Bring Back the Wave
I spent the better part of the July fourth holiday weekend sitting at home, sidelined by yet another battle with diverticulitis. It’s the third time around the block with this miserable disease of the intestines, and hopefully the last, but either way the “why and how” of that story is best set aside for another story all its own. Because a Doctor told me I needed to stay home and rest, I wasn’t able to join my co-workers, and the fun of the road, until Wednesday afternoon, after the good doctor gave me the go ahead to continue back to work sealed with my promise that I would visit a specialist. (Yes Mother, I will follow my doctor’s order and follow up with one in the near future.)
I left Wednesday afternoon for a one-stop trip, in none other than the forgotten land of Albany, New York. I was under the assumption that the crew from Leesport was not allowed up there anymore, but I wasn’t about to question why I was assigned to go, so off I went. I had an appointment time of 11:30 in the morning, and by all estimations, I could have easily left at 6 in the morning on Thursday and still comfortably showed up on time. Nobody likes 4am wake up calls (it takes me two full hours to wake up, make myself beautiful and arrive at my truck’s doorstep) plus I had just spent five days at home, wearing out my welcome with my grumpy wife in the process. So I decided to make trails north as soon as I received the assignment.
I showed up for my appointment in Albany at 10am and am happy to report that they not only accepted my early arrival on the spot, but also that nothing exciting happened. Unless of course, you find unloading 303 pieces of the world’s best furniture in summertime warmth exceedingly electrifying.
The real fun began after I was done unloading my one stopper in Albany and received my instructions on where to head next: Our covert operational yard at an undisclosed location somewhere in the hills of New England. This meant I would have the good luck to experience my next adventure in the New England region. The likes of Vermont, New Hampshire or even Maine brought a smile to my soul.
At the risk of boring you, I must say that when I arrived on the scene at our covert operational yard, there was not yet a trip assigned to me, so I had lunch. Afterwards, I was left with nothing to do. Not entirely true, I did walk a trash bag full of rubbish to the dumpster. While walking back, I noticed, for perhaps the ten millionth time, just how pretty my truck is. I was forced to take a picture:
Finally growing tired of pictures while randomly singing love songs from the seventies, I called into my dispatch office, and an automated voice of the female variety let me know that a trip had been assigned to me, and I should press five if I want to hear it. The computer voice had previously said, “Offered a trip” but too many drivers called in and said they didn’t like “the offer” so it was changed to “assigned.” Truck drivers cannot be blamed for taking advantage of an opportunity when one is presented, me included. I will forever miss sitting alone in my truck while repeatedly yelling, “Offer refused, try again!”
I’m still on the fence with this new system put in place. On one hand, I miss talking to the friendly people in Wisconsin, many of whom I consider friends. On the other hand, it takes the guess work out of wondering when my next trip has been assigned to me. I used to have to call in for that information, sometimes ten seconds apart when I was feeling anxious about where I might be going. Now, my phone rings and we receive a pre-recorded message from our queen-of-dispatch letting us know we have been assigned a trip and to call in at our earliest convenience. I’m half tempted to slip away to the islands for a few weeks and call in when I get back. Something tells me my employers wouldn’t find much humor in my planned statement “but this is my earliest convenience!” Still, the act of automated messages versus talking to actual people is kind of like the non-verbal dissolution of people waving to people, don’t you think?
So I held my breath and pressed five and waited while Miss Computer gathered the information regarding my next adventure. Finally, she spoke and I started writing down small bits of information on a scrap piece of paper found floating around the cab of my truck: Six stops, first one in East Rutland, Vermont opens at nine in the morning, trip ends in Ossipee, New Hampshire, and they close at four in the afternoon. Not only do I feel fortunate, but I feel happy. Purely, a hook up to the trailer and go with a smile on my face kind of situation.
My truck and I set sail for the Vermont Welcome Center located on interstate 91 just across the Massachusetts border. The plan was to stay there that night as it would be roughly one to one and half hours to my first stop in the morning. With a little luck and a boatload of ambitions, I could get all my stops off and make it home within the confines of the law. There were concerns though, and once I got to the welcome center in question I tried to sort them out. A part of me thought I ought to drive straight to my first stop in Rutland and park there for the night. I would have wasted several minutes, if not the night, arguing with myself as what I should do, but as luck would have it, my friend Gmazz stepped into the conversation via a text message:
His real name is Gary Mazella, but I consider him too good a friend and too cool a person just to walk around my mind with an everyday name like Gary. Anyway, we were talking back and forth in text until we both realized it would be easier to talk like normal people by using the phone feature of our handsets. Gary was smart enough to realize this first and called me. We reviewed the situation. He thought there was an awful lot of miles between stops and also said it would be okay to park at the first stop. More importantly, he informed me about a bridge that was out along my intended route, and even recommended a few alternate routes, saving my truck and me from a fatal plunge into the icy waters below. It wouldn’t have been the first time I missed a sign that I would later regret not reading.
I knew that if Gary said there was a lot of land between stops, he was right and with that in mind I decided to continue on to my first stop so I would have time to help me get home after the work was done. Before I did get going however, I needed to walk around the natural beauty that surrounds the welcome center. I had been there last in springtime, and I wanted to see if anything had changed, or if there was something I missed. More importantly, I wondered if anything would catch my eye and something did. Here it is:
My best guess was that the items were from farming days long since retired with the possible exception of the Amish community. I knew from seeing these things under their use a horse was required to make them work, and I really wanted to give them a try. I spent several minutes walking around while yelling, “Does anyone have a horse I could borrow for a few minutes?” Finally, an elderly woman appeared from the direction of the car parking lot, walked up to me and said quite firmly, “Excuse me young man, did I just hear you yelling for a couple of whores you could use for a couple of minutes? What kind of sick and twisted truck driver are you?” Overwhelmed with fear that an aging police officer within earshot might have also misinterpreted what I was actually asking for, I made a beeline for my truck and hit the pike.
The twenty miles or so of interstate travel north was non-eventful. I patiently waited as my multiple GPS systems counted down the miles where I anticipated the fun would begin. After six plus years on the road as a commercial driver, I have learned all the good stuff happens away from the interstate, safely hidden among the rolling hills and sleepy towns that lie beyond.
I wasn’t disappointed- once we made the turn from the big road, to the small road, the evening became a sunset hunting mission of sorts. Everything was perfect, or so it seemed. The way the sky looked with its hues of pink and wispy clouds here and there, the angle of the sun as it played peek-a-boo with the hilltops spread off in the distance. Even music from my XM radio, the sounds of the 70’s with an underlying theme of love, seemed to help set the tone for the last 60 miles.
Nonetheless, there were a few imperfections that bothered me. First off, I couldn’t seem to catch the sun where I wanted it. I was in search of the proper moment where I could park my massive machine along the road and take a picture. That moment never arrived; it seemed as I was always going uphill constantly losing my battle with a fast-moving sun. It reminded me of a pilot trying to climb on top of an overcast layer in the sky; keeping the nose of his airplane pointed high, but never seeming to get his wish fulfilled. I have lost such battles before, and I will lose them again, but the process itself is a beautiful battle to be engaged in. At the end of the day, I was only left with the picture below, the sun setting as I saw it from behind my windshield. I was also left with the unsettling feeling that what I saw, that ride I took, was completely wasted. It hardly seems fair that I had to be faced with such beauty, while traveling down the road all alone. Such is the life of an over the road truck driver.
Later that drive en route to my first stop, while still fruitlessly trying to catch the sun, I received a reminder that I was not alone. My truck and I rolled into the initial small town since our departure from the highway. As it would be on a summer night, there were people mingling about, some were probably locals doing the local thing, others were likely tourists walking around on foot doing what I wish I had time to do. Whatever the case, most were oblivious to the one man, one pretty black and gold bag-of-bolts parade that was marching down Main Street. Halfway through, I noticed a scraggly old bearded man leaning against the stoop of a local business. My first impression was that perhaps he was taking a smoke break from the corner pub and everything about him told me he likely held a few stories to tell. If I was wrong, everyone in town, at least the locals, could probably tell me a story about him. As my truck and I slid by he looked at me dead in the eye, smiled and then did something not expected: He waved. Not just any wave mind you, but a big over-the-top kind of wave that said, “Welcome to our town Mister Truck Driver!” It was so unexpected I barely had time to nod and smile. Sixty some feet later, he was left to be a memory in my side mirrors. Welcome I felt, all because of his wave.
By nine that evening, we were safely nestled on the blacktop in the intended shopping plaza, and after a bowl of my new favorite cereal, Banana Nut Cheerios, I was off to sleep. An entire nine hours of solid as a rock, completely uninterrupted sleep I might add. I normally average about seven hours, and the reasons for such a long slumber are as varied as the people I left back in that first town off the highway: I was still recovering from an intestinal infection set in motion by my Wife’s horrible cooking, there was not a small kitten well rested from snoozing all afternoon attacking my feet with reckless abandon, and I flat out find my sleeping area within my truck downright comfortable. I plan to have a replica of the truck’s sleeper built in my fancy new house when I become a successful writer, and maybe one in my neighboring hangar, just for catnaps. At the close of the day, I was happy with how it went.
The next morning, I had the benefits of a Mobil Gas station with a Dunkin’ Donuts inside of it. I used the Gas station’s restroom for the things we do in restrooms, and I took advantage of Dunkin’ Donuts for its spectacular coffee as well as a fabulous turkey sausage egg sandwich. Later, I posed as a browsing customer in the shopping centers attached Home Depot. When nobody was looking, I ducked into their potty room for one more break then it was off to work.
My truck and I made mad work out of Rutland Friday morning, tearing off three stops in under an hour. At my final stop in town, I rolled down my window and snapped the picture below. It does not matter how many times I have seen these small towns with their antique architecture, I love them every time. I feel a level of comfort in such areas that I often wonder if I did not live in one during a previous life. If I did, I’m willing to bet I knew how to operate those old pieces of machinery I saw back at the Vermont Welcome Center. I’ve always been a hard worker.
It was time to set sail for my fourth stop of the day in White River Junction Vermont, a straight shot east, across the windy roads known on maps as route four. Three quarters of the way there I fell in love. Not with a woman, although like a dead President, I cannot tell a lie. I must admit I may have seen one or three pretty girls making the sidewalks of Woodstock, Vermont, a wee bit prettier.
The first thing I saw in Woodstock was a beautiful church on my left hand side, and of course, it had to be surrounded by the most beautylicious gardens I have ever seen. I may be slightly over-exaggerating, but I would have to guess there were fifty square miles of assorted flowers and bushes standing before it. One eighth of a mile later I sat in my seat astounded at the beauty of the entire town. My mind began to race with multiple thoughts: “Why I haven’t I been here before? Look at all these buildings and shops; every damn one of them is the coolest I have ever seen. Where can I park this truck, so I can walk around a few hours and take a picture of each of them?”
I must work on being a better writer because I feel I cannot adequately express how the experience of driving such a large vehicle through such a pretty small town can be so amazing and traumatic at the exact same time. I loved it yet I was saddened that I could not stop and mingle, and press the shutter button on my camera a few hundred times. I guess I can now say I know how our small kids must feel when the carnival comes to the town park across from our house each year. They want to go every day, and their Mother tells them this is not financially feasible. After hearing that from her many times, they retire to sulk by a window where they watch as everyone else has fun on the rides, just as I sulked in the driver’s seat as I slid through downtown Woodstock. However, I did get one picture while stopped and waiting for a cattle crossing of tourists:
Shoot. You must pardon me for I have forgotten an essential part of this story, and it happened in a small town before I stumbled upon Woodstock. Then again, did I not just tell you I have more work to do in order to become a better writer? In my excitement over passing through that tiny small town gem, I completely left it out:
A town or two prior to Woodstock, I passed through a speck of a place so teensy I won’t even take a gander as to what its name might be. It may have been small, but it was equally as beautiful as all the other small towns I have passed by. Once again, a person waved at me in a hearty manner that gave me pause, and this time I was able, without hesitation, to return the wave. It left me feeling like I was an old school trucker from back in the day, when people had much more respect for truckers and considered them the knights of the road. More importantly, her wave made me feel like a part of America that I want to be attached to. I rarely see this kind of thing in any big city USA and the USA started with small towns. Perhaps we need to get back to our roots.
Allow me to get this story back in its proper time frame: Upon arrival in White River Junction, our customer was loading a small box truck with paid-for furniture. I was in no rush; I rarely am, unless it’s a full blown intestinal emergency. I used this time to have a look around, and I stumbled upon these three friends who were sitting together near death:
Once the delivery truck was on its way, I backed up my truck to the dock and began unloading. The gentleman that was helping was a friendly guy, and I relayed how much I enjoyed the ride over from Rutland and mentioned my new found affection for Woodstock. “Ah yes, it is a pretty town isn’t it? The Rockefellers’ are there.” I did not know this intriguing information and asked, “Thee Rockefellers’?” “Yes. Did you happen to notice there are not any power lines through town? They had them buried underground.” I did not notice, but I did have a picture to go back and look at and when I did, I noticed he was right, not a single power line in sight.
When I am operating in a picture taking mode, I consider power lines an unnatural enemy. They can ruin a picture with just their presence. I have spent countless summer evenings on my own side porch, sipping a cold beer, looking out across the road, and wondering how much better my town would look without the five million and two power lines that run along the streets. There are few things on this earth that I despise, but if I was forced to mention one, you can make your own assumptions of what they might be. My conversation with the customer in White River Junction left me with the feeling that money may not buy you happiness, but it sure can make your neighborhood more visually attractive. I not only carry envy for the Rockefeller family for the fortunes they hold, but for knowing how to spend it on the important stuff.
For the record, many people have told me I should utilize a program such as Photoshop to erase ugly things such as power lines. When I take a picture, I want to share what I actually saw, not what I wished I would see, so I refuse to erase what’s already there. It may make me a better photographer using such technologies, but I’m a writer-in-training not a true picture taker. Can you hear the sigh in my voice when I write that life was so much easier in my previous life, long before man figured out the power thing?
Thirty minutes after my arrival In White River Junction, it was time to head on to Plymouth, New Hampshire. Before I could leave, I noticed a huge pile of spare railroad track parts, just lying on the ground near the tracks that run along the rear of the building.
Your guess is as good as mine as to why they are there; one might assume that there is a value in the metal alone. I like to think the train tracks regularly fall in disrepair in the same location on almost every trip. I can imagine the conversation between the train Engineer and the foreman at the rail yard. “Hey this is Bob. We can’t go any further. The tracks are falling apart, and if we continue, we will surely derail!” Bill, the man in command back at the yard screams into the radio, “Gosh darn it Bobby, you know those track always come apart there. That's why we left that huge pile of spare parts track-side! Now get off your rear end and use them to fix it, you whiney little bastard!”
There was about forty five miles (and change) between me and Plymouth. The first few miles were easy: Spend about four miles on interstate 89 and the rest of the journey was uncharted back roads. On the map, it looked like I would be drawing a line horizontally across New Hampshire. I can’t recall ever making that journey; even so, I looked forward to seeing new things and made my way to 89 also known as the easy part.
Almost as soon as I got on the highway, things fell apart. Within a mile or two, I noticed signs for a rest area/weigh station. Soon after, I noticed the weigh station was open. Normally, this isn’t a big deal, almost always a friendly Department of Transportation officer (DOT) waves me through, or a green light does it for him. It’s very rare to have to stop and end up being checked for things but today, my number was up.
When I pulled in, there was the DOT officer’s SUV on the left side, an opening in the middle (through which I thoroughly expected to be waved through), and a tractor-trailer on the right, with said DOT officer standing at the driver’s door. I crept up real slowly, watching the DOT man for the hand signal to wave me on by. I noticed he was pointing to the right side of the parked truck and at first I thought he was giving the driver instructions to turn on his right turn signal. (They do this kind of stuff on occasion to make sure everything works.) As I continued on past the rear of the parked truck it became abundantly clear (through his aggressive pull-the-f^&@ over body motions) that he was, in fact, talking to me. I had to pull a little more forward then I backed up and parallel parked behind the first truck. So far, I had been in the weigh station only one minute, and I had the distinct feeling I had already pissed off the man in charge. Oops.
After a few minutes, the truck in front of me pulled away and the DOT man made his way over to me, where I was patiently waiting with the engine off and my window down.
He opened my door and asked me for my credentials, including my license, medical card, log book, truck registration, bills of lading and probably a few hundred other things that have slipped my mind. After that, it was question and answer time. He was firm and definitely not friendly. I knew enough to pretend I had no sense of humor either, especially because initially, I didn’t pull over as directed like a good little trucker would have. I tried to relax and remember to add “sir” at the end of everything I said.
He kicked things off by saying, “Where are you going?”
“I’m on my way to Plymouth, New Hampshire.”
“What do you have in the trailer?” That threw me off at first because 90% of the time there is furniture or air in there. I assume everyone would know that, including him.
“Furniture”, I said while pretending not to have a “Duh, it says furniture all over this truck” attitude.
“Whose furniture?” Again, he threw me with this one. I actually had to think and I wasn’t really sure, so I went with the first thing that came to my mind. “Peoples furniture,” I said real softly. He was not amused. “I know that, is it new furniture or is it used?” Sigh. Really? I felt like asking if he has ever heard of Ashley Furniture. I mean come on, would someone actually think, we have these pretty high dollar trucks to haul around used furniture? Instead I became wise beyond my years and answered simply, “new.”
While this is going on, I’m fumbling through my permit book nervously. A permit book is where the insurance and registration cards are kept. Unfortunately, unlike a car, there are over forty thousand official looking documents in there, and I have trouble finding the registration card every single time someone asks me for it. I pull out a few randomly and offer, “Is this it? How about this one?” Eventually, I do find the right one which he accepts while asking me ever so sarcastically, “How long have you been driving? I answered quickly, “A little over six years,” while silently thinking “My goose is cooked.”
Before he walked back to his vehicle where I assumed he would write me thousands of dollars in tickets, call my company and have me fired, and probably email my Mother to tell her what an awful Son she raised, he asked me questions about my logbook while shielding it from my view. “Where did you get this load? Where did you come from today?” I of course answered everything properly because I don’t mess around with my logbooks. The kicker was when he asked, “Do you have any receipts?” That one puzzled me. I didn’t know what he meant so I said, “from our customers?" I thought he meant signed bills-of-lading from each stop.
“I mean receipts, like did you buy anything?” My first reaction was to automatically answer, “No,” because it’s ingrained in my thought patterns from answering my Wife when she asks me the same question. I always say no, even if I accidentally spent a couple hundred bucks. This procedure buys me time from the beat down that eventually comes.
I gave it further thought and realized I did in fact have two receipts in my pocket from the day prior: One for a shower and another for two iced teas I bought in the store before I left. I handed them to him and also let him know, “You will find these match my logbook when I was in Sturbridge, Massachusetts yesterday.”
“Okay, this is gonna be a level three inspection, just a paperwork check all right?” he asked as he began the walk to his DOT truck to begin the process of ruining my life. Like I had a choice, nothing to do now but sweat it out while hoping everything was okay.
One never knows what may happen in this kind of situation. I always feel my logbooks are done fairly well, but I had this unsettling feeling, especially from the Officer’s tough demeanor, that something troublesome would come up.
As I sat there patiently waiting, a picture hanging by my CB caught my eye:
It’s a picture of my Dad, my Grandfather and me, standing with my Grandfather’s airplane. It was the last time all three of us stood next to an airplane together, and I hung it up there soon after it was taken a few months ago. Granddad left us a few weeks ago, and I am still troubled by his absence, so much so that I considered moving the picture to the back of my cab so I would not be reminded that he’s not around anymore. It feels wrong to do that, so I have left it where it is, visible from where I spend most of my day. It must have been visible to the DOT cop too I thought. I wondered what he thought of the picture and also my kid’s artwork that hung above it. Mostly, I just waited and hoped all would go okay.
After what seemed like a good fifteen minutes, he finally emerged from his truck and walked over to me. This is an honest recital of our conversation:
“Well, I gotta say, this looks really good.”
“Thank-you.”
“No, I mean it. This is one of the best logbooks I have ever seen. The way all your receipts matched too, it was perfect.”
“Oh, Thanks.”
“Really, this was really great. You hear me?”
“Yes Sir, thank-you Sir, I appreciate it.”
He had me sign the paper that said no violations were found, which I in turn hand into my company. I was free to go, and incredulous as to how his attitude had changed. He was “Tommy Tough Guy” from the moment we met. When he came back out of his truck, he was a different man. It was as if he entered my name into his computer and found out that I’m some kind of celebrity whom everyone adores (which I am clearly not.) It was either that or when he entered my name, alarms began to blare, and the screen flashed, “Do not approach; the Russians are handling this one!”
After my new friend and I parted company, I called my dispatch office to let them know I had just lost thirty minutes getting a DOT inspection. This was necessary because if that time came back and bit me in the rear end later, I wanted to have it covered now. The lady on the phone only said, “Okay, I have it noted.” I wondered why she didn’t ask how it went. Maybe she knew me or thought if there was a problem, I would have mentioned it. Whatever the case, I was proud of myself.
As I continued toward Plymouth, I thought of some words I wrote last in my previous blog update: I'm all-pro, all the time, at everything I do. The situation I just experienced with my logbook check was like an affirmation of sorts. Those words were written with conviction; they were not some fluff meant to fill up a page with words.
My thoughts turned again to my Grandfather. He was all pro, all the time, at everything he did. As his Grandson, maybe I picked up on that. “He would be proud of me today also,” I thought. I glanced again at the picture that hangs near my CB and actually allowed myself to think “I’ll have to relate this story to him next time I sit with him.” With the suddenness of a bolt of lightning from an angry storm cloud, the reality hit, with tears following closely behind; I had to remind myself this is no longer possible. I remembered his last few weeks when I would sit on the couch in my Grandparent’s living room while he sat in his chair. Sometimes we would talk, other times only I would talk, and other times we would just sit quietly and soak up the remaining days of enjoying each other’s company. As I counted down the miles to Plymouth, all I could think of was his chair back in the living room, sitting empty and alone for all of eternity. For about fifteen minutes, I was blinded by the hurt and had completely lost my ability to see the beautiful things around me. That part of the journey consisted of nothing but wiping tears from behind my aviator sunglasses while hoping other motorists on the road would not notice the sadness that had spread throughout the interior of my truck.
I am disappointed in that part of the day. Granddad has been gone for almost a month, and there I sat, weeping once again. Granddad would not be proud of that. It’s his fault, had he not been such an amazing man I wouldn’t be in such predicaments. I need to get a hand on things; it is my belief that the emotional stress of the last few months is what set off the recurrence of my diverticulitis. I eat too well, and take many beneficial supplements for its recent visitation to be caused by anything else. It’s also my belief that the best remedy is to allow myself to cry when these moments show up unannounced. So, I do.
My stop in Plymouth was found without trouble. It was a little tight in back of the store to ask my truck to perform a U-turn, however we just barely made it, and I jumped out to open the trailer doors before backing into the dock at this, my second to last stop. When my feet met the ground, my ears picked up on the sound of an antique bag-of-rags crossing the sky right above me. I looked up of course, and noticed it was a vintage airplane from Granddad’s era. It was one he would have loved, and one he would have flown, and it was sent to that particular part of the sky, at that exact moment, as a sign from him that all is well where he is. I may only add it was right when I needed this sort of thing. Stuff such as this happens to me all the time. It’s impossible to argue, “You just notice airplanes now, because you want to.” I’ve noticed airplanes all my life, since the time I understood what they are, where they can take us, the feelings they make us feel. Granddad was a pilot. My Dad is a pilot, and so am I. Each one of us would always look up at an airplane crossing the sky. Most pilots do. Before I even touched a piece of furniture, or said hello to the customer, I was happy to be exactly where I was.
Anyway, I got the darn furniture unloaded and prepared myself to head to my last stop. It was brought to my attention, courtesy of my GPS, that the arrival time would be 4:00pm. I had an “uh oh” moment when I realized they closed at four. Doors closed. Logbook logged. It was hammer down to Osppiee as quickly as I could. Ten minutes in I began to panic that I may get stuck overnight if the customer wouldn’t play nice, so I decided to call them. History has taught me the arrival time on a GPS is only an estimation. It’s almost always later than the display says, simply because I’m dealing with eighteen tires versus a measly four.
When I called, it rang and rang until the answering machine picked up. I paid close attention to the hours of operation and was relieved to hear they were open until seven on a Friday. No matter what happened, the furniture was getting out of the box behind me. If there was a human being on the premises, I would sweet talk my way into getting them to open a door for me, and I would take care of the rest. Nonetheless, I still left a message: “Hello, this Jason with Ashley Distribution. I’m running late today and just wanted to let you know I should be there right around 4. I can unload myself if need be. See you soon.” I crossed my fingers and hoped to drive an easy journey to the final stop of the day.
Only eighteen miles out, I saw one of the prettiest things I saw not just on this trip, but perhaps ever. Cruising along, minding my own business, I catch a floatplane out of the corner of my eye. It was sitting quiet on a serene lake surrounded by hills, and I lose my mind. “UGH! Why does this keep happening? Why do they have to do this to me?” The “keep happening” part of my verbal outburst of course relates to the many things I have seen since I set foot in Vermont. I lack the time or place to stop and look at them closer, and it’s driving me insane. Who is doing this to me? That’s easy: It’s all the magical little angels of the Universe. For the last day or two, they have been dropping me in the proper time and space where everything is perfect. It’s also beautiful, Devilish little buggers they are.
Roughly a quarter mile after my tantrum had subsided, I noticed there was also an airport, and strangely enough, I saw another airplane. I could sit here and tell you about an argument I had with myself, however that’s useless. I knew almost instantly I would have to come back. I wanted to capture the scene of the floatplane, so I could have it forever. From that point on, I went about disseminating the logistics of it all.
We pulled into our final stop at five minutes after four. I pulled behind the building, opened the doors of the trailer then went looking for somebody. I opened a small door, walked inside a dark warehouse looking space and found not a human in sight. I power walked thru a maze of passageways built with furniture and finally arrived out front. The gentleman in charge was with a customer and quite friendly. He paused from his potential revenue source to explain how “The guys must have heard you coming because they just left.” He gave me permission to open the dock door and bring in the goods myself, which I easily completed.
By that time, I was hearing the unfamiliar knock-knock sound of hunger rumbling through my stomach. The darn antibiotic medicine prescribed by my Doctor had pretty much thrown off what was left of my appetite. Before I moved the truck from the dock, I placed a bowl of whole-grain Macaroni and cheese in my microwave and then asked my GPS when we will get home. It told me that if we left right now and didn’t stop once, we would get there at midnight. That’s an hour later than I could legally drive, and I didn’t care. My only concern was how to get a picture of that floatplane. Before I could commit, I had to run some numbers. After all, I didn’t want a picture to get me fired.
Gary had told me the quickest route home was to make a left out of the parking lot and follow it back to 95. Since I wasn’t worried about quick, I planned to make a right when I left, so I could go back past the airport (and my intended target of the floatplane.) I also had to check the mileage. Going too far out-of-route is one of the items that could get me fired. My best estimates told me my route may be just a hair shorter, but more time consuming. Besides, the words “95” and “Friday evenings” are enough to make any frequent traveler frown, and I would be avoiding such nightmares.
The final question left in the air was an hour thing. I needed to get back to Leesport and take 34 hours off for legalities. If I was assigned a trip that required me to leave before that 34 hours were up, I could also be placing myself at risk for being shown the door. Not to worry, I told myself, taking a picture should cost me fifteen minutes or less. Boy was I wrong.
As I pulled away, I had only one troublesome thought remaining: Where the heck am I going to park this thing when I get there? I hadn’t noticed any roadside pull-off areas, so I figured my best bet was to turn right in the airport driveway and hope for the best. I also knew that wasn’t an option. Across the course of my career, I have made a turn or six without knowing what lies beyond and I ended up feeling like a mouse caught in one of those pesky sticky traps. Better than a standard issue choke the life out of you trap but nevertheless, not much fun. I figured I’d simply show up and see what happened.
Twenty minutes later I was fast approaching the airport. I still didn’t know where to park. The shoulder of the road was exceedingly wide, so I considered it safe to turn on my four way signals and pull over to have a looks-see. We were parked next to a business whose parking lot did a descending half circle back to the road. I was eyeing that up as an option when a man leaving in a late model black Chevy pickup truck drove over to me.
“Can I help you find something?” He seemed quite friendly. I was happy to hear him say it in a way that let me know he wasn’t pissed off that I was blocking the parking lot of his business with a billboard on wheels.
“Well, I was wondering if there is enough room to park this thing at the airport,” I said while pointing at my truck. “Do you know if there is room?”
He smiled and said, “Hop in, I’ll drive you down quick, and you can decide for yourself.”
“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
I walked over to the passenger side of his truck and opened the door while running a few scenarios through my head. I remember thinking, “I’m really going to be upset if this man locks the doors, takes me to his house, cuts me into a few hundred pieces, and then feeds what’s left of me to the wild boars he keeps as pets in his backyard.”
Thankfully, that nightmarish scene did not happen. Still, I am always wary of getting into cars with strangers. Years ago I was in West Virginia on a Friday night with the purpose of delivering a load of furniture on Saturday morning. Somehow, I met up with a Dad and his Daughter, and I left with them in their car, and I found the resulting evening nothing short of full-blown terror. They were two of the craziest individuals I may ever have had the displeasure of knowing. Afterwards, I promised myself I would never, under any circumstances, hop into a car with a stranger. Such a pity I’m not quite ready to share the full story of that adventure yet. I may have broken a promise to myself, but I try to go with instinct. Nothing about this guy told me I was in danger of being murdered. Then again, I imagine that’s exactly what a murderer would like me to think.
We turned around and did half a U-Turn into the airport driveway. We were halfway down when I realized there were plenty of wide-open places to park. I also spotted a Piper Cub near an open hangar door and several people mingling about. When I saw the Cub, I just knew I’d have to go see that too, maybe say hello to the people mingling around.
We turned around and he took me back to my truck waiting along the road. We were together only three or four minutes. Even so, we had learned about each other. He asked what part of Pennsylvania I am from. When I told him “near Reading” he said he was originally from south of Pittsburgh. I asked him what brought him to New Hampshire, and he told me how he got divorced and needed a change. I said, “You sure picked a great spot. If I didn’t have fifty kids at home, I would probably move up here too.” This made him laugh and I don’t know why. We said our goodbyes and I set off to get myself and my ever inpatient truck turned around and into the airport parking lot.
We pulled down the narrow driveway and parked in an open hard-packed dirt area off to the left. I shut off the engine and walked over to a man I saw walking near an auto repair shop opposite the airplane hangar. I offered a wave as I became closer and said, “Hello. Do you think it would bother anyone if I parked there a few minutes? I’m a pilot from PA just passing through and wanted to have a quick look around.” He was quite friendly. “Not at all, I own this property. There’s water in the pilot lounge if you need some. There’s also a New Cessna Citation X arriving at 8pm. It’s going to be interesting to see if he can make it. The pilot must be nervous because he called ten times already.” I looked at my wrist, which doesn’t happen to contain a watch, and said, “I don’t think I’ll be around that long (it was 5:00 at this point) but thank-you very much.”
I walked over to the lounge area and watched as a very fancy helicopter departed from the field. It was there I met a young man in plaid shorts who was also watching, and taking pictures. I took one myself:
If I knew I was going to write about this, I would have asked for names. It wouldn’t have mattered. I would have forgotten them anyway, and I’m not bright enough to write things down. After the copter left, he told me that he flies scenic rides in the Cessna that sits at the other end of the runway. He also told me about the Citation X that was expected, adding an air of excitement to this little airport’s atmosphere. I told him about our Aeronca Champs back home, and he asked me if I wanted to buy another. “What kind of shape is it in?” “Well, one shape is a wing in a hangar. Another shape is a fuselage and another wing in a different hangar.”
Turns out it was ground looped, the major damage being a bent wing. A doctor would need to check the spars. I lacked money for such a project and the knowledge to fix it, but if you’re in need of one, I can tell you where to find it.
We walked over to the open hangar where the Cub was looking pretty outside. I said hello to the guy who was working on the Cub, his name was Chris. I only know this because I heard someone call him that, and we have a mechanic at our covert yard somewhere in New England who is also named Chris. My mind now knows of two people that I can call “Chris the Mechanic.” The Cub was a very nice J-3 and it belonged to Chris who also works at the airport shop, or the car shop, probably both as need be.
I hung around a few minutes chatting with Chris and then noticed the guy I first met was now in the hangar, so I chatted with him a bit. He was just not the owner of the property but also the owner both businesses making him a very cool individual from my eyes. I told him I was going for a walk because I wanted to have a closer look at the seaplane with my camera. He offered me the airport car, meant for pilots passing through which I kind of was. I appreciated his generosity but declined; I have been driving straight for six years. A walk feels pretty damn good sometimes. More so in a foreign land.
It took longer than I anticipated to reach the spot along the road where I first saw that airplane sitting on floatable stilts. Once there, I leaned against a tree and snapped a few pictures. I didn’t know it then, but it would later become one of my favorite captures of all time:
I made the long journey back to the airport hangar, intending on saying goodbye. As I approached, I noticed the young man in plaid shorts was now fiddling with a remote control airplane. Who can walk away from the possibility of seeing something like that fly? It took a little while to start but it finally did. I followed along as the group moved towards the runway so they could set the airplane free. Down there stood two more airplane people and they were friendly guys too. We chatted about remote control airplanes and their history. One of them showed me a remote controlled Aeronca Champ he had in the back of his car. Just looking at it made him want to fly it and so he did. It was cool little thing. He informed me they are available online and ready to fly for ninety bucks. I’m going to order one, just please don’t tell my Wife. I’m going to try and slip this one in under the radar and hope for the best.
While I was chatting with the Champ man, we heard a dull thud from behind us followed by moans of displeasure from the people who had been paying attention. We turned around to see the airplane had suffered a hard landing, and it was determined that it should be put out of service. It was entertaining to hear the other guys who were not holding the transceiver part of the combination playfully tease the kid in plaid shorts about what happened. All the comments of course, were said as if he were flying a real airplane. “Why didn’t you go around? What’s wrong with your flare?” On and on they went, and I enjoyed every minute of standing around listening.
The plaid short’s kid disappeared back to the hangar, and the rest of the group stood around talking about nothing in particular. It was then I heard Chris the Mechanic say, “I should fly the Cub home.” Someone else says, “But the Citation is coming soon.” I’m standing there trying to process what Chris just said. Fly the Cub Home? If he told me he also had a stable of pretty girls waiting at his beck and call, I would have asked for his autograph. Not so much for the girls mind you (though that would certainly elevate him to Rock Start status) but for having the ability to “Fly the Cub home.” The majority of pilots live apart from their airplanes, which is an obviously sad fact. I was in awe that he is so lucky to fly to work, work on airplanes (and maybe cars) and then fly home again at the end of the day. He was too cool for the airstrip.
This brought back terrible memories from my Childhood. Somewhere in my junior high school days, I wanted to go to vocational school to learn how to work on cars. My parents would not let me. It was never said but I think they always felt Vo-tech was beneath our family. Fortunately, they were great parents, so I let this misdeed of theirs slide, and I enjoy a good relationship with both. It’s still one of the only regrets that I have in life but It wasn’t my decision to make. Because they made it for me by not letting me attend, now I don’t know how to do anything. I hope you’re happy Mom and Dad. Today I’m just a truck driver that has aspirations to become a successful writer. When my goals are reached, I’ll buy each of you a new car. Cars eventually break and when they do, don’t call me. I’ll just say, “Fix it yourself.” That’s my payback.
Besides working on being a better writer, I might also benefit from not being such a distracted one. Let me get back to the scene at the airport: Plaid short’s kid reappears, and this time he’s holding a remote control glider with an engine attached to the front. He sits on the ground and tries for at least ten minutes to get the engine started while everyone else talks about other things. The two older guys and a few others discuss the arrival of the Citation X. One of the older guys recites a story of the time he saw a 5000 hour airline transport rated pilot wipe out his twin engine airplane on this very airfield. We all conclude that everyone is bound to have a bad day.
Finally, the airport owner guy and everyone else realize the trouble that plaid short’s kid is having with the engine of the glider and the teasing begins anew. They even throw a barb in Chris the Mechanic’s direction, calling for an A&P (airframe and powerplant mechanic) to remedy the situation. Airport owner guy tells plaid short’s kid to hold the glider up and attempts to start it by flinging the prop as if he was hand-propping a real airplane. Eventually, the darn thing finally fires up and Chris the Mechanic grabs the radio transceiver. Plaid short’s kid walks about ten feet from us and throws it into the air:
The glider begins a gentle, but fairly steep left turning climb, right over our heads. We all watch it rise and suddenly Chris the mechanic yells, “I’m giving it full down elevator. This I all I got.” The glider keeps climbing and then Chris says, “I got nothing.” Pandemonium erupts on the ground while the glider begins to circle higher and higher while ever so gently drifting east. After everything is sorted out, it was determined what happened: The plaid short’s kid accidentally bumped a finger against the radio receiver on the end of the glider when he was fiddling with the engine. His finger misplacement meant the glider now could not “hear” its instructions because the radio was off. The glider was becoming smaller and smaller as it continued on circling in its fatal flight.
The crowd fell silent as we watched it go. There were debates regarding how about how much fuel it held. By most accounts, the poor bird could continue upward for fifteen to twenty minutes. Plaid short’s kid yelled for Chris the Mechanic to hop in the Cub and go chase it. Few of us saw the point in this, but after Plaid short’s kid explained that maybe if he could determine where it goes down, they could later recover it. Still a long shot, but even though nobody needs an excuse to go fly a Cub, Chris the mechanic obliged and came down the taxi way with his airplane. In this picture, he is looking up to locate the glider before giving chase:
By the time the Cub slipped lazily into the air, the glider was becoming harder to see, and it was way off to the east. Five of us stood still, squinting into the distance. Nobody stared harder than poor plaid short’s kid. I guess this would be expected as it was his glider. He ran away and soon returned with binoculars. He said he could still see it. The rest of us were having trouble.
Chris the Mechanic shot an impressively well landing in the Cub and taxied back to our small crowd. Plaid short’s kid jumped in with him, and they took off again, presumably so he could use the binoculars from the air. By now, none of us could see the darn thing.
Once they were airborne, I asked airport owner guy how much plaid short’s kid had invested in the glider. “Not much, he has had the thing, since he was a youngster.” This made me feel sad for plaid short’s kid. Sentimental value trumps monetary worth in a troubling situation such as this. I also couldn’t help but think, what are the chances? After all the time the kid has owned that glider, tragedy has unfolded on a day when I randomly stopped by a place a never knew existed.
As I pondered another mystery of the Universe, I suddenly was shot with the notion I should check the time. It was a little after seven and I have no idea how that happened other than it’s a known anomaly that tends to occur when visiting any airport. I had not an idea where I was, only that I knew I was legal to drive until 11:15 pm. I whipped out my phone, turned on the navigation, and asked it how long it would take to get to my planned truck stop in Willington, Connecticut. I was horrified it was about three hours away, and this information clearly told me it was time to go.
I considered staying to see the Citation X. If it were late or the pilot got cold feet, and it never came at all, that would mean even more time disappearing needlessly. As much fun as I had at that little airport, I did want to get home eventually. There’s no doubt airport owner guy would have let me park overnight making an early-morning departure possible, but I was a hard worker all day and really wanted a shower, which I intended to get at the truck stop. I remain somewhat thankful that a shower was not among the many amenities airport owner guy offered me; that would have opened a whole other can of worms. I would have definitely stayed the night. In the morning, the airport would be filled with people and airplane noise, and I would find myself losing track of time again. God forbid someone would have offered me a ride; I’d probably still be up there.
I said my goodbyes to my new friends and began the process known as pounding the pavement. Shortly into the journey I ran into off and on rain showers that persisted for the remainder of the drive. I hoped that lucky bastard known as Chris the Mechanic got his Cub home before they arrived. Otherwise, it was smooth sailing at that late hour. I arrived at the truck stop at 10:45pm, with exactly only one half hour left on my clock.
I did hours of paperwork (okay, really only 10 minutes worth), and gathered my bag filled with stuff I would need for a shower. As I exited the truck, the key slipped from hand and bounced off the truck in such a way that it fell onto the ground dead square underneath my truck. I was thankful this happened before my shower. To retrieve it, I had to crawl on the wet ground. The front of my pants and t-shirt were completely soaked, so much so that I felt a need to explain the reason for my appearance when I went inside to the cashier. I couldn’t help but wonder if that episode (as well as the one where the poor kid lost his glider) was created by those mischievous little angels that dance in around the universe, playfully creating so much fun in our lives.
That, my friend, is what a day I was truly in love with was like to me. It’s not often anymore I feel compelled to write about strictly things that happen on the road. I had no choice really; I was feeling good again and saw too many beautiful things, and even met some good people along the way to ever risk forgetting it.
There was one thing in my story that stands out in my mind as my absolute favorite. I will go to Vermont and New Hampshire again; in fact I was in Vermont this past Friday. (That made me feel like I had been sucked into a Vermont-Friday vortex, and I quite liked it.) My number will come up with the friendly DOT folk someday too. I’ll even see airplanes in the sky almost every day and remember my Grandfather. It was a first to stop by an airport I never met, but I enjoyed it so much that I might do it again one day.
The one source of energy that set this whole story in motion was the people who sat along on the road and waved to me. I feel people don’t do this enough anymore and I’m not sure why. Because of my Dad, I wave at anyone I pass. If they are walking or otherwise make eye contact, I wave. Because of my job, I spend a lot of time waving at people in thanks. That’s because they just moved their vehicle back from an intersection where I need to make a turn. I find it depressing that even those people rarely wave back. In most cases they just sit there with stone cold expressions that let me know they were only doing me a favor and were not so happy for the inconvenience. Why?
Our country, and even the world (Yes my Russian friends, I know you’re still watching me) faces some uncharted waters that drift with uncertainty. If it was up to me, and I was the man in charge, my opening statement would be, “Bring back the wave.”
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