And at even other times, such as lately, my travels have been solitary, for there are places I need visit that cannot be shared with others.
As many here can attest, the hardest thing a person can do is to say good-bye to one’s child. And it is for me. Yet, wise beyond her years, my daughter seems to understand my wanderlust and eagerly awaits the tales I bring. Then, when my time to rest is done, she sends me on my way, with a hug, a kiss, and a smile and the promise that she will be waiting for me when I tire.
I am headed back home now, finally. It will be time to rest, to replenish my supplies – of goods, of strength. Then, after all is done, I will again continue my quest. I will be running again, either to or away. And searching for my raison d’etre on my journey. Or fulfilling it.