No, I cannot tell you just exactly when I started to see "things". For I simply do not remember.
Nonetheless: what I can tell you about it may be surprising. For unto the extent that I have been made aware of: it all started long before I ever heard of ephedrine.
Denial goes hand-in-hand with drug abuse: I know; and in all fairness: there is evidence to suggest a connection. For the more ephedrine I took: the more "things" I would see; but since I would often see stuff that made absolutely no sense unto me at the time: I had my doubts about just where they were coming from.
Yes, I am sure that pink elephants make no sense unto most alcoholics. For neither the color variant, nor the animal itself, would be symbolic of anything about themselves, or their lives.
On the other hand: is it wise to assume that the seeing of things that others cannot see is most likely the result of some sort of chemical imbalance in the brain that was caused by the abuse of some sort of chemical? For in my case: I would sometimes see things like the great wheel of Ometecutli (an Aztec god), and different battlefields scenes full of the dead and dying, when I had not been near a history book for years.
Yes, much of the other stuff was sexually explicit. For that was what I wanted to see at the time; but since none of it was what I "specifically" wanted to see, nor anything familiar from my past: one would be hard-pressed to prove that it all was just a figment of my imagination.
No, I never saw any pink elephants. For the things that I saw were strictly in black and white, along with shades of grey. That is: except for eyes that would sometimes take-on hues of yellow or red.
Yes, the images would sometimes change; but their movements were not fluid. For they would generally look like a negative of a photograph when they would first appear on a surface of something; and then a repetitive frame by frame slide-show would commence.
Furthermore: there were other exceptions unto the rule. For what I would see would almost always appear at night in two-dimensional form; but every once-in-awhile: the three-dimensional form of a person could be seen in dust particles in the air even during daylight hours.
There was also one day when I was traveling south on U.S. 83 just south of Garden City, KS that I had to slam on my brakes in order to avoid running into the back of an empty corporate car-hauler several times. For they were notoriously slow and under-powered; and I would not catch sight of the truck until after I had topped one of the rolling hills in that area.
Finally: the road flattened-out; and I lost sight of the rolling road-block completely. Why then? I do not know. For it never existed in-the-first-place.
No, that was not a truck-driver's story; but it does remind of one (I suspect). For it was first told unto me by a driver who would rather make-up something when the truth would do even better.
Anyway: the story was about a convoy of 5 trucks with the same company that I was still driving for that had a driver, who was well-known for seeing things that did not really exist, running the front-door. So: the rest of the bunch did not believe him whenever he slammed-on his brakes and claimed that there was a large boat on the road ahead of them.
To make a long story somewhat shorter: he decided to quit trying to avoid a collision after the verbal abuse coming from the other 4 drivers became too much to take; and a few minutes later: wood of all shapes and sizes littered the road. For he did not get his truck stopped until he had plowed through over half of the length of the boat being pulled by a smaller truck that was hidden from the sight of the beleaguered front-door of the convoy.
Oh yes, there was more. For adding insult unto injury: the transporter of the boat was held liable for all damages done, and highway clean-up involved, because of failing to have a rear escort vehicle in place.
Entertaining: was it not? Perhaps a little too entertaining to be true; but after seeing all that I have seen: I am reluctant to dismiss it as being a work of fiction out-of-hand.
Oh yes, there is more unto my story, as well. For I have become much more sympathetic unto claims made by someone about not recognizing a loved one before killing them in their own place of residence. For the very same thing happened unto me once.
No, I have not killed any of my loved ones in their own home; but I have been confused about the identity of mother. For she was standing less than 10 feet away from me (in a well-lit hallway) one night; and I had no idea who she was.
Thankfully: my confusion only lasted for a few seconds; and I made no move against her. For I believed that what I was seeing was a spirit of some kind, which meant that there was nothing to be done about it.
Yes, there are those who would beg to differ; and there was a time when I would have pursued such knowledge. For I was once told by a practicing witch that I had great power that could be used for good or evil.
No, it was not my idea to go see such a person; but I must admit that I found the experience most intriguing. For when the group that I was with entered her house: she focused all of her attention upon me for at least 15-20 seconds; and when I asked her about it when it was my turn to spend some time alone with her: she told me that the brightness of my "aura" (a glow of light coming from a person that only certain people can see) made sight of everyone else's aura (including her own) impossible to see.
Yes, it does sound like a set-up; but she refused to accept all that was offered for her time: even as a donation. Besides: she did not tell anyone else in the group anything like that.
Weird: I know; but wait: there is more! For my experiences in the "twilight zone" have not been limited unto just things that could be seen. For on two different occasions (that I can remember): I have woke-up gasping for air with the feeling of two hands around my neck.
Yes, after being diagnosed with "Sleep Apnea" (a medical condition where a person stops breathing in their sleep) a couple of years later: I thought about that being an explanation for feeling like I was being choked; but in what way would my diagnosis have anything to do with what had happened unto my mother on a number of occasions? For after telling her about the hands: she told me about her experiences with a mysterious cat.
As with me: what happened unto her seemed to be oh so very real. For she would feel like she was paralyzed. Then: she would hear a cat (when none were in the house) coming down the hallway and enter into her bedroom. Then: she would feel the cat jump onto the foot of her bed and walk up the length of her body. Then: the cat would lay across her face; and just before smothering to death: my mother would become able to move again. Then: the cat would disappear; and after a lengthy series of rather violent sneezes (expelling the apparent cat fur from her nose): she would then be able to go to sleep without further interruption.
No, I have not experienced the like; but I have felt something walking across my bed on a number of occasions when there should not have been anything around. Sometimes it would feel like a cat, or a small dog; and sometimes it would feel like a much larger animal with four feet. A time or two: it even felt like a person (or at least something walking on two feet).
Out of all that I had experienced in the past: one of the most memorable involved what is commonly referred unto as being an "out-of-body" experience in certain circles. For I could actually feel "myself" rising out of my body while laying on my back; and after silently crying-out that I was not ready to go yet when I reached the ceiling of my sleeper: I instantly returned unto my body.
There is, however, a difference between what I experienced and what I have heard about. For their out-of-body experiences generally occurred during times when they were sound asleep or unconscious. Whereas: mine occurred while I was wide-awake.
Yes, I am quite sure of being awake at the time. For it happened just a few minutes after crawling into bed while parked at the Shell Truckstop in Holbrook, AZ (around 230 mile northeast of Phoenix on I-40); and I was not tired enough to pass-out immediately.
No, I have no idea about what may have really triggered such an event. For it would be another two years before I would become fast-friends with ephedrine; but at the time: I suspected that being in close proximity unto the Painted Desert region may have had much to do with it. For the area is considered as being sacred ground by several tribes of Indians (Native Americans).
Oh yeah, I am reminded of another experience that should not be excluded. For it involved Sam's father telling me to give him a copper penny for each wart on my hands and then forget about them; and a couple of days later: I discovered that I should have given him 52 copper pennies, instead of just 51. For there was still one wart remaining.
When I asked him about it: there was little that he could tell me. For he said that the ability would be lost if too much was revealed.
Nonetheless: he could tell me that it was a spiritual gift from God that was to be passed-on unto a member of the opposite sex of each generation. In other words: a mother would give their gift unto one of their sons; and then they would pass it on unto one of their daughters, when it was time to do so.
No, it did not have to go unto the first-born of either sex; and it was not limited unto just the removal of warts. For he told me about his mother also having the ability to heal even extremely severe burns.
There was even proof of such. For sometime during the 1930's (I think): a toddler of a very poor young couple received third-degree burns over most of his body after falling into the fireplace of their home. The young couple then took their son unto William's mother; and left him with her over-night: as instructed. Upon their return the next morning: they were devastated to see that he was still wrapped-up in the dirty sheets that they had used for bandages; but when they unwrapped him: they were amazed to see no evidence of the burns on any part of their son's body.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
TCC: The Eleventh Crumb, Part II
No, I was not after anything illegal. For the kind of ephedrine that I was looking for could be found in its very own display case on (or behind) the counter of almost every truckstop across the land; and even in a great many convenience stores and gas stations, as well.
Nonetheless: I had a deep-seated sense of fear; and it certainly did not do much to calm me down to see that its display case was empty. For by then: I was feeling like I did the first time I ever entered a liquor store and bought a fifth of Seagram's V.O. so that I could be (I thought) more like a man I highly respected in the Joplin, MO area back in 1979 (I think).
Anyway: I had become fairly good friends with one of the girls who worked at the Pilot; and she proved most helpful in my endeavour. For not only did she go in the back and find what I was looking for: she also cautioned me not to take more than 2 pills at a time if I did not want to get the jitters.
Even though I thought that it was very considerate of her to be concerned about my welfare: I knew my constitution. For I have always had to take more (sometimes: much more) of the recommended dosage of everything from aspirin unto prescribed medication to get any good out of the stuff.
Therefore: I popped 4 pills into my mouth and swallowed them down with a big gulp of Mountain Dew (straight out of an unrefrigerated 2 litre bottle that I kept along side a gallon pee-jug in a duct tape-reinforced cardboard box between the seats); and then took-off for glory. I did not even make it unto Needles (around 140 miles east of Barstow on I-40) before I had to lay down and try to sleep some more.
Thankfully: I only slept a couple of hours; and what happened next was absolutely amazing. For I ingested 10 of the ephedrine pills that time; and about 10 minutes later: it felt like every hair on my head was standing-on-end. Then: oily beads of sweat started to ooze out of my forehead; and after that: I could feel my muscles swelling with strength and energy (not so unlike blowing-up an inflatable doll). The icing on the cake was a tingling sensation through-out my body.
In other words: it felt like I really had taken a hit of crank. For I had heard others talk about it; but I had never been tempted to try it myself.
Be assured that nothing had changed. For I saw no benefit unto upping the ante when I already felt better than I ever had before; and there was also: "Look Ma! No jitters!"
It was, however, the beginning of a devoted relationship with the stuff. For without it: I was some kind of special; but with it: I became a super-trucker without any reservations.
A good example of that would be winning a bet with another driver. For he bet that he would have traveled more miles than I the next time we met. Nine days later: I won with 7,932 unto his 6,497; and he really was on crank!
Another example makes the point even clearer. For it involved taking-off from Rogers, AR with a load of Tyson's finest headed for Denver, CO. Then: picking-up a loaded trailer of boxed beef in Liberal, KS headed for Ontario, CA. Then: making 8 pick-ups of produce from Chula Vista, CA (southern suburb of San Diego) unto Salinas headed for Buffalo. Then: picking-up a load of wine in Canandaigua, NY (around 90 miles east of Buffalo) headed for Richmond, CA (around 15 miles north of Oakland). Then: picking-up a load of almonds and cashews from another warehouse in Richmond headed for Rochester, NY. Then: picking-up another load of wine in Canandaigua headed for Richmond. All without a wink of sleep.
No, I did not see where I could be doing any damage; but Sherry did. For she was a LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse): going to school to be an RN (Registered Nurse); and just reading the back of the bottle freaked her out.
Yes, there was a price being paid. For aside from having to take more and more of the stuff in order to keep going: my personality was undergoing a major metamorphosis; and before long: a very disagreeable monster could be seen every time I looked in a mirror.
Not that it really mattered unto me at the time. For I had this dream of having lots of cattle to chase, and horses to fall off of while doing so; and I believed that I was doing all that I could to achieve it before getting too old to really enjoy that kind of life.
A lot sooner than later: my relationship with Sherry had deteriorated unto the point of being more like an uneasy truce between enemies than any sort of a happy marriage even during peaceful exchanges. For she was very unhappy with my state of mind; and getting a letter from an old girlfriend did little to improve the situation.
No, it was not a love letter. Well, not exactly. For it was sent to inform me of the birth of Calvin 2 years earlier.
Talk about being unexpected: I had only been out with his mother a few times; but like they say: it only takes once. It was still good to hear about having a son: nonetheless.
I even got to meet him a couple of months later. For I got a load headed for Kent, WA (southern suburb of Seattle); and that left me only around 45 miles south of where they lived.
Oh yes, Calvin was most definitely my son. For he was as cute as could be; and could charm the socks off of a wino in a back alley.
He was a little on the small side, however; but he had a rough start. For Calvin had to come-out at the end of the second trimester (24 weeks); and weighed only 18 ounces. Hmm, impatience: surely another trait that he got from his old man.
Yes, it can be said that Calvin was a miracle baby in the truest sense of the word; and I will be eternally grateful unto the Children's Hospital in Little Rock, AR for giving an assist. For it was in their Intensive Care Nursery where he had to stay for the first 6 months (I think) of his life.
Just to think: I had been through where they lived just 5 or 6 months earlier on a run unto Surrey, BC (eastern suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia); and it was a memorable trip. For it was the first time that I had ever been in the area (not to mention: the first time across the border into Canada).
There was also this Canadian Border Patrol Officer (I think) who was a stone cold fox (she looked a lot like Shania Twain unto me). That is: at least I thought so until she promised to shoot me on the spot if she found anything that she considered disgusting in my sleeper while she was performing a random inspection; and since she did not shoot me: I suppose that she really was an object to be desired.
Even after all of that: the second trip into the area was so much better. For I was plumb proud to be Calvin's poppa; and I hoped (for his sake) that he got a lot more of his momma's genes than mine.
Alas, again I found myself in a situation where there was nothing sweet about parting. For it was love at first sight.
Speaking of sight: Calvin certainly has a unique pair of eyes. Well, maybe only unto me. For both our's are greenish hazel (blue/green); but where mine are encircled with a band of blue: his are encircled with a golden band, which makes them quite beautiful.
Anyway: it was time to hit the road again; and I did so with renewed determination. For I had gained another to share my dream with.
Perhaps news of Calvin was the last straw (or at least one very near unto the top). For it was only a month or two (I think) after I meet him that I lost Sherry and her daughter; and oddly enough: I got the news when I called her from the cold storage where I was making my last pick-up of pears in Cashmere, WA (around 150 miles east of Seattle).
Some might think that it rude. For when I told Sherry that I would be headed home in less than an hour: she told me not to bother; but I knew where she was coming from.
Yes, I did feel a sense of loss; but to be perfectly honest about it: it was more a sense of relief than anything else that I felt when informed of the impending demise of our marriage. For we had tried hard to make it work; but the divide between us had just grown too wide to span.
No, I was not the only one who was relieved. For Sherry's daughter had hated my guts with a passion since the first time she heard about me; and even attending the Space Camp in Huntsville, AL (something that she really, really, really, really wanted to do) did little to take the edge off of her scorn.
Anyway: I was free to really spread my wings and fly; but when I unfurled them: a bunch of feathers fell out. For it seemed that taking over 50 ephedrine pills a day (over 1,250 mg) was doing a little damage after all; and then my purple rocketship got retired because of having too many miles.
So: I decided to try to do the right thing and go load-up Theresa and Calvin and bring them back to live with me in the state of Misery (Missouri: one of Darrell Greenstreet's favorite quips). For he was my son; and I believed that I could sure use a blessing or two from the Man upstairs about then.
No, they were not forthcoming. That is: at least not in the way that I had hoped. For it is true that I should have been killed when I hit a full grown (and very pregnant) Black Angus cow (easily 800 pounds) broadside while going around 70 MPH just north of New Meadows, ID (around 120 miles north of Boise); and then there was the Wamsutter, WY (around 240 miles west of Laramie) white-out to also consider.
After passing Exit 173 on I-80 (heading west unto my first drop of AAA maps in Salt Lake City): it was like a great white curtain had been drawn across the road in front of me; and I plowed right through it doing 75 MPH. For that was all that piece of junk that I had got stuck-in until my new rocketship (I hoped) arrived could do.
Needless to say: it did not take me long to drastically reduce my speed. For I could not see past the hood of my truck (let alone: where I was on the highway); and I quickly become disoriented (feeling like I have stopped, and/or even going backwards) whenever I encounter blowing snow at night: especially when it appears to be blowing at me.
Yes, I wanted to stop really bad; and I was not the only one. For the radio was going nuts; and every once in a while: someone would say that they actually were stopping. Invariably: someone else would ask them where they were; and my favorite reply unto that was: "If I knew that I would not be stopping!!!"
So: I kept on truckin' at a torrid pace of 15-20 MPH. For I was afraid of getting run over from behind to go any slower.
Thankfully: I caught a glimpse of a reflector now and then; and I knew to scoot-over to the left a bit every time I felt the trailer start to slide into the bar-ditch. For even in 4-wheel-drive (8-wheel-drive actually: with both differentials locked-in) most OTR trucks do not make very good snowplows.
Much unto my surprise: I discovered that I was not as alone as I thought I was during one of my patented "Road Position Adjustment Maneuvers". For I caught sight of the headlights of a little white (of all the colors) car just before my trailer got back in line.
It is a wonder that they did not follow my trailer into the bar-ditch. For there could not have been more than a foot of space between the front of their car and my trailer's safety bumper (a lowered bumper that is meant to help prevent small vehicles from running under trailers in the back; but I knew how they felt. For I had sometimes tried to keep-up with Yellow Freight trucks that had to have some sort of on-board radar system in order to maintain a 58 MPH pace during times when the fog in the San Joaquin Valley (central California) reduced visibility unto less than 30 feet.
Be assured that I have never been as happy to see Point of Rocks, WY as I was that night. For I could actually see it!!!
Yes, the 41 mile "Winter Wonderland Adventure Ride" was finally over. For the cause of the massive white-out was high winds out of the north blowing snow across the road; and a fairly high bluff just outside of Point of Rocks (around Mile Marker 132) put an end unto "Frosty, The Snowman's" fun.
Before putting it to bed for a few hours: I traveled another 25 miles or so; and after finding a place to park at the Flying J Truckstop in Rock Springs, WY (another blessing: to be sure): I jumped out of the cab, kissed the ground, and yelled "thank you" just as loud as I could. For I was very grateful unto God for getting me through such an harrowing experience without a scratch: with the operative word of that statement being "was". For before I laid my head down to sleep: I started to fantasize about what it would be like to hook-up with a Mormon babe or two down there in Salt Lake later that day.
Hey, it was not my fault!!! For I used to wonder if there were any ugly girls in Utah; and after countless hours of contemplation: I came unto the conclusion that there must be. For the reason why I had never seen one yet was because they only let them out at night in places where there were not any illuminating lights around.
Alas, it was all for naught. For my fantasy of finding a "good" Mormon girl to play slap and tickle for a "little" while never happened; and I suppose that was another blessing to be thankful for. For a girl being raised in such a repressive society would have probably eaten me alive after being let out of her gilded cage; but what a way to go.
Perhaps not there; but I was starting to think seriously about going somewhere. For "Jesse James Days" really were over (at least for me) with the advent of the CDL (Commercial Driver's License).
Well, not completely. For I would still try to drive for days without sleep; and I would not balk at an opportunity to make some extra money by sneaking a double load of canned goods (usually over 110,000 pounds gross) down unto El Paso, TX, or over 60,000 pounds of loose potatoes from Monte Vista, CO (around 240 miles southwest of Denver) unto Siloam Springs, AR (around 20 miles west of Springdale), or a double load of rolled aluminum out of Oswego, NY (around 100 miles east of Buffalo) unto Birmingham, AL.
Nonetheless: playing outlaw was just not as much fun as it used to be. For the main reason for the issuance of the CDL's was to clip the wings of chicken-haulers; and it succeded in my case. For I could no longer afford to get any speeding tickets because the points now showed-up: regardless of where they came from.
As if that was not enough: my super-trucker pills were falling down on the job; but I kept giving them chances to redeem themselves. For I would shovel more and more of them: more and more often; and even after digesting 100 pills in 2 hours, and throwing-up mostly blood for 6 hours one night at a rest area near Echo, UT (around 35 miles southeast of Ogden): I remained a loyal customer.
Yes, I had a problem; but not in the way that most would think. For there was not a physical addiction in play; but in all fairness: of what good news is that when you keep thinking that just a few more will do the trick.
No, my disposition was not improving. For the farther I fell behind: the madder (in every sense of the word) I got; and that made for a very pleasent experience for Calvin and his mother (I am sure).
I even have proof! For after stopping by the house one day in the very merry month of May, 1993 (I think): I found them packed-up and gone with the only vehicle still running; and just for good measure: Theresa had called the electric company (obviously before calling the telephone company) and had the meter removed.
By the way: have I failed to mention that I had been seeing "things" for quite some time by then? Yes, I do believe I have; and must do something about that. For they play an integral part in the plan.
Nonetheless: I had a deep-seated sense of fear; and it certainly did not do much to calm me down to see that its display case was empty. For by then: I was feeling like I did the first time I ever entered a liquor store and bought a fifth of Seagram's V.O. so that I could be (I thought) more like a man I highly respected in the Joplin, MO area back in 1979 (I think).
Anyway: I had become fairly good friends with one of the girls who worked at the Pilot; and she proved most helpful in my endeavour. For not only did she go in the back and find what I was looking for: she also cautioned me not to take more than 2 pills at a time if I did not want to get the jitters.
Even though I thought that it was very considerate of her to be concerned about my welfare: I knew my constitution. For I have always had to take more (sometimes: much more) of the recommended dosage of everything from aspirin unto prescribed medication to get any good out of the stuff.
Therefore: I popped 4 pills into my mouth and swallowed them down with a big gulp of Mountain Dew (straight out of an unrefrigerated 2 litre bottle that I kept along side a gallon pee-jug in a duct tape-reinforced cardboard box between the seats); and then took-off for glory. I did not even make it unto Needles (around 140 miles east of Barstow on I-40) before I had to lay down and try to sleep some more.
Thankfully: I only slept a couple of hours; and what happened next was absolutely amazing. For I ingested 10 of the ephedrine pills that time; and about 10 minutes later: it felt like every hair on my head was standing-on-end. Then: oily beads of sweat started to ooze out of my forehead; and after that: I could feel my muscles swelling with strength and energy (not so unlike blowing-up an inflatable doll). The icing on the cake was a tingling sensation through-out my body.
In other words: it felt like I really had taken a hit of crank. For I had heard others talk about it; but I had never been tempted to try it myself.
Be assured that nothing had changed. For I saw no benefit unto upping the ante when I already felt better than I ever had before; and there was also: "Look Ma! No jitters!"
It was, however, the beginning of a devoted relationship with the stuff. For without it: I was some kind of special; but with it: I became a super-trucker without any reservations.
A good example of that would be winning a bet with another driver. For he bet that he would have traveled more miles than I the next time we met. Nine days later: I won with 7,932 unto his 6,497; and he really was on crank!
Another example makes the point even clearer. For it involved taking-off from Rogers, AR with a load of Tyson's finest headed for Denver, CO. Then: picking-up a loaded trailer of boxed beef in Liberal, KS headed for Ontario, CA. Then: making 8 pick-ups of produce from Chula Vista, CA (southern suburb of San Diego) unto Salinas headed for Buffalo. Then: picking-up a load of wine in Canandaigua, NY (around 90 miles east of Buffalo) headed for Richmond, CA (around 15 miles north of Oakland). Then: picking-up a load of almonds and cashews from another warehouse in Richmond headed for Rochester, NY. Then: picking-up another load of wine in Canandaigua headed for Richmond. All without a wink of sleep.
No, I did not see where I could be doing any damage; but Sherry did. For she was a LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse): going to school to be an RN (Registered Nurse); and just reading the back of the bottle freaked her out.
Yes, there was a price being paid. For aside from having to take more and more of the stuff in order to keep going: my personality was undergoing a major metamorphosis; and before long: a very disagreeable monster could be seen every time I looked in a mirror.
Not that it really mattered unto me at the time. For I had this dream of having lots of cattle to chase, and horses to fall off of while doing so; and I believed that I was doing all that I could to achieve it before getting too old to really enjoy that kind of life.
A lot sooner than later: my relationship with Sherry had deteriorated unto the point of being more like an uneasy truce between enemies than any sort of a happy marriage even during peaceful exchanges. For she was very unhappy with my state of mind; and getting a letter from an old girlfriend did little to improve the situation.
No, it was not a love letter. Well, not exactly. For it was sent to inform me of the birth of Calvin 2 years earlier.
Talk about being unexpected: I had only been out with his mother a few times; but like they say: it only takes once. It was still good to hear about having a son: nonetheless.
I even got to meet him a couple of months later. For I got a load headed for Kent, WA (southern suburb of Seattle); and that left me only around 45 miles south of where they lived.
Oh yes, Calvin was most definitely my son. For he was as cute as could be; and could charm the socks off of a wino in a back alley.
He was a little on the small side, however; but he had a rough start. For Calvin had to come-out at the end of the second trimester (24 weeks); and weighed only 18 ounces. Hmm, impatience: surely another trait that he got from his old man.
Yes, it can be said that Calvin was a miracle baby in the truest sense of the word; and I will be eternally grateful unto the Children's Hospital in Little Rock, AR for giving an assist. For it was in their Intensive Care Nursery where he had to stay for the first 6 months (I think) of his life.
Just to think: I had been through where they lived just 5 or 6 months earlier on a run unto Surrey, BC (eastern suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia); and it was a memorable trip. For it was the first time that I had ever been in the area (not to mention: the first time across the border into Canada).
There was also this Canadian Border Patrol Officer (I think) who was a stone cold fox (she looked a lot like Shania Twain unto me). That is: at least I thought so until she promised to shoot me on the spot if she found anything that she considered disgusting in my sleeper while she was performing a random inspection; and since she did not shoot me: I suppose that she really was an object to be desired.
Even after all of that: the second trip into the area was so much better. For I was plumb proud to be Calvin's poppa; and I hoped (for his sake) that he got a lot more of his momma's genes than mine.
Alas, again I found myself in a situation where there was nothing sweet about parting. For it was love at first sight.
Speaking of sight: Calvin certainly has a unique pair of eyes. Well, maybe only unto me. For both our's are greenish hazel (blue/green); but where mine are encircled with a band of blue: his are encircled with a golden band, which makes them quite beautiful.
Anyway: it was time to hit the road again; and I did so with renewed determination. For I had gained another to share my dream with.
Perhaps news of Calvin was the last straw (or at least one very near unto the top). For it was only a month or two (I think) after I meet him that I lost Sherry and her daughter; and oddly enough: I got the news when I called her from the cold storage where I was making my last pick-up of pears in Cashmere, WA (around 150 miles east of Seattle).
Some might think that it rude. For when I told Sherry that I would be headed home in less than an hour: she told me not to bother; but I knew where she was coming from.
Yes, I did feel a sense of loss; but to be perfectly honest about it: it was more a sense of relief than anything else that I felt when informed of the impending demise of our marriage. For we had tried hard to make it work; but the divide between us had just grown too wide to span.
No, I was not the only one who was relieved. For Sherry's daughter had hated my guts with a passion since the first time she heard about me; and even attending the Space Camp in Huntsville, AL (something that she really, really, really, really wanted to do) did little to take the edge off of her scorn.
Anyway: I was free to really spread my wings and fly; but when I unfurled them: a bunch of feathers fell out. For it seemed that taking over 50 ephedrine pills a day (over 1,250 mg) was doing a little damage after all; and then my purple rocketship got retired because of having too many miles.
So: I decided to try to do the right thing and go load-up Theresa and Calvin and bring them back to live with me in the state of Misery (Missouri: one of Darrell Greenstreet's favorite quips). For he was my son; and I believed that I could sure use a blessing or two from the Man upstairs about then.
No, they were not forthcoming. That is: at least not in the way that I had hoped. For it is true that I should have been killed when I hit a full grown (and very pregnant) Black Angus cow (easily 800 pounds) broadside while going around 70 MPH just north of New Meadows, ID (around 120 miles north of Boise); and then there was the Wamsutter, WY (around 240 miles west of Laramie) white-out to also consider.
After passing Exit 173 on I-80 (heading west unto my first drop of AAA maps in Salt Lake City): it was like a great white curtain had been drawn across the road in front of me; and I plowed right through it doing 75 MPH. For that was all that piece of junk that I had got stuck-in until my new rocketship (I hoped) arrived could do.
Needless to say: it did not take me long to drastically reduce my speed. For I could not see past the hood of my truck (let alone: where I was on the highway); and I quickly become disoriented (feeling like I have stopped, and/or even going backwards) whenever I encounter blowing snow at night: especially when it appears to be blowing at me.
Yes, I wanted to stop really bad; and I was not the only one. For the radio was going nuts; and every once in a while: someone would say that they actually were stopping. Invariably: someone else would ask them where they were; and my favorite reply unto that was: "If I knew that I would not be stopping!!!"
So: I kept on truckin' at a torrid pace of 15-20 MPH. For I was afraid of getting run over from behind to go any slower.
Thankfully: I caught a glimpse of a reflector now and then; and I knew to scoot-over to the left a bit every time I felt the trailer start to slide into the bar-ditch. For even in 4-wheel-drive (8-wheel-drive actually: with both differentials locked-in) most OTR trucks do not make very good snowplows.
Much unto my surprise: I discovered that I was not as alone as I thought I was during one of my patented "Road Position Adjustment Maneuvers". For I caught sight of the headlights of a little white (of all the colors) car just before my trailer got back in line.
It is a wonder that they did not follow my trailer into the bar-ditch. For there could not have been more than a foot of space between the front of their car and my trailer's safety bumper (a lowered bumper that is meant to help prevent small vehicles from running under trailers in the back; but I knew how they felt. For I had sometimes tried to keep-up with Yellow Freight trucks that had to have some sort of on-board radar system in order to maintain a 58 MPH pace during times when the fog in the San Joaquin Valley (central California) reduced visibility unto less than 30 feet.
Be assured that I have never been as happy to see Point of Rocks, WY as I was that night. For I could actually see it!!!
Yes, the 41 mile "Winter Wonderland Adventure Ride" was finally over. For the cause of the massive white-out was high winds out of the north blowing snow across the road; and a fairly high bluff just outside of Point of Rocks (around Mile Marker 132) put an end unto "Frosty, The Snowman's" fun.
Before putting it to bed for a few hours: I traveled another 25 miles or so; and after finding a place to park at the Flying J Truckstop in Rock Springs, WY (another blessing: to be sure): I jumped out of the cab, kissed the ground, and yelled "thank you" just as loud as I could. For I was very grateful unto God for getting me through such an harrowing experience without a scratch: with the operative word of that statement being "was". For before I laid my head down to sleep: I started to fantasize about what it would be like to hook-up with a Mormon babe or two down there in Salt Lake later that day.
Hey, it was not my fault!!! For I used to wonder if there were any ugly girls in Utah; and after countless hours of contemplation: I came unto the conclusion that there must be. For the reason why I had never seen one yet was because they only let them out at night in places where there were not any illuminating lights around.
Alas, it was all for naught. For my fantasy of finding a "good" Mormon girl to play slap and tickle for a "little" while never happened; and I suppose that was another blessing to be thankful for. For a girl being raised in such a repressive society would have probably eaten me alive after being let out of her gilded cage; but what a way to go.
Perhaps not there; but I was starting to think seriously about going somewhere. For "Jesse James Days" really were over (at least for me) with the advent of the CDL (Commercial Driver's License).
Well, not completely. For I would still try to drive for days without sleep; and I would not balk at an opportunity to make some extra money by sneaking a double load of canned goods (usually over 110,000 pounds gross) down unto El Paso, TX, or over 60,000 pounds of loose potatoes from Monte Vista, CO (around 240 miles southwest of Denver) unto Siloam Springs, AR (around 20 miles west of Springdale), or a double load of rolled aluminum out of Oswego, NY (around 100 miles east of Buffalo) unto Birmingham, AL.
Nonetheless: playing outlaw was just not as much fun as it used to be. For the main reason for the issuance of the CDL's was to clip the wings of chicken-haulers; and it succeded in my case. For I could no longer afford to get any speeding tickets because the points now showed-up: regardless of where they came from.
As if that was not enough: my super-trucker pills were falling down on the job; but I kept giving them chances to redeem themselves. For I would shovel more and more of them: more and more often; and even after digesting 100 pills in 2 hours, and throwing-up mostly blood for 6 hours one night at a rest area near Echo, UT (around 35 miles southeast of Ogden): I remained a loyal customer.
Yes, I had a problem; but not in the way that most would think. For there was not a physical addiction in play; but in all fairness: of what good news is that when you keep thinking that just a few more will do the trick.
No, my disposition was not improving. For the farther I fell behind: the madder (in every sense of the word) I got; and that made for a very pleasent experience for Calvin and his mother (I am sure).
I even have proof! For after stopping by the house one day in the very merry month of May, 1993 (I think): I found them packed-up and gone with the only vehicle still running; and just for good measure: Theresa had called the electric company (obviously before calling the telephone company) and had the meter removed.
By the way: have I failed to mention that I had been seeing "things" for quite some time by then? Yes, I do believe I have; and must do something about that. For they play an integral part in the plan.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
TCC: The Eleventh Crumb, Part I
In November, 1990: I signed-on with a trucking company that was headquartered a lot closer unto Cassville; but that was not the main reason for why I went to work for them. For it was because of their reputation; and I wanted to run with the really, really big boys for as long as I could.
No, it is not of the size of their operation that I speak. For they usually ran under 50 trucks.
Nonetheless: there was nothing small about their aspirations. For they ran some of the fastest and most powerful trucks around; and it took much more than a mere mortal to keep-up with their expected pace.
Greener pastures? Oh my, I believed that I had found chicken-hauler's heaven. For it was not long before they put me in a truck that I called my "purple rocketship"; and thus began the most fun that I ever had out there on the open road.
Oh yes, my purple rocketship was most definitely a force to be reckoned with. For I could start at the bottom of "Cabbage Patch" (a mountain just east of Pendleton, OR on I-84 that is very steep on the Pendleton side) going just 55 MPH (there were almost always a lot of Oregon bears around) with a full load (the combined weight of truck, trailer, and load totalling 80,000 pounds) and be going at least 35 MPH at the top. In fact: I once did that while weighing over 84,000 pounds: according unto the scale house just west of La Grande, OR (all that saved me was still having the inaccurate scale ticket from the place where I loaded "Oregon" Bing Cherries at, which was near The Dalles, OR).
So? Well, in a typical company truck at the time: 20 MPH at the top would have been the best that could be hoped for under the same conditions; but that would not have been the end of the misery. For on grades where my purple rocketship would not pull-down a bit: a typical company truck would lose several miles-per-hour.
Hence: the importance of having speed AND power. For going 100 MPH is not that much of an advantage if it cannot be maintained; and "draggin'fly" (drag-up one side, fly-down the other) trucks would generally spend an awful lot of time on the side of the road at the bottom of hills with a highway patrol cruiser or two behind them. For a draggin'fly needed to fly-down hills in order to make-up for all of the speed that they lost draggin'-up them; and it was at the bottom of hills where state troopers liked to hang-out.
Suffice to say: I did not have to take such chances; but this is not to say that I did not need to be on high alert: even while going up-hill at times. For the chief mechanic of the outfit told me that my purple rocketship was set-up to go up to 126 MPH; and all doubts about the veracity of his claim were quickly proven: unfounded.
No, I never saw such a reading on the speedometer. For 85 MPH was as high as it would go; but I have seen it against the peg in 3 different gears.
Obviously: I also never saw a reading of 126 MPH on a radar gun, neither. For I am still alive; and I am not posting this from the incarcerated side of prison walls.
On the other hand: I made a run clear across Pennsylvania (around 350 miles via I-84, I-81, and I-80) one night with a friend of mine who drove for the same company running the front door (running ahead of me) in 3 hours flat, which was an average of just under 117 MPH.
There was also one night when it looked like I was the only one on I-80 for as far as I could see that I decided to keep the pedal to the metal and the gearshift up against the dash after reaching the summit of the fairly small mountain just west of Wendover, NV (around 120 miles west of Salt Lake City, UT); and I wound-up scaring myself pretty good before getting half-way down the 5-mile slide unto the bottom on the other side. For that was when I could feel the front-end of the truck lifting-up (with 12,400 pounds of weight on the steer-tires); and 140 MPH came to mind.
No, I did not think that I was doing anything overly reckless. For the grade of the downhill slide was not very steep.
Anyway: it was not until it was time for the rest of this story to begin that I really got scared. For that was when my radar-detector sounded-off with all it had; and then I saw the tail-lights of a vehicle coming out of the median and heading back east towards Wendover.
I pooped my pants for real that time; and I had to wait until the truck slowed-down on its own some before I could stop and clean-up the mess. For my brake pads (all 20 of them) would have surely burst into flames if I had of tried to stop while still going that fast.
Besides: I figured that hitting my brakes immediately after getting hit by a radar gun would have been a dead give-away unto the cop that their radar gun might not be as much out of calibration as they were thinking; but it may very well have been that the cop just did not feel like having to fill-out all of the paperwork that was required when deadly-force was used. For they did not write speeding tickets for 140 MPH back then: especially not when a chicken-hauler was involved.
No, I never pulled a stunt like that again; but that is not to say that I started pulling-in on the reins all that much after my miraculous rescue. For I was having too much fun; and I certainly did not want the party to end anytime soon.
Much unto my delight: it did not. For I continued to crisscross the country just as fast as was humanly possible; and on many an occasion: super-human endurance had to have been involved (9 straight weeks of over $1,000 per week take-home pay at only 18 cents per mile).
Yes, the numbers can boggle the mind of the inexperienced; but after breaking it all down into smaller bites: acceptance of the truth of the matter should become much easier to swallow. For it only takes 17 hours to travel 1,020 miles at an average of only 60 MPH.
Nonetheless: it still took a great deal of endurance to maintain my torrid pace day after day; and with any increase in mileage came an exponential increase in stress. For like what was said before: there were all sorts of things out there on the road that could bite a driver on the buttocks at some very inopportune times; and not the least of these were speeding tickets.
Well, not exactly. That is: at least not for me. For as long as I did not get a ticket in Texas, and made enough money to pay all of the others (around 12 per year during my really wild days) on time: no points would ever show-up on my Texas Class A Driver's License because Texas did not recognize infractions in other jurisdictions at the time.
It was, however, the obligatory log book check that went along with getting a speeding ticket that was a big problem for me. For on top of the fine involved (if found in violation): a stoppage of at least 8 hours was almost always also included; and that was enough to throw a schedule way off.
Yes, getting caught in violation of the Hours of Service Regulations was a disaster; but all of the effort that went into trying to avoid getting caught was almost as bad. For the miles had to be accounted for; and the faster and farther traveled: the harder it got to do so.
In example: it legally took 28 hours to get to Buffalo, NY from my outfit's home-base (1,003 miles). Whereas: I once made it in 10.5 hours (around a 96 MPH average).
Therefore: it would take 3 different log books to be safe while making such a run. For I would start-out with one that would have my time of departure backed-up just a few hours in order to account for my speed; and when I had gone around 500 miles: I would fill-out another log book that backed-up my time of departure enough to account for the total speed of the trip and 8 hours of off-duty time. The other log book would be used to provide the company with the original of each days log to keep on record as required by law.
It was (of course) those originals that the DOT would audit from time to time; and my company was a prime target. For their reputation also preceded them in official channels, it would seem.
No, I do not know how they did it. Perhaps some deft slight-of-hand was employed? For they survived every audit relatively unscathed while I was there; and I was sure glad that they did.
It all started to really get unto me after about a year of service, however. For there was only so much that my body could take while completely straight; but I had to do something. For the spirit was still willing; and there I was: absolutely exhausted in Barstow, CA (around 140 miles northeast of Los Angeles) with a load of produce that needed to be driven straight through unto Buffalo (around 2,500 miles).
Therefore: I went in search of some "help"; and I have to laugh every time I think about it. For everyone in that Pilot Truckstop must have thought that I was trying to score an 8-ball (an eighth of an ounce) of crank (or something similar) by the way I was acting.
No, it is not of the size of their operation that I speak. For they usually ran under 50 trucks.
Nonetheless: there was nothing small about their aspirations. For they ran some of the fastest and most powerful trucks around; and it took much more than a mere mortal to keep-up with their expected pace.
Greener pastures? Oh my, I believed that I had found chicken-hauler's heaven. For it was not long before they put me in a truck that I called my "purple rocketship"; and thus began the most fun that I ever had out there on the open road.
Oh yes, my purple rocketship was most definitely a force to be reckoned with. For I could start at the bottom of "Cabbage Patch" (a mountain just east of Pendleton, OR on I-84 that is very steep on the Pendleton side) going just 55 MPH (there were almost always a lot of Oregon bears around) with a full load (the combined weight of truck, trailer, and load totalling 80,000 pounds) and be going at least 35 MPH at the top. In fact: I once did that while weighing over 84,000 pounds: according unto the scale house just west of La Grande, OR (all that saved me was still having the inaccurate scale ticket from the place where I loaded "Oregon" Bing Cherries at, which was near The Dalles, OR).
So? Well, in a typical company truck at the time: 20 MPH at the top would have been the best that could be hoped for under the same conditions; but that would not have been the end of the misery. For on grades where my purple rocketship would not pull-down a bit: a typical company truck would lose several miles-per-hour.
Hence: the importance of having speed AND power. For going 100 MPH is not that much of an advantage if it cannot be maintained; and "draggin'fly" (drag-up one side, fly-down the other) trucks would generally spend an awful lot of time on the side of the road at the bottom of hills with a highway patrol cruiser or two behind them. For a draggin'fly needed to fly-down hills in order to make-up for all of the speed that they lost draggin'-up them; and it was at the bottom of hills where state troopers liked to hang-out.
Suffice to say: I did not have to take such chances; but this is not to say that I did not need to be on high alert: even while going up-hill at times. For the chief mechanic of the outfit told me that my purple rocketship was set-up to go up to 126 MPH; and all doubts about the veracity of his claim were quickly proven: unfounded.
No, I never saw such a reading on the speedometer. For 85 MPH was as high as it would go; but I have seen it against the peg in 3 different gears.
Obviously: I also never saw a reading of 126 MPH on a radar gun, neither. For I am still alive; and I am not posting this from the incarcerated side of prison walls.
On the other hand: I made a run clear across Pennsylvania (around 350 miles via I-84, I-81, and I-80) one night with a friend of mine who drove for the same company running the front door (running ahead of me) in 3 hours flat, which was an average of just under 117 MPH.
There was also one night when it looked like I was the only one on I-80 for as far as I could see that I decided to keep the pedal to the metal and the gearshift up against the dash after reaching the summit of the fairly small mountain just west of Wendover, NV (around 120 miles west of Salt Lake City, UT); and I wound-up scaring myself pretty good before getting half-way down the 5-mile slide unto the bottom on the other side. For that was when I could feel the front-end of the truck lifting-up (with 12,400 pounds of weight on the steer-tires); and 140 MPH came to mind.
No, I did not think that I was doing anything overly reckless. For the grade of the downhill slide was not very steep.
Anyway: it was not until it was time for the rest of this story to begin that I really got scared. For that was when my radar-detector sounded-off with all it had; and then I saw the tail-lights of a vehicle coming out of the median and heading back east towards Wendover.
I pooped my pants for real that time; and I had to wait until the truck slowed-down on its own some before I could stop and clean-up the mess. For my brake pads (all 20 of them) would have surely burst into flames if I had of tried to stop while still going that fast.
Besides: I figured that hitting my brakes immediately after getting hit by a radar gun would have been a dead give-away unto the cop that their radar gun might not be as much out of calibration as they were thinking; but it may very well have been that the cop just did not feel like having to fill-out all of the paperwork that was required when deadly-force was used. For they did not write speeding tickets for 140 MPH back then: especially not when a chicken-hauler was involved.
No, I never pulled a stunt like that again; but that is not to say that I started pulling-in on the reins all that much after my miraculous rescue. For I was having too much fun; and I certainly did not want the party to end anytime soon.
Much unto my delight: it did not. For I continued to crisscross the country just as fast as was humanly possible; and on many an occasion: super-human endurance had to have been involved (9 straight weeks of over $1,000 per week take-home pay at only 18 cents per mile).
Yes, the numbers can boggle the mind of the inexperienced; but after breaking it all down into smaller bites: acceptance of the truth of the matter should become much easier to swallow. For it only takes 17 hours to travel 1,020 miles at an average of only 60 MPH.
Nonetheless: it still took a great deal of endurance to maintain my torrid pace day after day; and with any increase in mileage came an exponential increase in stress. For like what was said before: there were all sorts of things out there on the road that could bite a driver on the buttocks at some very inopportune times; and not the least of these were speeding tickets.
Well, not exactly. That is: at least not for me. For as long as I did not get a ticket in Texas, and made enough money to pay all of the others (around 12 per year during my really wild days) on time: no points would ever show-up on my Texas Class A Driver's License because Texas did not recognize infractions in other jurisdictions at the time.
It was, however, the obligatory log book check that went along with getting a speeding ticket that was a big problem for me. For on top of the fine involved (if found in violation): a stoppage of at least 8 hours was almost always also included; and that was enough to throw a schedule way off.
Yes, getting caught in violation of the Hours of Service Regulations was a disaster; but all of the effort that went into trying to avoid getting caught was almost as bad. For the miles had to be accounted for; and the faster and farther traveled: the harder it got to do so.
In example: it legally took 28 hours to get to Buffalo, NY from my outfit's home-base (1,003 miles). Whereas: I once made it in 10.5 hours (around a 96 MPH average).
Therefore: it would take 3 different log books to be safe while making such a run. For I would start-out with one that would have my time of departure backed-up just a few hours in order to account for my speed; and when I had gone around 500 miles: I would fill-out another log book that backed-up my time of departure enough to account for the total speed of the trip and 8 hours of off-duty time. The other log book would be used to provide the company with the original of each days log to keep on record as required by law.
It was (of course) those originals that the DOT would audit from time to time; and my company was a prime target. For their reputation also preceded them in official channels, it would seem.
No, I do not know how they did it. Perhaps some deft slight-of-hand was employed? For they survived every audit relatively unscathed while I was there; and I was sure glad that they did.
It all started to really get unto me after about a year of service, however. For there was only so much that my body could take while completely straight; but I had to do something. For the spirit was still willing; and there I was: absolutely exhausted in Barstow, CA (around 140 miles northeast of Los Angeles) with a load of produce that needed to be driven straight through unto Buffalo (around 2,500 miles).
Therefore: I went in search of some "help"; and I have to laugh every time I think about it. For everyone in that Pilot Truckstop must have thought that I was trying to score an 8-ball (an eighth of an ounce) of crank (or something similar) by the way I was acting.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
TCC: The Tenth Crumb, Part II
Now, for the benefit of those who do not already know: a "chicken-hauler" was generally recognized as being someone who drove a really fast and powerful truck really fast and powerfully every opportunity they were given; and since the moniker had more to do with style than substance: it was not necessary for their "refer" (refrigerated trailer) to always be loaded with some sort of a chicken product. For a true chicken-hauler could strut their stuff just as well with a load of produce, meat (beef or pork), or even a dry load in tow as they could with a load of Pilgrim's Pride.
In other words: a real outlaw, who went about their business with reckless abandon; but this is not to say that they necessarily were reckless. For it was hard to set land speed records when your truck would land belly-up in a bar-ditch out in the middle of nowhere on a regular basis.
Okay, I must give credit where and when it is due; and that is especially true of the legendary good ol' boys from North Carolina. For they could take-off from Dudley, NC (around 60 miles southeast of Raleigh) with a flat-bed (a trailer without doors, walls, and a roof) piled high with frozen chicken parts; and have the load in Los Angeles, CA before it thawed-out.
Hard to believe? Well, you would do well not to. For that was an example of a typical "truck-driver story".
Yes, a truck-driver story is quite similar unto a "fish story" told by fishermen. For they are usually very entertaining: despite being generally recognized as being a figment of someone's imagination by those who know better.
Nonetheless: not all fish stories are fictional. For in some cases: the unbelievable really did happen; and I stand as a witness of the same being true of some truck-driver stories.
A good example of one is about a run from Salinas, CA (around 80 miles south of San Francisco) unto Wilkes-Barre, PA (around 80 north of Harrisburg). For that is a run of around 2,900 miles (taking the southern route) that was made by a solo driver in exactly 37.5 hours, which was an average of just over 77 MPH.
Not bad for a 90 MPH truck: especially when all of the places where speed had to be significantly reduced are considered; but that is not the most amazing part of the story. For an "owner/operator" (someone who drives their own truck) made that very same run in 31 hours flat, which was an average of 93 MPH!!!
Yes, the truck he was driving was much faster and more powerful than the company truck that I was driving; but that is beside the point. For it takes a lot of nerve to drive that fast that far; and it took some time before I was so conditioned.
No, I cannot blame anyone who was not out there on the road during those days for being quite skeptical. For it was a different world in 1990; and that was true in a number of ways unto me.
Again: I found myself in unfamiliar waters with a new company. For I now had a refrigeration unit on the front of the trailer to attend unto.
Be assured that "attend unto" was an understatement: especially for someone with no experience. For they did not always start when I wanted them to. Neither did they always stay running after I had finally gotten them going; and then there was a matter of maintaining the proper temperature and airflow for the product(s) being hauled that could be a nightmare at times.
Being one who does not always appreciate a challenge as much as they probably should: I was a nervous wreck from start to finish on almost every run in the beginning; and it got a lot worse before it got any better. For I was absolutely paralyzed with fear the first time I hauled a load of "fresh" strawberries because of them being one of the most perishable items there is.
Trust me: I would have been more comfortable with a full load of unstable dynamite. For at least I would not have had to face the music for a rejected load if things did not go well with that.
No, just getting a load unto its destination on time was not all that there was unto it. For the load must also arrive in good condition; and that could vary greatly from place to place: even when delivering the same product unto the same vendor in different locations.
A good example of that would be a load of potatoes (in 10 pound bags) from Colorado. For at a couple of their warehouses: their part was received without any trouble; but at their 3 other locations: there was a lot of drama involved.
No, there was nothing different about the condition of the product. In fact: 2 of the troublesome locations were sandwiched between the 2 good ones.
Therefore: it should not be hard to conclude that the difference was in who was running each dock; and that is not no truck-driver story, neither. For as it was with some DOT officials: so was it also with some dock mangers; and I am quite sure that they caused as much trouble for the ones they were trying to impress as they did for the poor truck-drivers they tormented.
With time: it did get easier on me; and I got to where I welcomed "challenging" loads. For with each successful run: the legend of the "Goat-Roper" was enhanced (even if only in my mind).
Yes, I grew to think very highly of myself; and this had a great deal of influence upon my decision to seek greener pastures when the St. Louis-based company that I was driving for abruptly changed their policies. For what self-respecting chicken-hauler would stand for having to drive a 68 MPH truck under strictly-enforced log book regulations?
Now, in all fairness: it was not all their fault. For it was a high-speed road race between a white Cadillac (with the vice-president of their insurance carrier at the wheel) and one of their trucks (NOT ME!!!) that was the reason for governing-down their trucks so much.
Furthermore: it was getting blind-sided by a surprise DOT audit that sealed the fate of such lucrative runs as the "Hershey turnaround". For the run consisted of picking-up a load of Hershey products from their plant in either Mechanicsville, PA (around 10 miles northeast of Carlisle) or Stuarts Draft, VA (around 100 miles southwest of Washington, DC) unto either the TAB Warehouse in Fontana, CA (around 70 miles east of Los Angeles) or Modesto, CA (around 70 miles south of Sacramento) and re-loading at the same location going right back unto either Mechanicsville or Stuarts Draft just as fast as one could go; and there were just too many of them on their books to justify.
Yes, I made several of those runs. In fact: I became a favorite of Hershey's. For I could consistently make 3 complete turnarounds in a 2 week period. Hence: the stuff of legend.
Speaking of legend: I suppose I should explain what a "goat-roper" is. For I am quite sure that it is not common knowledge. For if it was: I would not have had to explain unto so many people over the radio (and sometimes in person) that a goat-roper is a cowboy who has to rope goats in order to have sex with something other than himself because of being too ugly to attract a girl?
Yes, my CB "handle" (name) was certainly an attention-getter; and invariably: the question would come-up about why I would prefer goats over sheep. Unto that I would matter-of-factly reply: goats are kinkier.
In other words: a real outlaw, who went about their business with reckless abandon; but this is not to say that they necessarily were reckless. For it was hard to set land speed records when your truck would land belly-up in a bar-ditch out in the middle of nowhere on a regular basis.
Okay, I must give credit where and when it is due; and that is especially true of the legendary good ol' boys from North Carolina. For they could take-off from Dudley, NC (around 60 miles southeast of Raleigh) with a flat-bed (a trailer without doors, walls, and a roof) piled high with frozen chicken parts; and have the load in Los Angeles, CA before it thawed-out.
Hard to believe? Well, you would do well not to. For that was an example of a typical "truck-driver story".
Yes, a truck-driver story is quite similar unto a "fish story" told by fishermen. For they are usually very entertaining: despite being generally recognized as being a figment of someone's imagination by those who know better.
Nonetheless: not all fish stories are fictional. For in some cases: the unbelievable really did happen; and I stand as a witness of the same being true of some truck-driver stories.
A good example of one is about a run from Salinas, CA (around 80 miles south of San Francisco) unto Wilkes-Barre, PA (around 80 north of Harrisburg). For that is a run of around 2,900 miles (taking the southern route) that was made by a solo driver in exactly 37.5 hours, which was an average of just over 77 MPH.
Not bad for a 90 MPH truck: especially when all of the places where speed had to be significantly reduced are considered; but that is not the most amazing part of the story. For an "owner/operator" (someone who drives their own truck) made that very same run in 31 hours flat, which was an average of 93 MPH!!!
Yes, the truck he was driving was much faster and more powerful than the company truck that I was driving; but that is beside the point. For it takes a lot of nerve to drive that fast that far; and it took some time before I was so conditioned.
No, I cannot blame anyone who was not out there on the road during those days for being quite skeptical. For it was a different world in 1990; and that was true in a number of ways unto me.
Again: I found myself in unfamiliar waters with a new company. For I now had a refrigeration unit on the front of the trailer to attend unto.
Be assured that "attend unto" was an understatement: especially for someone with no experience. For they did not always start when I wanted them to. Neither did they always stay running after I had finally gotten them going; and then there was a matter of maintaining the proper temperature and airflow for the product(s) being hauled that could be a nightmare at times.
Being one who does not always appreciate a challenge as much as they probably should: I was a nervous wreck from start to finish on almost every run in the beginning; and it got a lot worse before it got any better. For I was absolutely paralyzed with fear the first time I hauled a load of "fresh" strawberries because of them being one of the most perishable items there is.
Trust me: I would have been more comfortable with a full load of unstable dynamite. For at least I would not have had to face the music for a rejected load if things did not go well with that.
No, just getting a load unto its destination on time was not all that there was unto it. For the load must also arrive in good condition; and that could vary greatly from place to place: even when delivering the same product unto the same vendor in different locations.
A good example of that would be a load of potatoes (in 10 pound bags) from Colorado. For at a couple of their warehouses: their part was received without any trouble; but at their 3 other locations: there was a lot of drama involved.
No, there was nothing different about the condition of the product. In fact: 2 of the troublesome locations were sandwiched between the 2 good ones.
Therefore: it should not be hard to conclude that the difference was in who was running each dock; and that is not no truck-driver story, neither. For as it was with some DOT officials: so was it also with some dock mangers; and I am quite sure that they caused as much trouble for the ones they were trying to impress as they did for the poor truck-drivers they tormented.
With time: it did get easier on me; and I got to where I welcomed "challenging" loads. For with each successful run: the legend of the "Goat-Roper" was enhanced (even if only in my mind).
Yes, I grew to think very highly of myself; and this had a great deal of influence upon my decision to seek greener pastures when the St. Louis-based company that I was driving for abruptly changed their policies. For what self-respecting chicken-hauler would stand for having to drive a 68 MPH truck under strictly-enforced log book regulations?
Now, in all fairness: it was not all their fault. For it was a high-speed road race between a white Cadillac (with the vice-president of their insurance carrier at the wheel) and one of their trucks (NOT ME!!!) that was the reason for governing-down their trucks so much.
Furthermore: it was getting blind-sided by a surprise DOT audit that sealed the fate of such lucrative runs as the "Hershey turnaround". For the run consisted of picking-up a load of Hershey products from their plant in either Mechanicsville, PA (around 10 miles northeast of Carlisle) or Stuarts Draft, VA (around 100 miles southwest of Washington, DC) unto either the TAB Warehouse in Fontana, CA (around 70 miles east of Los Angeles) or Modesto, CA (around 70 miles south of Sacramento) and re-loading at the same location going right back unto either Mechanicsville or Stuarts Draft just as fast as one could go; and there were just too many of them on their books to justify.
Yes, I made several of those runs. In fact: I became a favorite of Hershey's. For I could consistently make 3 complete turnarounds in a 2 week period. Hence: the stuff of legend.
Speaking of legend: I suppose I should explain what a "goat-roper" is. For I am quite sure that it is not common knowledge. For if it was: I would not have had to explain unto so many people over the radio (and sometimes in person) that a goat-roper is a cowboy who has to rope goats in order to have sex with something other than himself because of being too ugly to attract a girl?
Yes, my CB "handle" (name) was certainly an attention-getter; and invariably: the question would come-up about why I would prefer goats over sheep. Unto that I would matter-of-factly reply: goats are kinkier.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
TCC: The Tenth Crumb, Part I
Needless to say: it would have to be with another company if I was to get behind the wheel of a big rig again. For about 2 weeks after my bail was posted: the legal department of my previous employer deemed it safe to make my termination "official".
No, I would not have gotten back into one of their trucks after the way that they had treated me; but it still stung to be informed that my services were no longer needed. For I have always had a problem with rejection.
Much unto my surprise: I found-out that I had a powerful ally a couple of days later. For I was contacted by (of all people) the insurance company responsible for any claim over a million dollars against my previous employer for the purpose of securing my cooperation.
Yes, I was most willing to cooperate with them in any way I could. For the trucking company had dumped the mess upon their doorstep; and then they just washed their hands of it.
No, I did not ask the insurance representative if the trucking company told them what they told me: "nothing personal, just business". For I assumed that this was understood at the level that they were playing at.
Nonetheless: I did notice that the insurance company appeared to be taking it quite personally. For they were not at all happy about being placed in such a position; and I got the definite impression that their hiring of an attorney for me was not just because of it being in their best interest to do so.
When contacted by the attorney: I was informed of the truth of the matter being that the only reason why I was being charged was because of politics. For there was plenty of evidence indicating that I was not at fault; but since the man who died was a local hero of sorts: it would not bode well for the county prosecutor (in the next election) to just drop the charges.
He also informed me that there was no reason why I could not go back to driving if I wanted to. For I was "presumed innocent until proven guilty": after all.
A couple of weeks later: I got to experience "when one doors closes, another one opens" first-hand. For when I went to fill-out an application at another trucking company in the general area of my previous employer: they acted like I was just what they were looking for.
So were they unto me at the time. For they hauled similar freight; but that was only thing that they had in common with the other company.
No, the new company was nothing like the old one; but I cannot say that it was all that much of an improvement. For the company was headquartered out of northwestern Arkansas; but most of their freight picked-up and delivered within a 500 mile radius of Carlisle, PA (around 100 miles west of Philadelphia).
Yes, that would have been a good thing for someone from that area; but for someone like myself: it was not. For I was a stranger in a strange land up there; and I was not being very successful at making any new friends.
Thankfully: there were some loads that allowed for a furlough from my post at Carlisle; and it was on one of those passes that I was able to make my final court appearance about a year after it all started, which resolved the matter as well as could be hoped for. For 5 out of the 6 parties involved came out of the mess relatively satisfied (all things considered).
No, my new company was not very happy with me. For I had to take a little detour in order to make it unto the court in time; and that turned into pure, unadulterated outrage when I informed them of my intent to go to work for another company a couple of weeks later.
Hmm, what was that verse? Oh yeah: "He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone [at her]." {John 8:7 NAS}
How was that relevant? Well, it had to do with the hypocrisy of that trucking company being outraged over my impending move. For less than a month after I left their employ: the business closed without notice, which stranded all of the drivers of trucks without enough fuel to make it back unto Arkansas far from home (in many cases).
No, I did not see it coming. For the reason why I went to work for someone else was so I could be with my new wife for at least 3 days every week.
Yes, I have failed to mention something that may be pertinent; and I do believe that some will find the details interesting. For when I first heard about her: it was around midnight, and I was headed north on I-81 near Staunton, VA (around 120 miles west of Richmond).
Perhaps it was because of it being so near unto the "Witching Hour". For I rarely stopped to get some coffee with someone when I had a good head of steam built-up; but after Ginger made me an offer that I thought I should not refuse: I found myself sitting at the table with Miss Ginger, her co-driver, and a driver of another truck (who was eavesdropping on our conversation over the radio) in the coffee shop of a rather nice motel that had adequate truck parking.
No, Miss Ginger was not after me. For she had an idea that her sister would like to meet me; and after talking unto "Sherry" a few times over the phone: I wanted to get a load going through Columbia, MO as soon as possible.
Yes, it was almost like coming full circle. For it was while a student at Mizzou (in Columbia, MO) that the wheels came off of my express train unto the top; but it remained to been seen whether the circle would be actually completed or not.
The year was 1989; but I do not remember just exactly when the mission was accomplished. What I do remember is that more was accomplished than expected (or even hoped for). For instead of merely getting to meet Sherry: she invited me to also meet her daughter, father and mother; and by September of that year: I was "officially" welcomed into her family.
The wedding was something to behold. For Sherry wanted to get married outside in one of Columbia's beautiful parks; and it all went-off without a hitch.
Then came the honeymoon; and it was a disaster for the most part. For against her better judgment: Sherry agreed to go out on a run with me.
No, she did not appreciate the sights that she was being shown as much as I thought she should; and then I got way too drunk at "The Gables", which was not all my fault. For the owners and patrons of the bar in Southington, OH (around 20 miles northwest of Youngstown), which had adopted me during a blizzard a couple of years before, were very glad to see us; and it would have been quite rude (of me) to refuse to drink everything that they were buying for "us".
Yes, it got rather ugly after the lights went out that night; and as if that was not enough icing on the cake: we had to drive almost completely across Pennsylvania on I-80 the next day. For I-80 was the last road that someone with a hangover would want to traverse at that time.
Put it this way: I have actually seen a trailer break in two on that road. For the holes were just too numerous to dodge them all; and forget about slowing down. For it was better to go as fast as possible in order to avoid falling all the way unto the bottom of the holes that could not be missed.
Anyway: there were a couple of bright spots. For my first drop was in the Boston, MA area; and that allowed us to take a tour of the U.S.S. Constitution (U.S. Navy warship commissioned in 1797), and eat a fabulous lobster dinner on a restaurant docked in Boston Harbour, after the days work was done.
What was gained in Boston was lost the next day. For my final drop was in Clinton, NJ (in the middle of the metropolis across the Hudson River from New York City); and Sherry did not leave the sleeper until after we were safely out of the urban jungle that is that part of the "Garden State".
No, it was not that bad unto me. For Clinton was where I always emptied-out on that run; and I had gotten used to the area.
In fact: I got to where I rather enjoyed going there. For the workers on the dock treated me like one of their family; and that is more than I can say about most of the places I have been.
Yes, the company that I was driving for at the time was not like the others. For they specialized in LTL (Less Than a Truckload) freight from the St. Louis, MO area; and they ran only 2 trucks: one unto the east, and one unto the west.
The western truck ran as a team: with the owner of the outfit being one of the drivers. For it went too far for one "normal" driver to complete a run on time.
Whereas: I was the only driver of the eastern truck; and I would regularly finish my run in around 60 hours (depending upon how many drops and pick-ups were scheduled). For I would leave St. Louis Sunday morning (or so), and drive straight through unto either Fulton, NY (around 25 miles northwest of Syracuse) or Clinton (usually); and be back in St. Louis by Tuesday evening.
No, that could not be done legally. For according unto the "Hours Of Service" regulations at the time: a driver must take a break for (at least) 8 hours after being on-duty for (at most) 10 hours; and they could not exceed a total of 60 hours on-duty in 7 days, or 70 hours in 8 days.
By definition: being "on-duty" included a host of things. For aside from driving (obviously): handling freight, making repairs or improvements on the truck or trailer, performing safety checks, fueling, and anything else that could be construed as being truck-related work must also be accounted for.
Therefore: it would legally take around 78 hours to complete a run unto only Clinton and back; and even at that: not everything would be logged as it really should be. For it usually took more that 15 minutes for fueling; but that was all that would be logged for each fuel stop.
Yes, that was generally acceptable when it came time for a DOT audit of a company's records; and that was also true of other on-duty entries. For what they really focused upon was going over 10 hours, speeding (logging more than 50 MPH in states with a 55 MPH speed limit, 60 MPH in 65 MPH states, etc., etc.), and failing to log a full 8 hours "off-duty" (on break) after 10 hours on-duty.
It was sometimes different out there on the road, however. For some states required at least 4 hours logged in the sleeper during an 8 hour off-duty period; and an awful lot of inspectors took their job and themselves way too seriously (if you know what I mean).
There were some exceptions unto the rule around; and I had the pleasure of meeting one of them on U.S. Highway 51 a few miles north of Covington, TN (around 40 miles northeast of Memphis). For after he pulled me over for a spot inspection: he asked if he could sit in the jump-seat for a little while; and then he proceeded to entertain me with story after story about some of the things that he had experienced on his side of the road.
One of those stories was an absolute classic. For after checking the log book of a wild-eyed young man: he asked him if he could take a look under the hood of his truck; and when the driver asked him why he would want to do that: my favorite Tennessee DOT inspector told him that he wanted to see how his jet-turbine engine was mounted. Obviously shaken: the driver then told him that he did not have a jet engine of any kind under the hood of his truck; and in reply: the inspector told him that he must have one, maybe even two. For that would be the only way that he could have driven from Salinas, CA unto Memphis, TN (around 2,038 miles) in only 10 hours.
Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing the inspector's stories; and I sure hated to see him go after only an hour. For I could have listened unto him go on for a lot longer than that; but he said that the great state of Tennessee needed him to generate as much revenue as he could for them.
Talk about generating revenue: thinking about such most definitely soured my relationship with the LTL freight company that I was working for at the time. For after I figured-up what I would be making for all of the stuff that I was doing if I was getting union wages (around $1800 per run): I concluded that my $400 a week salary was a little on the low side.
Suffice to say: the owner of the outfit vehemently disagreed; and that precipitated a move unto another St. Louis-based trucking company. For they offered almost unlimited miles and much faster trucks (90-95 MPH); and I believed that I was ready to join the ranks of the true heroes of the highways: the "chicken-haulers".
No, I would not have gotten back into one of their trucks after the way that they had treated me; but it still stung to be informed that my services were no longer needed. For I have always had a problem with rejection.
Much unto my surprise: I found-out that I had a powerful ally a couple of days later. For I was contacted by (of all people) the insurance company responsible for any claim over a million dollars against my previous employer for the purpose of securing my cooperation.
Yes, I was most willing to cooperate with them in any way I could. For the trucking company had dumped the mess upon their doorstep; and then they just washed their hands of it.
No, I did not ask the insurance representative if the trucking company told them what they told me: "nothing personal, just business". For I assumed that this was understood at the level that they were playing at.
Nonetheless: I did notice that the insurance company appeared to be taking it quite personally. For they were not at all happy about being placed in such a position; and I got the definite impression that their hiring of an attorney for me was not just because of it being in their best interest to do so.
When contacted by the attorney: I was informed of the truth of the matter being that the only reason why I was being charged was because of politics. For there was plenty of evidence indicating that I was not at fault; but since the man who died was a local hero of sorts: it would not bode well for the county prosecutor (in the next election) to just drop the charges.
He also informed me that there was no reason why I could not go back to driving if I wanted to. For I was "presumed innocent until proven guilty": after all.
A couple of weeks later: I got to experience "when one doors closes, another one opens" first-hand. For when I went to fill-out an application at another trucking company in the general area of my previous employer: they acted like I was just what they were looking for.
So were they unto me at the time. For they hauled similar freight; but that was only thing that they had in common with the other company.
No, the new company was nothing like the old one; but I cannot say that it was all that much of an improvement. For the company was headquartered out of northwestern Arkansas; but most of their freight picked-up and delivered within a 500 mile radius of Carlisle, PA (around 100 miles west of Philadelphia).
Yes, that would have been a good thing for someone from that area; but for someone like myself: it was not. For I was a stranger in a strange land up there; and I was not being very successful at making any new friends.
Thankfully: there were some loads that allowed for a furlough from my post at Carlisle; and it was on one of those passes that I was able to make my final court appearance about a year after it all started, which resolved the matter as well as could be hoped for. For 5 out of the 6 parties involved came out of the mess relatively satisfied (all things considered).
No, my new company was not very happy with me. For I had to take a little detour in order to make it unto the court in time; and that turned into pure, unadulterated outrage when I informed them of my intent to go to work for another company a couple of weeks later.
Hmm, what was that verse? Oh yeah: "He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone [at her]." {John 8:7 NAS}
How was that relevant? Well, it had to do with the hypocrisy of that trucking company being outraged over my impending move. For less than a month after I left their employ: the business closed without notice, which stranded all of the drivers of trucks without enough fuel to make it back unto Arkansas far from home (in many cases).
No, I did not see it coming. For the reason why I went to work for someone else was so I could be with my new wife for at least 3 days every week.
Yes, I have failed to mention something that may be pertinent; and I do believe that some will find the details interesting. For when I first heard about her: it was around midnight, and I was headed north on I-81 near Staunton, VA (around 120 miles west of Richmond).
Perhaps it was because of it being so near unto the "Witching Hour". For I rarely stopped to get some coffee with someone when I had a good head of steam built-up; but after Ginger made me an offer that I thought I should not refuse: I found myself sitting at the table with Miss Ginger, her co-driver, and a driver of another truck (who was eavesdropping on our conversation over the radio) in the coffee shop of a rather nice motel that had adequate truck parking.
No, Miss Ginger was not after me. For she had an idea that her sister would like to meet me; and after talking unto "Sherry" a few times over the phone: I wanted to get a load going through Columbia, MO as soon as possible.
Yes, it was almost like coming full circle. For it was while a student at Mizzou (in Columbia, MO) that the wheels came off of my express train unto the top; but it remained to been seen whether the circle would be actually completed or not.
The year was 1989; but I do not remember just exactly when the mission was accomplished. What I do remember is that more was accomplished than expected (or even hoped for). For instead of merely getting to meet Sherry: she invited me to also meet her daughter, father and mother; and by September of that year: I was "officially" welcomed into her family.
The wedding was something to behold. For Sherry wanted to get married outside in one of Columbia's beautiful parks; and it all went-off without a hitch.
Then came the honeymoon; and it was a disaster for the most part. For against her better judgment: Sherry agreed to go out on a run with me.
No, she did not appreciate the sights that she was being shown as much as I thought she should; and then I got way too drunk at "The Gables", which was not all my fault. For the owners and patrons of the bar in Southington, OH (around 20 miles northwest of Youngstown), which had adopted me during a blizzard a couple of years before, were very glad to see us; and it would have been quite rude (of me) to refuse to drink everything that they were buying for "us".
Yes, it got rather ugly after the lights went out that night; and as if that was not enough icing on the cake: we had to drive almost completely across Pennsylvania on I-80 the next day. For I-80 was the last road that someone with a hangover would want to traverse at that time.
Put it this way: I have actually seen a trailer break in two on that road. For the holes were just too numerous to dodge them all; and forget about slowing down. For it was better to go as fast as possible in order to avoid falling all the way unto the bottom of the holes that could not be missed.
Anyway: there were a couple of bright spots. For my first drop was in the Boston, MA area; and that allowed us to take a tour of the U.S.S. Constitution (U.S. Navy warship commissioned in 1797), and eat a fabulous lobster dinner on a restaurant docked in Boston Harbour, after the days work was done.
What was gained in Boston was lost the next day. For my final drop was in Clinton, NJ (in the middle of the metropolis across the Hudson River from New York City); and Sherry did not leave the sleeper until after we were safely out of the urban jungle that is that part of the "Garden State".
No, it was not that bad unto me. For Clinton was where I always emptied-out on that run; and I had gotten used to the area.
In fact: I got to where I rather enjoyed going there. For the workers on the dock treated me like one of their family; and that is more than I can say about most of the places I have been.
Yes, the company that I was driving for at the time was not like the others. For they specialized in LTL (Less Than a Truckload) freight from the St. Louis, MO area; and they ran only 2 trucks: one unto the east, and one unto the west.
The western truck ran as a team: with the owner of the outfit being one of the drivers. For it went too far for one "normal" driver to complete a run on time.
Whereas: I was the only driver of the eastern truck; and I would regularly finish my run in around 60 hours (depending upon how many drops and pick-ups were scheduled). For I would leave St. Louis Sunday morning (or so), and drive straight through unto either Fulton, NY (around 25 miles northwest of Syracuse) or Clinton (usually); and be back in St. Louis by Tuesday evening.
No, that could not be done legally. For according unto the "Hours Of Service" regulations at the time: a driver must take a break for (at least) 8 hours after being on-duty for (at most) 10 hours; and they could not exceed a total of 60 hours on-duty in 7 days, or 70 hours in 8 days.
By definition: being "on-duty" included a host of things. For aside from driving (obviously): handling freight, making repairs or improvements on the truck or trailer, performing safety checks, fueling, and anything else that could be construed as being truck-related work must also be accounted for.
Therefore: it would legally take around 78 hours to complete a run unto only Clinton and back; and even at that: not everything would be logged as it really should be. For it usually took more that 15 minutes for fueling; but that was all that would be logged for each fuel stop.
Yes, that was generally acceptable when it came time for a DOT audit of a company's records; and that was also true of other on-duty entries. For what they really focused upon was going over 10 hours, speeding (logging more than 50 MPH in states with a 55 MPH speed limit, 60 MPH in 65 MPH states, etc., etc.), and failing to log a full 8 hours "off-duty" (on break) after 10 hours on-duty.
It was sometimes different out there on the road, however. For some states required at least 4 hours logged in the sleeper during an 8 hour off-duty period; and an awful lot of inspectors took their job and themselves way too seriously (if you know what I mean).
There were some exceptions unto the rule around; and I had the pleasure of meeting one of them on U.S. Highway 51 a few miles north of Covington, TN (around 40 miles northeast of Memphis). For after he pulled me over for a spot inspection: he asked if he could sit in the jump-seat for a little while; and then he proceeded to entertain me with story after story about some of the things that he had experienced on his side of the road.
One of those stories was an absolute classic. For after checking the log book of a wild-eyed young man: he asked him if he could take a look under the hood of his truck; and when the driver asked him why he would want to do that: my favorite Tennessee DOT inspector told him that he wanted to see how his jet-turbine engine was mounted. Obviously shaken: the driver then told him that he did not have a jet engine of any kind under the hood of his truck; and in reply: the inspector told him that he must have one, maybe even two. For that would be the only way that he could have driven from Salinas, CA unto Memphis, TN (around 2,038 miles) in only 10 hours.
Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing the inspector's stories; and I sure hated to see him go after only an hour. For I could have listened unto him go on for a lot longer than that; but he said that the great state of Tennessee needed him to generate as much revenue as he could for them.
Talk about generating revenue: thinking about such most definitely soured my relationship with the LTL freight company that I was working for at the time. For after I figured-up what I would be making for all of the stuff that I was doing if I was getting union wages (around $1800 per run): I concluded that my $400 a week salary was a little on the low side.
Suffice to say: the owner of the outfit vehemently disagreed; and that precipitated a move unto another St. Louis-based trucking company. For they offered almost unlimited miles and much faster trucks (90-95 MPH); and I believed that I was ready to join the ranks of the true heroes of the highways: the "chicken-haulers".
Saturday, July 21, 2007
TCC: The Ninth Crumb, Part II
No, I was not letting much moss grow on me. For driving a truck that could only go 58 MPH on flat ground made for some very long hours; but I did take a few breaks during 1987.
Hence: another almost fatal error in judgment. For it was during one of those breaks that I was introduced unto Debbie.
Alas, she was just too good to be true. For she was incredibly attractive: both in regards unto physical appearance and intellectual prowess; and I was quite impressed (to say the least).
Shockingly: so was she with me. That is: at least unto a certain extent. For she was in the the process of obtaining a divorce from a husband who took her for granted; and I represented something new and exciting to play with for a fortnight or two.
Yes, I did everything right at first; and we had some very good times together. In fact: we were quite inseparable when we were both in town at the same time.
Except for that one time. For I lost control of a really nice Ford pick-up truck that I had just bought; and when it finally came to rest in a dry creek-bed around 200 feet below the road: the roof of the cab was touching the seat (and not the back of it, neither).
It all seemed like a dream unto me. Granted: a really bad one; but still a dream: nonetheless. For I could feel the truck rolling over and over again; but it was not until I felt the shattered glass of the windshield on the floorboard that I realized that it was not a dream at all.
Thankfully: the only injury that I sustained was tearing an inch or so of my lower lip away from where it attaches unto my gum inside of my mouth; and the emergency room visit was the most painful part about it. For I was really not in any pain until they started to fix me up; but after being on the receiving end of some very tender, and very loving, care: I was ready to rip-snort like never before.
Then: I really messed up. For the last thing she wanted me to do was to fall in love with her; and that was exactly what I went and did.
Now, in all fairness: she tried to let me down easy; but I was not having any part of it. For I had made-up my mind that she was the one for me; and I was bound and determined to do whatever it took to make her see things my way.
As was said before: there is much about my past that I am deeply ashamed of; and my "courtship" of Debbie is certainly included. For I even went as far as to insist that it was "God's will" for us to be together; and when that did not get me very far: I was most definitely not too proud to grovel and beg like there would be no tomorrow for me without her.
No, that was not just a line. For visions of suicide danced in my head once again.
A good example of how far gone I was at the time would be a load I picked-up in Highland Park, IL (northside of Chicago) early one Friday morning and delivered in Tulsa, OK the next Monday. For it did not merely flirt with disaster: it gave it an engraved invitation!!!
No, the load itself was not the problem. For it consisted of a single pallet of computer parts that weighed around 450 pounds (I think).
Neither were the logistics involved. For I had over 72 hours to go a little more than 700 miles, which was an easy run for even someone in a 58 MPH rig.
The problem was the weather. For up to a foot of snow covered a couple of inches of solid ice in places protected from the 30 MPH winds coming out of the west.
Yes, I was well aware of the horrid conditions. For while I was waiting to back into the dock and pick-up my load: a gust of wind hit my trailer broadside and pushed it a good 20 feet (with the brakes locked), which left it at a 45 degree angle in relation unto how my truck was parked.
Nonetheless: I just had to see her that night; but it was all for naught. For Debbie decided that the weather was too bad for her to get out in.
Even after that: the trucking company insisted upon pairing me up with another student from Warren, MI (Detroit) who was to drive out of their Houston, TX terminal upon graduation. Yeah, like that would do me a lot of good. For that "out of sight, out of mind" thing has never really worked for me; but I did feel a certain sense of responsibility for my student.
So: we hung in there together for 6 weeks; and it did wind-up being good for me. For having someone to talk to about it made me feel better; but I have my doubts about it being of all that much good unto him.
Anyway: I declined to take-on any more students for awhile after he graduated in February, 1988. For I wanted some time unto myself to obsess about Debbie without being disturbed.
Well, not really. For the plan was to fly solo for as long as it took to clear my head; but after 3 months of self-inflicted therapy: the only thing that was clear was that I was still obsessed with her.
Then: disaster struck for real in May, 1988. For while dead-heading unto a town to pick-up a load: I was involved in an accident that killed a man.
No, I did not believe that my obsession over Debbie had anything to really do with it. For it is true that she was on my mind when I rounded a blind curve and saw 2 cars in my lane stopped around 200 feet in front of me; but that had not had any adverse effects upon my driving before. In fact: I had been awarded a "1 Year Safe Driver Award" for 1987 by the American Trucking Association (ATA).
On the other hand: I did have a great fear of the truth being that I was being punished for claiming that it was God's will for us to be together; and the unfolding events of the day did little to convince me otherwise. For after locking eyes with the victim mere moments before they became lifeless: the officer in charge of the scene informed me that they were compelled by state law to take me into custody because of crossing the center-line of the 2-lane highway; and things went from bad to much, much worse from there.
No, I did not believe that it was my fault. That is: other than giving God a good reason to dump a bucketful of brimstone upon my head. For when I applied the brakes: nothing happened; and that same result repeated itself every time I stomped on the brakes before swerving into what appeared to be an empty on-coming traffic lane.
Obviously: it was not at all empty; and that little fact made my decision to swerve left (instead of right) all the more agonizing. For from where I was sitting: swerving right would have involved taking-out an electric pole and probably a house or two.
At first: I was much more concerned about the victim and his family than I was about my own plight. For all of the police at the scene were quite clearly on my side; and things appeared to be really looking good for me after the accident investigator hired by my company told me (at the scene) that the braking system of my rig had indeed malfunctioned.
Then: the view changed. For all of that goodwill that I was receiving from the police abruptly ended after "my" trucking company announced that I had been placed on suspension (subject unto termination); and that by being on suspension: all ties unto them were also suspended until further notice.
No, I cannot really blame the police. For common sense would dictate that there must have been something seriously wrong about me for the company that I had been driving for the last 17 months to make such drastic moves in order to distance themselves from me so quickly.
The next bucketful of brimstone to fall crushed me. For when I asked the accident investigator to get me a copy of his report detailing the fact that the braking system had malfunctioned: he told me that I must be mistaken. For he swore that he never said anything remotely like that unto me while we were still at the scene of the tragedy.
Since the company would not send $500 of my paycheck unto the jail so that I could bail myself out: my last resort was my mother; and she came through like I never expected. For instead of just getting $500 of my money out of the bank: she borrowed $5,000 in order to avoid losing the $500 unto a bail-bond agency.
Consistent with the script: there was a problem with my mother bailing me out. For I had to stay in jail until she, my brother and his wife got down there the next day.
Now, unto a real manly man: a night in jail is no big deal; and if played right: it can greatly add unto their aura. For who in their right-mind would want to mess with someone "THE MAN" could not break?
Not so for a poser like myself. For with over 60 monstrous brutes in a 20'x20' cell fighting over who would be my "first": I was absolutely terrified.
Yes, I was just kidding. For it is true that there were over 60 of us packed into a 20'x20' cell; but it is not at all true that anyone messed with me.
In fact: just the opposite was true. For I found a few sympathetic ears to listen unto my sad, sad story of betrayal and abandonment.
My family also lent a sympathetic ear or two unto me; and I was very appreciative of what they had went through for me. For the local authorities did not make it easy for my mother to bail me out of their jail; and I tried my best to make it up unto her during the month that I stayed "home" while waiting to go back "Over-The-Road".
Hence: another almost fatal error in judgment. For it was during one of those breaks that I was introduced unto Debbie.
Alas, she was just too good to be true. For she was incredibly attractive: both in regards unto physical appearance and intellectual prowess; and I was quite impressed (to say the least).
Shockingly: so was she with me. That is: at least unto a certain extent. For she was in the the process of obtaining a divorce from a husband who took her for granted; and I represented something new and exciting to play with for a fortnight or two.
Yes, I did everything right at first; and we had some very good times together. In fact: we were quite inseparable when we were both in town at the same time.
Except for that one time. For I lost control of a really nice Ford pick-up truck that I had just bought; and when it finally came to rest in a dry creek-bed around 200 feet below the road: the roof of the cab was touching the seat (and not the back of it, neither).
It all seemed like a dream unto me. Granted: a really bad one; but still a dream: nonetheless. For I could feel the truck rolling over and over again; but it was not until I felt the shattered glass of the windshield on the floorboard that I realized that it was not a dream at all.
Thankfully: the only injury that I sustained was tearing an inch or so of my lower lip away from where it attaches unto my gum inside of my mouth; and the emergency room visit was the most painful part about it. For I was really not in any pain until they started to fix me up; but after being on the receiving end of some very tender, and very loving, care: I was ready to rip-snort like never before.
Then: I really messed up. For the last thing she wanted me to do was to fall in love with her; and that was exactly what I went and did.
Now, in all fairness: she tried to let me down easy; but I was not having any part of it. For I had made-up my mind that she was the one for me; and I was bound and determined to do whatever it took to make her see things my way.
As was said before: there is much about my past that I am deeply ashamed of; and my "courtship" of Debbie is certainly included. For I even went as far as to insist that it was "God's will" for us to be together; and when that did not get me very far: I was most definitely not too proud to grovel and beg like there would be no tomorrow for me without her.
No, that was not just a line. For visions of suicide danced in my head once again.
A good example of how far gone I was at the time would be a load I picked-up in Highland Park, IL (northside of Chicago) early one Friday morning and delivered in Tulsa, OK the next Monday. For it did not merely flirt with disaster: it gave it an engraved invitation!!!
No, the load itself was not the problem. For it consisted of a single pallet of computer parts that weighed around 450 pounds (I think).
Neither were the logistics involved. For I had over 72 hours to go a little more than 700 miles, which was an easy run for even someone in a 58 MPH rig.
The problem was the weather. For up to a foot of snow covered a couple of inches of solid ice in places protected from the 30 MPH winds coming out of the west.
Yes, I was well aware of the horrid conditions. For while I was waiting to back into the dock and pick-up my load: a gust of wind hit my trailer broadside and pushed it a good 20 feet (with the brakes locked), which left it at a 45 degree angle in relation unto how my truck was parked.
Nonetheless: I just had to see her that night; but it was all for naught. For Debbie decided that the weather was too bad for her to get out in.
Even after that: the trucking company insisted upon pairing me up with another student from Warren, MI (Detroit) who was to drive out of their Houston, TX terminal upon graduation. Yeah, like that would do me a lot of good. For that "out of sight, out of mind" thing has never really worked for me; but I did feel a certain sense of responsibility for my student.
So: we hung in there together for 6 weeks; and it did wind-up being good for me. For having someone to talk to about it made me feel better; but I have my doubts about it being of all that much good unto him.
Anyway: I declined to take-on any more students for awhile after he graduated in February, 1988. For I wanted some time unto myself to obsess about Debbie without being disturbed.
Well, not really. For the plan was to fly solo for as long as it took to clear my head; but after 3 months of self-inflicted therapy: the only thing that was clear was that I was still obsessed with her.
Then: disaster struck for real in May, 1988. For while dead-heading unto a town to pick-up a load: I was involved in an accident that killed a man.
No, I did not believe that my obsession over Debbie had anything to really do with it. For it is true that she was on my mind when I rounded a blind curve and saw 2 cars in my lane stopped around 200 feet in front of me; but that had not had any adverse effects upon my driving before. In fact: I had been awarded a "1 Year Safe Driver Award" for 1987 by the American Trucking Association (ATA).
On the other hand: I did have a great fear of the truth being that I was being punished for claiming that it was God's will for us to be together; and the unfolding events of the day did little to convince me otherwise. For after locking eyes with the victim mere moments before they became lifeless: the officer in charge of the scene informed me that they were compelled by state law to take me into custody because of crossing the center-line of the 2-lane highway; and things went from bad to much, much worse from there.
No, I did not believe that it was my fault. That is: other than giving God a good reason to dump a bucketful of brimstone upon my head. For when I applied the brakes: nothing happened; and that same result repeated itself every time I stomped on the brakes before swerving into what appeared to be an empty on-coming traffic lane.
Obviously: it was not at all empty; and that little fact made my decision to swerve left (instead of right) all the more agonizing. For from where I was sitting: swerving right would have involved taking-out an electric pole and probably a house or two.
At first: I was much more concerned about the victim and his family than I was about my own plight. For all of the police at the scene were quite clearly on my side; and things appeared to be really looking good for me after the accident investigator hired by my company told me (at the scene) that the braking system of my rig had indeed malfunctioned.
Then: the view changed. For all of that goodwill that I was receiving from the police abruptly ended after "my" trucking company announced that I had been placed on suspension (subject unto termination); and that by being on suspension: all ties unto them were also suspended until further notice.
No, I cannot really blame the police. For common sense would dictate that there must have been something seriously wrong about me for the company that I had been driving for the last 17 months to make such drastic moves in order to distance themselves from me so quickly.
The next bucketful of brimstone to fall crushed me. For when I asked the accident investigator to get me a copy of his report detailing the fact that the braking system had malfunctioned: he told me that I must be mistaken. For he swore that he never said anything remotely like that unto me while we were still at the scene of the tragedy.
Since the company would not send $500 of my paycheck unto the jail so that I could bail myself out: my last resort was my mother; and she came through like I never expected. For instead of just getting $500 of my money out of the bank: she borrowed $5,000 in order to avoid losing the $500 unto a bail-bond agency.
Consistent with the script: there was a problem with my mother bailing me out. For I had to stay in jail until she, my brother and his wife got down there the next day.
Now, unto a real manly man: a night in jail is no big deal; and if played right: it can greatly add unto their aura. For who in their right-mind would want to mess with someone "THE MAN" could not break?
Not so for a poser like myself. For with over 60 monstrous brutes in a 20'x20' cell fighting over who would be my "first": I was absolutely terrified.
Yes, I was just kidding. For it is true that there were over 60 of us packed into a 20'x20' cell; but it is not at all true that anyone messed with me.
In fact: just the opposite was true. For I found a few sympathetic ears to listen unto my sad, sad story of betrayal and abandonment.
My family also lent a sympathetic ear or two unto me; and I was very appreciative of what they had went through for me. For the local authorities did not make it easy for my mother to bail me out of their jail; and I tried my best to make it up unto her during the month that I stayed "home" while waiting to go back "Over-The-Road".
Friday, July 20, 2007
TCC: The Ninth Crumb, Part I
January 4, 1987 was the day when I started to work for a large trucking company out of the great state of Arkansas. The name of which to be withheld forthwith. For there are times when it is prudent to also protect the guilty.
Anyway: I found myself in unfamiliar surroundings again. For all of my previous experiences with hauling livestock, grain, hay and heavy equipment did little to prepare me for such things as: bills of lading, log books, load distribution, weight scales, hazardous materials, DOT (Department Of Transportation) checks and full inspections, and a number of other things critical unto the timely pick-ups and deliveries of merchandise and materials.
Therefore: I took it as a double-edged sword when told that I would be teamed with a trainer for 6 weeks. For that meant that I would have someone around to teach me what I needed to know (I hoped); but that also meant that I would have someone around to keep me from getting any good sleep on a regular basis.
No, it was not that I was required to frequently stay-up and observe the trainer when it was their time to drive. For the trouble was over my inherent inability to go to sleep quickly and easily; and with all of the noise and motion going-on (not to mention: holes in the road that could bounce a person off the ceiling if they were not braced for it): the only way I could go to sleep while the truck was in motion was to pass-out from sheer exhaustion.
Alas, if only I was much more like Danny. For he could fall asleep while sitting in the jump-seat (passenger seat) of a truck without an air-ride suspension with his head banging against the window on his side; and if this was accomplished through the ingestion of pharmaceuticals (illicit or otherwise): he never shared any with me.
No, I have never abused drugs. That is: except for ephedrine; but that is a tale for another time.
On the other hand: that is not to say that there has never been times when I wanted to; and such was the case with my 42 day sentence. For aside from sleep deprivation: my jailer seldom failed to deliver his daily reminder unto me that he had a lot to say about whether I would be released on the scheduled date or held-over for more rehabilitation.
Yes, rehabilitation played a part in the process. In fact: it played a very big part. For the company wanted their drivers to be as indistinguishable (one from another) as their trucks and trailers were.
In other words: they did not want a bunch of individuals (let alone: cowboys, in the worst sense of the term) driving for them; and this was on the low end of the scale. For their ultimate goal was to make their drivers indistinguishable from their trucks (for all practicable purposes).
More simply put: drivers would be subject unto the same conditions as their trucks. For they were to be recognized as being nothing more than merely an extension (just another part) of their trucks by the company.
No, we are not talking about the weather. That is: at least not directly. For weather conditions do factor-in; but there is more unto it than just that.
Perhaps it would be helpful to look at this from the other side of the issue. For there is usually no reason for a truck to move another inch after making a delivery: other than to go get another load or just in order to clear the dock for another truck; and if it takes a week or two to get a good load close by: so be it. For the only thing that the truck requires is a safe place to park.
Not so for most drivers (most of the time). For aside from a safe place to park: the driver also requires a nearby telephone (in order to stay in touch with their dispatcher) and food, along with drinkable fluids, of course.
Yes, there is more than one way to skin a squirrel. For some sort of a mobile phone would take care of the need for a nearby phone; and having a stockpile of food and drinkable fluids on-hand is not at all impracticable.
There is, however, another matter to address. For a parked truck does not need to be running: except for when being in very cold temperatures (#2 diesel starts to gel at 10 degrees Fahrenheit). Whereas: a driver needs to be kept relatively cool in higher temperatures and relatively warm in lower temperatures (even if only for health reasons).
There is also the matter of comfort that should not be ignored. For an uncomfortable driver is a distracted driver; and a distracted driver is an accident waiting to happen.
Yes, there were such things as block heaters and portable generators available; but they had problems of their own. For I did not know of very many places to plug-in a block heater away from certain truck stops way up north; and fumes from portable generators can put a person to sleep for a very long time.
Last (but not least) is the matter of financial gains. For a driver is not making much money (if any at all) when their truck is not moving.
Neither is the company; but it is often more cost-effective to wait on a load nearby than to go after a load farther away as soon as a truck becomes available. For after totalling-up driver wages, fuel, general maintenance, wear and tear on equipment and tires, road taxes, and state permits: getting in another load or two a week may not be worth it; and this would be especially true of large discount-rate companies.
Such was the case with the company that I went to work for in 1987. For they booked an awful lot of loads for 50-75 cents per mile when a dollar a mile was generally considered as being a fair rate for most dry (non-refrigerated or live) freight.
Suffice to say: the company was hated by their competitors; and that hatred was sometimes visited upon their drivers. For I was the object of some of that a couple of times myself.
Even as bad as that was: what was worse was the almost constant harassment over the CB radio. For when one bucket-mouth would finally go silent: another one was more than ready to chime-in with something or another about clearing the road because of one of our trucks (usually me) being in the area.
Okay, in all fairness: there were plenty of good reasons to be cautious around their trucks. For it was not at all unusual for 25% of the fleet being out-of-service at a given time because of being wrecked while I was there.
Yes, I could have just turned-off the squawk-box; but it did help to ease certain fears. For it served as a source of news about traffic problems, weather conditions, and other things that can reach-out and bite a driver on the buttocks at very inopportune times.
No, I did not know any better than to sign-on with such an outfit; but even if I did: what other choice could I have had? For all of my previous experience (even as extensive as it was) was not recognized as being acceptable by the various insurance companies involved; and that meant that if I had not of went to work for who I did: I would have had to go to work for another outfit not so unlike them if I wanted to go "Over-The-Road" (OTR) trucking.
Besides: it was not all bad. For 6 months after I signed-on: I was made a trainer myself, which meant that I got paid up to 24.5 cents per mile on even the miles that my student drove; and by the 31st of December, 1987: I had grossed over $40,000 for around 243,000 miles of travel (some not payable).
Anyway: I found myself in unfamiliar surroundings again. For all of my previous experiences with hauling livestock, grain, hay and heavy equipment did little to prepare me for such things as: bills of lading, log books, load distribution, weight scales, hazardous materials, DOT (Department Of Transportation) checks and full inspections, and a number of other things critical unto the timely pick-ups and deliveries of merchandise and materials.
Therefore: I took it as a double-edged sword when told that I would be teamed with a trainer for 6 weeks. For that meant that I would have someone around to teach me what I needed to know (I hoped); but that also meant that I would have someone around to keep me from getting any good sleep on a regular basis.
No, it was not that I was required to frequently stay-up and observe the trainer when it was their time to drive. For the trouble was over my inherent inability to go to sleep quickly and easily; and with all of the noise and motion going-on (not to mention: holes in the road that could bounce a person off the ceiling if they were not braced for it): the only way I could go to sleep while the truck was in motion was to pass-out from sheer exhaustion.
Alas, if only I was much more like Danny. For he could fall asleep while sitting in the jump-seat (passenger seat) of a truck without an air-ride suspension with his head banging against the window on his side; and if this was accomplished through the ingestion of pharmaceuticals (illicit or otherwise): he never shared any with me.
No, I have never abused drugs. That is: except for ephedrine; but that is a tale for another time.
On the other hand: that is not to say that there has never been times when I wanted to; and such was the case with my 42 day sentence. For aside from sleep deprivation: my jailer seldom failed to deliver his daily reminder unto me that he had a lot to say about whether I would be released on the scheduled date or held-over for more rehabilitation.
Yes, rehabilitation played a part in the process. In fact: it played a very big part. For the company wanted their drivers to be as indistinguishable (one from another) as their trucks and trailers were.
In other words: they did not want a bunch of individuals (let alone: cowboys, in the worst sense of the term) driving for them; and this was on the low end of the scale. For their ultimate goal was to make their drivers indistinguishable from their trucks (for all practicable purposes).
More simply put: drivers would be subject unto the same conditions as their trucks. For they were to be recognized as being nothing more than merely an extension (just another part) of their trucks by the company.
No, we are not talking about the weather. That is: at least not directly. For weather conditions do factor-in; but there is more unto it than just that.
Perhaps it would be helpful to look at this from the other side of the issue. For there is usually no reason for a truck to move another inch after making a delivery: other than to go get another load or just in order to clear the dock for another truck; and if it takes a week or two to get a good load close by: so be it. For the only thing that the truck requires is a safe place to park.
Not so for most drivers (most of the time). For aside from a safe place to park: the driver also requires a nearby telephone (in order to stay in touch with their dispatcher) and food, along with drinkable fluids, of course.
Yes, there is more than one way to skin a squirrel. For some sort of a mobile phone would take care of the need for a nearby phone; and having a stockpile of food and drinkable fluids on-hand is not at all impracticable.
There is, however, another matter to address. For a parked truck does not need to be running: except for when being in very cold temperatures (#2 diesel starts to gel at 10 degrees Fahrenheit). Whereas: a driver needs to be kept relatively cool in higher temperatures and relatively warm in lower temperatures (even if only for health reasons).
There is also the matter of comfort that should not be ignored. For an uncomfortable driver is a distracted driver; and a distracted driver is an accident waiting to happen.
Yes, there were such things as block heaters and portable generators available; but they had problems of their own. For I did not know of very many places to plug-in a block heater away from certain truck stops way up north; and fumes from portable generators can put a person to sleep for a very long time.
Last (but not least) is the matter of financial gains. For a driver is not making much money (if any at all) when their truck is not moving.
Neither is the company; but it is often more cost-effective to wait on a load nearby than to go after a load farther away as soon as a truck becomes available. For after totalling-up driver wages, fuel, general maintenance, wear and tear on equipment and tires, road taxes, and state permits: getting in another load or two a week may not be worth it; and this would be especially true of large discount-rate companies.
Such was the case with the company that I went to work for in 1987. For they booked an awful lot of loads for 50-75 cents per mile when a dollar a mile was generally considered as being a fair rate for most dry (non-refrigerated or live) freight.
Suffice to say: the company was hated by their competitors; and that hatred was sometimes visited upon their drivers. For I was the object of some of that a couple of times myself.
Even as bad as that was: what was worse was the almost constant harassment over the CB radio. For when one bucket-mouth would finally go silent: another one was more than ready to chime-in with something or another about clearing the road because of one of our trucks (usually me) being in the area.
Okay, in all fairness: there were plenty of good reasons to be cautious around their trucks. For it was not at all unusual for 25% of the fleet being out-of-service at a given time because of being wrecked while I was there.
Yes, I could have just turned-off the squawk-box; but it did help to ease certain fears. For it served as a source of news about traffic problems, weather conditions, and other things that can reach-out and bite a driver on the buttocks at very inopportune times.
No, I did not know any better than to sign-on with such an outfit; but even if I did: what other choice could I have had? For all of my previous experience (even as extensive as it was) was not recognized as being acceptable by the various insurance companies involved; and that meant that if I had not of went to work for who I did: I would have had to go to work for another outfit not so unlike them if I wanted to go "Over-The-Road" (OTR) trucking.
Besides: it was not all bad. For 6 months after I signed-on: I was made a trainer myself, which meant that I got paid up to 24.5 cents per mile on even the miles that my student drove; and by the 31st of December, 1987: I had grossed over $40,000 for around 243,000 miles of travel (some not payable).
Saturday, July 14, 2007
TCC: The Eighth Crumb, Part II
Next stop: Amarillo, TX. For TSTI (Texas State Technical Institute) had been brought unto my attention in regards unto their saddle-making courses; and one of their locations was in Amarillo.
No, I never got around unto enrolling there. For after my brother dropped me off on Amarillo Boulevard: I did some research on the craft; and I did not like what I discovered. For the truth of the matter was that even those who had received a degree in saddle-making had to complete an apprenticeship under an established master (which could take up to 20 years) if they hoped to ever make a living from their work.
I still wanted to stay in Amarillo. For I was absolutely fascinated with the area; and even having to live out of the $300 car that I bought the day I arrived for the first few weeks could not dampen my enthusiasm.
Yes, I suppose that I was "homeless" at the time; but I was totally unaware of it. For that was before the term came into fashion.
No, that is not to say that I was totally unaware of my circumstances. For every night brought another adventure in finding a safe place (the boulevard was like a war zone at times) to sleep where the cops would let me alone; and with me being so sweet: an abundance of mosquitoes where always around.
Thankfully: it gradually got easier for me. For the owners of the car lot where I bought my "mobile home" invited me to stay in their office and look after the place after-hours; and I paid them back some by effecting a citizen's arrest upon a man (who was referred unto as being the "Rubber Stamp Bandit" by the Amarillo P.D.) who had defrauded them out of several thousand dollars.
No, being homeless did not mean that I was unemployed. For within a week of arriving: I had secured a job as a floor-stocker at the Levi-Strauss plant a mile or so east of the Amarillo City Limits on U.S. 60 (old Route 66); and a week or so later: I got a night job as a delivery driver/dishwasher for a Pizza Inn on the northside access road unto I-40 (around 7 miles southwest of Levi's).
So: why was I living out of my car? Well, it came down unto just one thing: BEER!!! For instead of spending my hard-earned money on rent and utility bills: I could spend it on beer; and with enough beer: I did not really care where I was.
Alas, I was not always able to buy enough beer. Therefore: I sought to find a place where I could have a bed to sleep-it-off on; and I settled for the Wagon Wheel Motel on the boulevard at $75 a week.
How could I have chosen otherwise? For with the room: came several neighbors; and what a group they were. For I was surrounded by hookers, drug dealers, dope fiends, ax-murderers, cannibals, sexual deviants and serial killers in training.
In other words: I was right in my element; and with the Cattleman's Club being just a couple of blocks west: I could not ask for more. For the Cattleman's reminded me of the Branding Iron; and it was not long before I was recognized as being a regular there.
Be assured that being a regular at the Cattleman's certainly had its benefits. For I got "lucky" on several occasions there.
Cheering me on was a bartender by the name of Sylvia; but I never got to first-base with her. For she was just too focused upon making as good of a living as she could for her children (bartending was her night job) to make time for any romantic escapades.
Despite all of that: we became fairly good friends; and it was through that friendship that I became acquainted with the term: "doppleganger twins". For after working on a ranch north of town for a couple of days: I headed straight for the Cattleman's; and when Sylvia saw me: she complimented me on looking so sharp in a western-styled suit, bolo tie, and a brand-new light gray Resistol cowboy hat the night before.
Needless to say: I was quite shocked to hear what she said. For I had been around 30 miles away the night in question; and it made me wonder about really having a long lost twin in the area.
Much unto my disappointment: that was all that there was unto it. For my "twin" was never seen around the place again.
Yes, the Cattleman's was a very special place unto me; and not for just the usual reasons. For it was also where I first met Margie.
Talk about His mysterious ways: such was our getting together. For she swore up and down that she NEVER gives out her home phone number unto anyone she has just met; and yet: that was exactly what she did with me.
No, there was nothing romantic (let alone: sexual) between us. For she wanted me as a little brother; and that was just fine with me.
Oh my, what a friend she was. For she offered me a sense of stability that was sorely missing from my life back then; and it came just in time, too. For I needed to have some stability unto my life in order to secure a much better paying job at IBP (Iowa Beef Processors).
Oh yes, working at the "The Beef" was a lot better than working at Levi's, or even Pizza Inn. For I was hired as a non-union night manager of the maintenance and clean-up supply department; and I really enjoyed being around most of the people who would come down unto my dungeon to check-out specialty tools and parts.
It was not all good, however. For just before Thanksgiving Day (1985): one of the day-shift mechanics gave me the phone number of a lady from his church (who also worked at IBP in an area that I had no contact with) whom he thought would be good for me; and after getting a look at Becky: I was very hopeful that he was right.
From the beginning: I got the feeling that she was as hopeful about me as I was about her; and after spending Thanksgiving Day with her and her children: there was no doubt about it. For she had became more and more affectionate as the day progressed; and by the time for her kids to go to bed: the stage was set for us to do the same.
That is: except for something that she had said earlier. For she had told me that she was really trying to be holy in the sight of the Lord; and that it was because of that goal that she had run-off previous boyfriends after having sex with them.
Therefore: I did something that should have gotten me kicked-out of the "Union of Manly Men" (UMM). For when she grabbed my hand to lead me unto her promised land: I told her that I wanted her for more than one night.
Pathetic, absolutely pathetic; and what made it even more so was that it was all for naught. For when I came by her place the next day: she did not want to let me in the front door (let alone: her arms); and after it became clear unto me that wanting to have sex was the same as actually having sex unto her: I could see that there was no hope for "us".
A couple of weeks later: I called to ask Becky what happened (just to make sure); and the answer she gave me was truly hard to take. For she said that she felt like we were going in opposite directions.
Hence: another scar on my heart. For I was on my best behavior around her; and I was planning on staying that way: 'til death do us part.
On the other hand: maybe she was right. For in March (I think) of 1986: I got fired from IBP because of "Suspicion Of Drinking On The Job".
No, it was not at all true. For I had not had a drink since 9AM that morning.
Nonetheless: I did make a mistake. For I failed to brush my teeth before reporting unto work at 5PM; and that was what was detected.
It was still messed-up. For the one who first said something about it was a union steward whom I had let smoke marijuana in my office at times: all without benefit unto myself. For I never touched the stuff.
All in all: it was an educational experience. For when they asked me to blow into a breathalizer: I registered a .026 (.010 will get you a drunk-driving charge); and no one in the room (including myself) had any thought of me being even the least bit drunk.
After that: I went to work as a dishwasher at a Carrows Restaurant (talk about having self-esteem issues); but then a couple of months later a miracle (unto me) transpired. For one of the electricians I had worked with at IBP came by to ask me if I would like to join him on a wheat-harvest crew for the summer.
YAHOO, the kid was back in the saddle again; and there appeared to be some destiny involved. For like dominoes positioned to knock-over the next in line: so where the steps taken to get unto that point. For if I had not of went to work at IBP: I may have never met Jack; and if I never met him: I may have never had an opportunity to go all the way up to Roundup, MT and back with a John Deere combine chained-down behind me.
The road unto Montana was not without its share of pot-holes, however. For I had never been around such an operation before; but by November (1986): the owner/operators of the outfit considered me to be a valued employee (they even told me so).
Obviously (unto those who know better): wheat was not the only thing we harvested. For we completed our wheat season in Roundup around the first of September; and then we headed back unto Amarillo to get geared-up for: corn, maize (grain sorghum), soybeans and even a patch or two of millet.
Along the way: I ran into some trouble with an Allsups manager by name of Terri in Friona, TX (around 70 miles southwest of Amarillo). For she slapped the smirk right off of my face after I smarted-off something that she did not appreciate as much as I thought she should.
Thankfully: all was forgiven by the next Saturday night. For we ran into each other at the Copper Penny in Clovis, NM (around 30 miles southwest of Friona); and for a month afterward: a torrid romance ensued between us.
Alas, it was over before it had hardly began; but it was probably for the best. For if Terri and I had of stayed a couple: I would have had to settle for hauling cattle feed for a local company (which promised very long hours at very low wages) because of her kids. Whereas: the next step in my progression did not end until I had driven over 2 million miles while visiting all of the lower 48 states of America and 5 provinces of Canada.
No, I never got around unto enrolling there. For after my brother dropped me off on Amarillo Boulevard: I did some research on the craft; and I did not like what I discovered. For the truth of the matter was that even those who had received a degree in saddle-making had to complete an apprenticeship under an established master (which could take up to 20 years) if they hoped to ever make a living from their work.
I still wanted to stay in Amarillo. For I was absolutely fascinated with the area; and even having to live out of the $300 car that I bought the day I arrived for the first few weeks could not dampen my enthusiasm.
Yes, I suppose that I was "homeless" at the time; but I was totally unaware of it. For that was before the term came into fashion.
No, that is not to say that I was totally unaware of my circumstances. For every night brought another adventure in finding a safe place (the boulevard was like a war zone at times) to sleep where the cops would let me alone; and with me being so sweet: an abundance of mosquitoes where always around.
Thankfully: it gradually got easier for me. For the owners of the car lot where I bought my "mobile home" invited me to stay in their office and look after the place after-hours; and I paid them back some by effecting a citizen's arrest upon a man (who was referred unto as being the "Rubber Stamp Bandit" by the Amarillo P.D.) who had defrauded them out of several thousand dollars.
No, being homeless did not mean that I was unemployed. For within a week of arriving: I had secured a job as a floor-stocker at the Levi-Strauss plant a mile or so east of the Amarillo City Limits on U.S. 60 (old Route 66); and a week or so later: I got a night job as a delivery driver/dishwasher for a Pizza Inn on the northside access road unto I-40 (around 7 miles southwest of Levi's).
So: why was I living out of my car? Well, it came down unto just one thing: BEER!!! For instead of spending my hard-earned money on rent and utility bills: I could spend it on beer; and with enough beer: I did not really care where I was.
Alas, I was not always able to buy enough beer. Therefore: I sought to find a place where I could have a bed to sleep-it-off on; and I settled for the Wagon Wheel Motel on the boulevard at $75 a week.
How could I have chosen otherwise? For with the room: came several neighbors; and what a group they were. For I was surrounded by hookers, drug dealers, dope fiends, ax-murderers, cannibals, sexual deviants and serial killers in training.
In other words: I was right in my element; and with the Cattleman's Club being just a couple of blocks west: I could not ask for more. For the Cattleman's reminded me of the Branding Iron; and it was not long before I was recognized as being a regular there.
Be assured that being a regular at the Cattleman's certainly had its benefits. For I got "lucky" on several occasions there.
Cheering me on was a bartender by the name of Sylvia; but I never got to first-base with her. For she was just too focused upon making as good of a living as she could for her children (bartending was her night job) to make time for any romantic escapades.
Despite all of that: we became fairly good friends; and it was through that friendship that I became acquainted with the term: "doppleganger twins". For after working on a ranch north of town for a couple of days: I headed straight for the Cattleman's; and when Sylvia saw me: she complimented me on looking so sharp in a western-styled suit, bolo tie, and a brand-new light gray Resistol cowboy hat the night before.
Needless to say: I was quite shocked to hear what she said. For I had been around 30 miles away the night in question; and it made me wonder about really having a long lost twin in the area.
Much unto my disappointment: that was all that there was unto it. For my "twin" was never seen around the place again.
Yes, the Cattleman's was a very special place unto me; and not for just the usual reasons. For it was also where I first met Margie.
Talk about His mysterious ways: such was our getting together. For she swore up and down that she NEVER gives out her home phone number unto anyone she has just met; and yet: that was exactly what she did with me.
No, there was nothing romantic (let alone: sexual) between us. For she wanted me as a little brother; and that was just fine with me.
Oh my, what a friend she was. For she offered me a sense of stability that was sorely missing from my life back then; and it came just in time, too. For I needed to have some stability unto my life in order to secure a much better paying job at IBP (Iowa Beef Processors).
Oh yes, working at the "The Beef" was a lot better than working at Levi's, or even Pizza Inn. For I was hired as a non-union night manager of the maintenance and clean-up supply department; and I really enjoyed being around most of the people who would come down unto my dungeon to check-out specialty tools and parts.
It was not all good, however. For just before Thanksgiving Day (1985): one of the day-shift mechanics gave me the phone number of a lady from his church (who also worked at IBP in an area that I had no contact with) whom he thought would be good for me; and after getting a look at Becky: I was very hopeful that he was right.
From the beginning: I got the feeling that she was as hopeful about me as I was about her; and after spending Thanksgiving Day with her and her children: there was no doubt about it. For she had became more and more affectionate as the day progressed; and by the time for her kids to go to bed: the stage was set for us to do the same.
That is: except for something that she had said earlier. For she had told me that she was really trying to be holy in the sight of the Lord; and that it was because of that goal that she had run-off previous boyfriends after having sex with them.
Therefore: I did something that should have gotten me kicked-out of the "Union of Manly Men" (UMM). For when she grabbed my hand to lead me unto her promised land: I told her that I wanted her for more than one night.
Pathetic, absolutely pathetic; and what made it even more so was that it was all for naught. For when I came by her place the next day: she did not want to let me in the front door (let alone: her arms); and after it became clear unto me that wanting to have sex was the same as actually having sex unto her: I could see that there was no hope for "us".
A couple of weeks later: I called to ask Becky what happened (just to make sure); and the answer she gave me was truly hard to take. For she said that she felt like we were going in opposite directions.
Hence: another scar on my heart. For I was on my best behavior around her; and I was planning on staying that way: 'til death do us part.
On the other hand: maybe she was right. For in March (I think) of 1986: I got fired from IBP because of "Suspicion Of Drinking On The Job".
No, it was not at all true. For I had not had a drink since 9AM that morning.
Nonetheless: I did make a mistake. For I failed to brush my teeth before reporting unto work at 5PM; and that was what was detected.
It was still messed-up. For the one who first said something about it was a union steward whom I had let smoke marijuana in my office at times: all without benefit unto myself. For I never touched the stuff.
All in all: it was an educational experience. For when they asked me to blow into a breathalizer: I registered a .026 (.010 will get you a drunk-driving charge); and no one in the room (including myself) had any thought of me being even the least bit drunk.
After that: I went to work as a dishwasher at a Carrows Restaurant (talk about having self-esteem issues); but then a couple of months later a miracle (unto me) transpired. For one of the electricians I had worked with at IBP came by to ask me if I would like to join him on a wheat-harvest crew for the summer.
YAHOO, the kid was back in the saddle again; and there appeared to be some destiny involved. For like dominoes positioned to knock-over the next in line: so where the steps taken to get unto that point. For if I had not of went to work at IBP: I may have never met Jack; and if I never met him: I may have never had an opportunity to go all the way up to Roundup, MT and back with a John Deere combine chained-down behind me.
The road unto Montana was not without its share of pot-holes, however. For I had never been around such an operation before; but by November (1986): the owner/operators of the outfit considered me to be a valued employee (they even told me so).
Obviously (unto those who know better): wheat was not the only thing we harvested. For we completed our wheat season in Roundup around the first of September; and then we headed back unto Amarillo to get geared-up for: corn, maize (grain sorghum), soybeans and even a patch or two of millet.
Along the way: I ran into some trouble with an Allsups manager by name of Terri in Friona, TX (around 70 miles southwest of Amarillo). For she slapped the smirk right off of my face after I smarted-off something that she did not appreciate as much as I thought she should.
Thankfully: all was forgiven by the next Saturday night. For we ran into each other at the Copper Penny in Clovis, NM (around 30 miles southwest of Friona); and for a month afterward: a torrid romance ensued between us.
Alas, it was over before it had hardly began; but it was probably for the best. For if Terri and I had of stayed a couple: I would have had to settle for hauling cattle feed for a local company (which promised very long hours at very low wages) because of her kids. Whereas: the next step in my progression did not end until I had driven over 2 million miles while visiting all of the lower 48 states of America and 5 provinces of Canada.
TCC: The Eighth Crumb, Part I
With a heart torn asunder: I reached for the best medicine that I knew of at the time for such a serious injury. For it neither required a doctor's diagnosis, nor a prescription to fill; and I already had a good supply nearby.
Yes, many are of the opinion that crawling into a bottle of Jack Daniel's will not solve anything; but I believed that there was something to say about the experience. For if a person stays down long enough: oxygen deprivation sets in; and then comes a sense of euphoria before everything goes black.
No, none of that was meant to just promote the benefit of drinking lots of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 Tennessee Sippin' Whiskey to heal a broken heart (even though it was my favorite). For Jim Beam, Wild Turkey 101, Southern Comfort, and gallons of Busch Beer also contributed greatly unto the cause.
Needless to say: I was not in my right-mind; nor did I want to be. For when the fog started to clear: nothing was there to hide the pain; and that was not a sight that I was eager to see.
Much unto my delight: what I was eager to see (other than Sam wanting me back, of course) came along just 10 days after I was shown the door. For a sweet young thing made me feel much better about myself (well, at least for an hour or so).
Tragically: she committed suicide not so long afterward. Therefore: I must have failed to return the favor.
Next in line (I think) was a young lady with a little boy; and I thought that she showed a lot of potential. For she gave me enough confidence to go see my girls; but before the relationship got too serious: I sabotaged it by going after a girl who was completely out of my league (not as much as Sam was, however).
Oh my, talk about something special: that girl had it all. For she looked a lot like a much younger version of Lynn Anderson (a great Country/Western singer who recorded: I never promised you a "Rose Garden") unto me; and she could sing just like Patsy Cline (Country/Western Music Hall Of Famer).
No, Patsy's music was not what I would listen unto on the radio (AM/FM, not CB); but to hear that other girl sing her songs was truly something to behold. For with eyes closed: I was hard-pressed to tell a difference; and I was not the only one who felt that way.
Yes, I could see that she would be going places; but I decided to make a play for her anyway. For it was not like I had a lot to lose; and since I had drawn nary a sober breath for several weeks: I was also feeling rather bulletproof.
Surprisingly: she did not laugh in my face. In fact: she was rather apologetic in her response. For she told me that she could not really go-out with anyone (let alone: get serious about them) because of her father being a numbers-runner for the Kansas City mob. For that would give them another thing to use against her father in order to keep him honest and in-line.
Suffice to say: I was taken-aback by her answer; but upon second-thought: I started to give her the benefit of my doubts. For there were at least a hundred other things that she could have said; and after she showed me the chrome-plated, pearl-handled, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson 38 Special revolver that she carried in her purse wherever she went: I became fully convinced.
So: we just became fairly good friends after that; and a little color was starting to appear upon my horizon. For I had become a "regular" at a Country/Western bar on the southside of Joplin, MO; and I even got to go unto a very exclusive skinny-dipping party in Shoal Creek (COLD!!!) involving around 20 from the bar after it closed one night.
No, there was no slowing me down now. If anything: I was speeding-up. For on a sunny Thursday morning: I started drinking quite heavily; and it did not stop until Saturday night.
Needless to say: there is much about that time that I have no memory of. For it was the first time I experienced what it was like to keep doing stuff while blacked-out; but there are a few things that I do recall.
One of them is about coming-to just before driving my big black Chevy 4-wheel drive pick-up truck through someone's fence on purpose (???). After doing so: I fell out of the cab (close to 3 feet off the ground). A lady then came out of the house next to the field; and yelled at me: "What are you doing?" Unto that I replied: "Fixing fence, I guess." She then screamed quite loudly; and ran back into her house.
As it so happened: there was an 18 year-old girl with me; and she played a major part in my next memory of that time. For I remember looking down and seeing that she really was a red-head just before passing-out on top of her (she later told me that I was not very good).
After she finally got me woke-up: I proceeded to take her home, which required driving through a part of Cassville; and I then received a huge break from one of my parents' mortal enemies (at least on their part) who was a Cassville City Policeman at the time. For I am quite sure that I would have melted a breathalizer if he had of wanted me to blow into one; but he was only interested in what I had to say about my earlier fight with that lady's fence. After promising to fix it as soon as possible, and also promising to go straight home after taking the fair lass with me home: he let me go; and I did just exactly what I promised.
Unbeknownst unto the nice policeman: what I considered to be my home was the Branding Iron in Joplin at the time; and being there on a busy Saturday night constitutes the last memories that I have of my infamous 3-day drunk. For I remember starting to play pool, and then being told that I had run the table 3 games in a row (never done before, nor since) before I just quit playing, and then being carried-out of the door by the manager and a part-time bartender while protesting that I did not want to go to bed.
When I woke-up early Sunday morning (around 7 AM, I think): I knew that my rampage was over. For I never felt so alone, so utterly empty, in my life up until that point.
I also felt like I was freezing to death: despite it still being in August (I think). For they had put me to bed in the cab of my truck; and my clothes felt wet enough to wring-out.
No, I do not believe that the moister could have been from the early stages of detoxification. For I would think that a person would have to be a lot more "dried-out" than I was before the diabolical "detox-sweats" set-in.
Aside from all of that: I knew that I was still in trouble. For I was in desperate need of a shoulder to cry-on; and I knew just where to go to find one.
No, there was never anything romantic (let alone: sexual) between us (not from lack of trying on my part). For it was not that kind of a relationship; but by the time of my crash and burn: I had grown to love the manager of the Branding Iron as much as I possibly could.
Thankfully: the feelings were mutual. For I do believe that I would have (at least) tried to kill myself if it had not of been for her concern.
Regretably: her counsel was not without cost unto herself. For it was probably because of extensive water damage from my tears that she and her daughter had to move from where they lived a few months after she let me have my big cry.
Alas, I have often wondered if Alfred Lord Tennyson was just making an attempt to contribute unto the greater good of the British Empire when he borrowed a quotation from Saint Augustine and waxed poetic: Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. You know: "keep a stiff upper-lip"; and other "stuff" like that.
On the other hand: maybe he was not so unlike Mr. Shakespeare in sentiment? For it has been my experience that losing at love really SUCKS!!! I mean: it REALLY, REALLY SUCKS; and I do believe that I am very much not alone in that.
Substantiation of my position was not hard to find. For my dear manger of the Branding Iron had more experience with the matter than I did. Therefore: I took it to heart that she was most likely correct in suggesting that a change of scenery just might do me a lot of good.
No, it is not at all true that I turned my back on my children and just walked away. For there was not a day back then (nor has there been since) when I did not miss my girls terribly; but since there was always a lot of friction between Sam and I whenever I did come-by to be with them: I believed that it was truly in their best interest for me to stay away from them for awhile.
Yes, it could be said that it was also in my best interest. For it was like pouring salt into an open wound each and every time I saw Sam and my girls; but be assured that my motives were pure. For I did not want my girls to have to endure what so many other children of divorced parents had; and I hoped that they would come to understand and forgive me in time.
Anyway: I did not go far (just 120 miles or so north-northwest of Joplin); but it was still like a foreign country unto me. For I was quite unfamiliar with the Garnett, KS area: even though it was just 15 nautical miles northwest of Blue Mound (where my father grew-up).
Thankfully: there were a couple a familiar faces around. For I had went up there with a friend from Washburn, MO (around 8 miles south of Cassville) to work for a former boss of mine at Wells Aluminum in Cassville.
Talk about having a time: we did. For we lived out of the back of Bill's (from Washburn) pick-up truck from the first of September (I think) until the end of October; and the beer flowed at a steady stream.
Around the first of November (1984): we moved into a motel room at a weekly rate; and it was also around then that we started entertaining some guests. For Bill hooked-up with a mighty fine-looking lady who liked his sense of style a lot more than anyone else did (he would sometimes wear a purple leisure-suit with a yellow ruffled shirt to work); and I found myself more and more in the company of a blonde-haired (truly) wildcat by the name of Robin.
No, there was not anything sexual going-on between Robin and I while we still worked together at the aluminum window and door factory that Bob managed. For I was just a shoulder for her to cry-on after her live-in boyfriend got through beating the snot out of her.
Yes, I would have very much liked to have been her knight in shining armor; but she would not tell me where she lived, nor anywhere else I might find her tormentor. Therefore: I had to settle for doing what I had been doing; and that seemed to be enough for her for the time being.
Quite suddenly: all of that changed after being knocked-out during a particularly savage beating. For she finally agreed to go down to Cassville with me to meet my mother and brother over the Thanksgiving Day holiday; and we became a couple at that time.
Now, to say that my mother and brother were somewhat less than impressed with Robin would be another understatement. For they did not know what to think about someone (who was only 5'2" and a hundred pounds soaking wet) who could drink almost as much as I could; and a not so subtle dislike for her developed into open animosity virtually over-night.
No, they were not the only ones who felt that way. For a number of my friends also had a bad feeling about her.
None of that really mattered unto me at the time, however. For she was quite dedicated unto satisfying my "needs" in ways that I did not know were possible; and on December 21, 1984: Robin and I were married in a small ceremony in my mother's living room.
Yes, it was very nice of my mother to let us get married there. For she was certainly not under any sort of obligation to do so: not even a strictly moral one in accordance unto the rules of engagement governing family interaction after I failed to be there for her when my father died; and I am quite sure that her extreme dislike for Robin did not make it any easier for her.
At least she got the last laugh about the matter. For I finally succumbed unto the pressure from so many around me to take Robin back to Kansas and leave her there. Some even went as far as to express concern over there being something rather "unholy" about her; and this was coming from people who could take our Heavenly Father's name in vain while swallowing a mouthful of beer!!!
No, Robin did not want to go back to Kansas. Neither did she want me to go anywhere without her. For she really did love me.
Nonetheless: I had made-up my mind to leave her far behind; and I truly believed that I did indeed have some good reasons for doing so. For I had come to better understand why Robin was getting beat-up on a fairly regular basis by her boyfriend back in Garnett; but I still regretted my decision later-on.
Yes, many are of the opinion that crawling into a bottle of Jack Daniel's will not solve anything; but I believed that there was something to say about the experience. For if a person stays down long enough: oxygen deprivation sets in; and then comes a sense of euphoria before everything goes black.
No, none of that was meant to just promote the benefit of drinking lots of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 Tennessee Sippin' Whiskey to heal a broken heart (even though it was my favorite). For Jim Beam, Wild Turkey 101, Southern Comfort, and gallons of Busch Beer also contributed greatly unto the cause.
Needless to say: I was not in my right-mind; nor did I want to be. For when the fog started to clear: nothing was there to hide the pain; and that was not a sight that I was eager to see.
Much unto my delight: what I was eager to see (other than Sam wanting me back, of course) came along just 10 days after I was shown the door. For a sweet young thing made me feel much better about myself (well, at least for an hour or so).
Tragically: she committed suicide not so long afterward. Therefore: I must have failed to return the favor.
Next in line (I think) was a young lady with a little boy; and I thought that she showed a lot of potential. For she gave me enough confidence to go see my girls; but before the relationship got too serious: I sabotaged it by going after a girl who was completely out of my league (not as much as Sam was, however).
Oh my, talk about something special: that girl had it all. For she looked a lot like a much younger version of Lynn Anderson (a great Country/Western singer who recorded: I never promised you a "Rose Garden") unto me; and she could sing just like Patsy Cline (Country/Western Music Hall Of Famer).
No, Patsy's music was not what I would listen unto on the radio (AM/FM, not CB); but to hear that other girl sing her songs was truly something to behold. For with eyes closed: I was hard-pressed to tell a difference; and I was not the only one who felt that way.
Yes, I could see that she would be going places; but I decided to make a play for her anyway. For it was not like I had a lot to lose; and since I had drawn nary a sober breath for several weeks: I was also feeling rather bulletproof.
Surprisingly: she did not laugh in my face. In fact: she was rather apologetic in her response. For she told me that she could not really go-out with anyone (let alone: get serious about them) because of her father being a numbers-runner for the Kansas City mob. For that would give them another thing to use against her father in order to keep him honest and in-line.
Suffice to say: I was taken-aback by her answer; but upon second-thought: I started to give her the benefit of my doubts. For there were at least a hundred other things that she could have said; and after she showed me the chrome-plated, pearl-handled, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson 38 Special revolver that she carried in her purse wherever she went: I became fully convinced.
So: we just became fairly good friends after that; and a little color was starting to appear upon my horizon. For I had become a "regular" at a Country/Western bar on the southside of Joplin, MO; and I even got to go unto a very exclusive skinny-dipping party in Shoal Creek (COLD!!!) involving around 20 from the bar after it closed one night.
No, there was no slowing me down now. If anything: I was speeding-up. For on a sunny Thursday morning: I started drinking quite heavily; and it did not stop until Saturday night.
Needless to say: there is much about that time that I have no memory of. For it was the first time I experienced what it was like to keep doing stuff while blacked-out; but there are a few things that I do recall.
One of them is about coming-to just before driving my big black Chevy 4-wheel drive pick-up truck through someone's fence on purpose (???). After doing so: I fell out of the cab (close to 3 feet off the ground). A lady then came out of the house next to the field; and yelled at me: "What are you doing?" Unto that I replied: "Fixing fence, I guess." She then screamed quite loudly; and ran back into her house.
As it so happened: there was an 18 year-old girl with me; and she played a major part in my next memory of that time. For I remember looking down and seeing that she really was a red-head just before passing-out on top of her (she later told me that I was not very good).
After she finally got me woke-up: I proceeded to take her home, which required driving through a part of Cassville; and I then received a huge break from one of my parents' mortal enemies (at least on their part) who was a Cassville City Policeman at the time. For I am quite sure that I would have melted a breathalizer if he had of wanted me to blow into one; but he was only interested in what I had to say about my earlier fight with that lady's fence. After promising to fix it as soon as possible, and also promising to go straight home after taking the fair lass with me home: he let me go; and I did just exactly what I promised.
Unbeknownst unto the nice policeman: what I considered to be my home was the Branding Iron in Joplin at the time; and being there on a busy Saturday night constitutes the last memories that I have of my infamous 3-day drunk. For I remember starting to play pool, and then being told that I had run the table 3 games in a row (never done before, nor since) before I just quit playing, and then being carried-out of the door by the manager and a part-time bartender while protesting that I did not want to go to bed.
When I woke-up early Sunday morning (around 7 AM, I think): I knew that my rampage was over. For I never felt so alone, so utterly empty, in my life up until that point.
I also felt like I was freezing to death: despite it still being in August (I think). For they had put me to bed in the cab of my truck; and my clothes felt wet enough to wring-out.
No, I do not believe that the moister could have been from the early stages of detoxification. For I would think that a person would have to be a lot more "dried-out" than I was before the diabolical "detox-sweats" set-in.
Aside from all of that: I knew that I was still in trouble. For I was in desperate need of a shoulder to cry-on; and I knew just where to go to find one.
No, there was never anything romantic (let alone: sexual) between us (not from lack of trying on my part). For it was not that kind of a relationship; but by the time of my crash and burn: I had grown to love the manager of the Branding Iron as much as I possibly could.
Thankfully: the feelings were mutual. For I do believe that I would have (at least) tried to kill myself if it had not of been for her concern.
Regretably: her counsel was not without cost unto herself. For it was probably because of extensive water damage from my tears that she and her daughter had to move from where they lived a few months after she let me have my big cry.
Alas, I have often wondered if Alfred Lord Tennyson was just making an attempt to contribute unto the greater good of the British Empire when he borrowed a quotation from Saint Augustine and waxed poetic: Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. You know: "keep a stiff upper-lip"; and other "stuff" like that.
On the other hand: maybe he was not so unlike Mr. Shakespeare in sentiment? For it has been my experience that losing at love really SUCKS!!! I mean: it REALLY, REALLY SUCKS; and I do believe that I am very much not alone in that.
Substantiation of my position was not hard to find. For my dear manger of the Branding Iron had more experience with the matter than I did. Therefore: I took it to heart that she was most likely correct in suggesting that a change of scenery just might do me a lot of good.
No, it is not at all true that I turned my back on my children and just walked away. For there was not a day back then (nor has there been since) when I did not miss my girls terribly; but since there was always a lot of friction between Sam and I whenever I did come-by to be with them: I believed that it was truly in their best interest for me to stay away from them for awhile.
Yes, it could be said that it was also in my best interest. For it was like pouring salt into an open wound each and every time I saw Sam and my girls; but be assured that my motives were pure. For I did not want my girls to have to endure what so many other children of divorced parents had; and I hoped that they would come to understand and forgive me in time.
Anyway: I did not go far (just 120 miles or so north-northwest of Joplin); but it was still like a foreign country unto me. For I was quite unfamiliar with the Garnett, KS area: even though it was just 15 nautical miles northwest of Blue Mound (where my father grew-up).
Thankfully: there were a couple a familiar faces around. For I had went up there with a friend from Washburn, MO (around 8 miles south of Cassville) to work for a former boss of mine at Wells Aluminum in Cassville.
Talk about having a time: we did. For we lived out of the back of Bill's (from Washburn) pick-up truck from the first of September (I think) until the end of October; and the beer flowed at a steady stream.
Around the first of November (1984): we moved into a motel room at a weekly rate; and it was also around then that we started entertaining some guests. For Bill hooked-up with a mighty fine-looking lady who liked his sense of style a lot more than anyone else did (he would sometimes wear a purple leisure-suit with a yellow ruffled shirt to work); and I found myself more and more in the company of a blonde-haired (truly) wildcat by the name of Robin.
No, there was not anything sexual going-on between Robin and I while we still worked together at the aluminum window and door factory that Bob managed. For I was just a shoulder for her to cry-on after her live-in boyfriend got through beating the snot out of her.
Yes, I would have very much liked to have been her knight in shining armor; but she would not tell me where she lived, nor anywhere else I might find her tormentor. Therefore: I had to settle for doing what I had been doing; and that seemed to be enough for her for the time being.
Quite suddenly: all of that changed after being knocked-out during a particularly savage beating. For she finally agreed to go down to Cassville with me to meet my mother and brother over the Thanksgiving Day holiday; and we became a couple at that time.
Now, to say that my mother and brother were somewhat less than impressed with Robin would be another understatement. For they did not know what to think about someone (who was only 5'2" and a hundred pounds soaking wet) who could drink almost as much as I could; and a not so subtle dislike for her developed into open animosity virtually over-night.
No, they were not the only ones who felt that way. For a number of my friends also had a bad feeling about her.
None of that really mattered unto me at the time, however. For she was quite dedicated unto satisfying my "needs" in ways that I did not know were possible; and on December 21, 1984: Robin and I were married in a small ceremony in my mother's living room.
Yes, it was very nice of my mother to let us get married there. For she was certainly not under any sort of obligation to do so: not even a strictly moral one in accordance unto the rules of engagement governing family interaction after I failed to be there for her when my father died; and I am quite sure that her extreme dislike for Robin did not make it any easier for her.
At least she got the last laugh about the matter. For I finally succumbed unto the pressure from so many around me to take Robin back to Kansas and leave her there. Some even went as far as to express concern over there being something rather "unholy" about her; and this was coming from people who could take our Heavenly Father's name in vain while swallowing a mouthful of beer!!!
No, Robin did not want to go back to Kansas. Neither did she want me to go anywhere without her. For she really did love me.
Nonetheless: I had made-up my mind to leave her far behind; and I truly believed that I did indeed have some good reasons for doing so. For I had come to better understand why Robin was getting beat-up on a fairly regular basis by her boyfriend back in Garnett; but I still regretted my decision later-on.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
TCC: The Seventh Crumb, Part II
The date was the 28th of April, 1977. For Sam had turned 18 on the 8th of April.
Yes, most would think that it was all so very sudden; but they would have no idea of just how long I had waited. For according unto my internal clock at the time: a day felt like a thousand years; and I honestly believed that we were ready.
Well, I was half right. For Sam was a great wife from the very beginning. Whereas: I could not do much of anything right.
Alas, the magic appeared to be gone. For almost everything I touched would turn into....fertilizer.
Even though she did not say much: it must have been a nightmare for Sam. For instead of getting a man who would quickly make her life in Gaddis Holler seem like a distant memory: she got a drowning boy who had no idea where the shore was.
An early example of the madness that Sam faced was my decision to join the Army less than a month after we got married. For the only advantage that I gained from my ROTC experience at Mizzou was being able to start-out as an E-2 instead of a E-1.
Oh yes, it was a sad situation. For I believed the recruiter in Monett (around 20 miles north of Cassville) when he assured me that Sam would be allowed to join me on base at Ft. Jackson in Columbia, SC after Basic Training was complete. For Ft. Jackson was where I would also receive my Advanced Individual Training (AIT).
No, what he assured me of was not necessarily a lie. For I really could have had my wife join me on base after Basic was over.
On the other hand: it was in what he failed to mention where the problem was. For it all depended upon the availability of on-base housing; and at the time: none would be available for almost a year.
I also believed the recruiter when he told me that I did not need to specify which unit I would like to join after Basic and AIT was completed since I would surely be granted permission to stay at Ft. Jackson until I completed my degree from the University of South Carolina; and that was not all. For he also assured me that the Army would pay for my bachelor's degree; and would then send me unto any law school that would accept me!!!
Yes, I swallowed the bait: hook, line and sinker. In fact: I even spent some time in serious thought about whether I wanted to attend law school at Duke (in Durham, NC) or at Virginia (in Charlottesville, VA) or at Harvard (in Cambridge, MA).
Much unto my chagrin: those thoughts of law schools went by the wayside when I was ordered to attend a meeting of those in the current training cycle who did not have a pre-approved unit to join after Basic and AIT was done with; and that was also when I no longer wanted to be a soldier. For the choice that I was given to make was between joining the 2nd Infantry Division (in South Korea) or the 82nd Airborne Division (in Ft. Bragg, NC); and neither location would have any on-base housing available for quite some time.
Be assured that I was absolutely terrified. For I felt like a rat in a discarded 4" sewer pipe with traps set at both ends.
Surprisingly: it was my father who came unto my rescue. For he was the one who informed the U.S. Congressman for the 7th District of Missouri about my recruiters assurances; and about 2 weeks later: I found myself stepping-off of an airplane at the Lambert International Airport in St. Louis, MO with an Honorable Discharge in my suitcase.
Sadly: I was more appreciative of Congressman Gene Taylor's efforts on my behalf than those of my father's at the time. For like what was said before: holding grudges comes quite naturally unto my family.
No, I am not at all proud of my appalling behavior back then. Neither am I proud of getting out of the Army after only 6 weeks of being in. In fact: I have felt a deep sense of shame ever since; but at the time: I just could not see the benefit of setting myself up to receive a "Dear Jerry" letter before I even had a chance to experience what it was really like to be married.
On the other hand: there were some bright spots unto my brief stay in the military. For I passed the 2-Mile Run Test with a time of just over 11 minutes (16 minutes was the cut-off, I think); and I placed 2nd in my training company with 51 knees bent-hands behind the head sit-ups in a minute. I was also one of two who qualified for a Military Driver's License out of 70 who applied.
It was, however, that Military Driver's License that got me into some very scary situations. For there was one night (after he was informed of my desire to leave his kind of life behind) that my main Drill Sergeant had me drive him out past where the crickets dared to tread: all the while talking about how much he learned about killing from his Special Forces training; and with that insignia on his sleeves: I had no reason to doubt what he was telling me.
There was also another night when I was assigned as the driver for the Non-Commissioned Officer of the Day (NCOD) after being kept awake for over 3 days that had the potential to become problematic. For I fell asleep at my post, which was a desk in front of the door unto where the NCOD was sleeping; and I awoke unto someone asking me if I was asleep.
My answer was, of course: NO DRILL SERGEANT; and thankfully that was all there was unto it. For the person who asked me such a silly question was a Major.
Oh yeah, I was just reminded of a couple of other things about my time at Ft. Jackson that are worth mentioning. For I had the great honor and privilege of meeting the Command Sergeant Major of the Army at the time while I was down there; and I also "found" Jesus "again" out there on that dusty road with my main Drill Sergeant.
Skeptical? Well, how could I have survived such an encounter without Him?
Yes, it was a reunion of sorts. For at the tender age of 7: I went forward to announce my acceptance of the Lord Jesus Christ as being my own personal Savior at the First (Southern) Baptist Church of Shell Knob; and I was subsequently baptized in Table Rock Lake around a hundred yards (I think) from our house near the Central Crossing Bridge.
Just as a side-note: I used to joke about Terry being a better Christian than me. For I was baptized in the fairly warm waters of the lake during the month of September. Whereas: Terry was baptized in the 38 degree waters of Roaring River during the month of March.
Perhaps it was not that much of a joke. For after attending church on an extremely regular basis for almost 19 years: I rarely attended services after I left for Mizzou.
No, my stellar attendance record was not just the result of my parents dragging me to church kicking and screaming. For it was another place where I really shined; and I thoroughly enjoyed the attention.
Yes, it could be said that I was very religious for the most part; and that served me well at Ft. Jackson: be assured. For what I felt down there was all too painfully familiar unto me. For I had "heard" His call unto the ministry before.
No, I cannot remember just how many times I had felt like I was being called to serve; and I do not have a good reason for why I was always so reluctant to answer those calls. For I had read the Bible completely through 5 times before I graduated high school; and I had been teaching Sunday School classes for years.
I suppose that it was mostly about personal financial gains. For I knew of Oral Roberts back then; but I had no idea just how much money there really was out there for a charismatic minister to gather unto himself (all in the name of the Lord, of course).
My circumstances at Ft. Jackson were different, however. For I could not see where I was in any position to bargain.
Nonetheless: is it not funny how a change of scenery can often change the way we look at our circumstances? Maybe not for all; but it has worked like that for me occasionally.
One of those occasions occurred when I stepped-off of that airplane in St. Louis. For instead of being engulfed in a dark cloud full of doom and gloom: I could see the sun shining ever so brightly.
Subsequently: I felt like I really did have some options to explore; and I wound-up enrolling for the 1977 Fall Semester at Southwest Baptist in Bolivar, MO (around 75 miles northeast of Cassville). For I had heard that preachers with appropriate degrees made more money than those without any papers.
Alas, such are the plans of the foolish. For I only lasted about 3 months in Bolivar; and my very supportive wife had to suffer through another failure of mine.
One good thing did come out of the summer/fall of 1977 for us. For Vicki Lynn was conceived; and on the 18th of May, 1978: our daughter was born at St. John's Hospital in Springfield, MO.
No, the birth of our daughter was not as joyous of an occasion as it should have been. For Sam's doctor did not show-up until it was time to cut the umbilical cord; and this resulted in her having to endure a "natural" child-birth. For the nurses in attendance said that they were not allowed to administer any drugs until the doctor told them to; and what made a bad situation even worse was that Vicki weighed-in at 10 pounds 4 ounces!!!
Yes, Sam suffered greatly from fourth degree lacerations; and St. John's did not do much to make it feel all better. For after I thought I had met the most sadistic somebody to ever work in a hospital: another nurse would then come in and make the other one look like the epitome of kindness.
On the other hand: the problem may have been all with my way of looking at things. For I had not received any sort of medical training, except for some advanced first-aid classes while in the Boy Scouts. Therefore: it would not be all that unreasonable to think that I must not have any idea what "Do No Harm" really means.
Nonetheless: one look at Vicki's full head of very dark brown hair (3-4" long) made it all worthwhile; and there was something about holding her in my arms that made time stand still. For she was such a good baby.
Then: complications arose. For it was discovered that Vicki's hips had been dislocated during her birth; and she would have to stay in a double-brace for awhile in order to insure that they would stay in their proper place as she grew-up.
Yes, the news was devastating; but it wound-up being just another brush with disaster. For Vicki came out of the brace with a clean bill of health; and in what seemed like no time at all: she was walking and running all over the place with youthful abandon.
As expected: Sam was a wonderful mother. For she had already had a lot of experience in that area from helping to raise her younger siblings.
What was not expected was how much I was able to help her. For Sam already knew about me being thoroughly domesticated by my parents; but what she did not know was that my extensive "home-training" also included changing diapers and feeding babies.
Neither did I. For I was too young to be of any help unto my parents with that sort of stuff while Terry was a baby; but it all came quite naturally unto me. That is: except for always being afraid of sticking Vicki with a diaper pin.
Speaking of my parents: the birth of their first grandchild smoothed a lot of ruffled feathers; and Sam had a lot to do with that. For she made it crystal clear that they were more than welcome to spend time with Vicki whenever they wanted to; and that touched them deeply.
Yes, some things were most definitely looking-up. Others were not. For I was of a lot of help in a lot of areas; but in the area of providing for my family: I was generally a miserable failure.
No, it was not for lack of trying. For I never went more than 8 days without a dependable source of income; but I would not stay anywhere long enough to maintain a reasonable level of financial stability.
Oh what a foolish boy was I. For my inability to hold a job for longer than just a few weeks came from thinking that I was too good to do this or that.
On the other hand: having 30 some jobs in the first 4 years of our marriage allowed me to gain knowledge about an awful lot of things. For I worked as a machine shop worker, welding inspector, precision flange lay-out designer, cattle rancher, pork producer, cab driver, advertising sales representative, saw-miller, hay hauler, brush cutter, convenience store attendant, truck stop attendant, tire repairer, mobile home sales manager, chicken plant worker, electrical motor factory worker and inspector, fishing fly-tier, feed mill worker, and pastor of a Southern Baptist Church.
Yes, I kept my promise unto the Lord by becoming a permanently-licensed minister through the sponsorship of the First (Southern) Baptist Church of Cassville in 1978 (I think); and I even saw some success in the 2 years that I served as the pastor of the Twin Valley (Southern) Baptist Church, which was located at the top of the hill going down into Gaddis Holler in sight of Lohmar Tower (Forest Fire Watch Tower seasonally-manned by the MO Forestry Department). For the average Sunday morning attendance rose from 5 unto 35; and this was in the middle of a Pentecostal stronghold!!!
No, I did not accept ordination. For I felt unworthy of such a charge; and it did not appear to be a hindrance. For as a permanently-licensed minister: I could legally perform marriage ceremonies; and business was fairly good for a period of time.
All in all: I resided over 14 ceremonies. For I was willing to marry people whom other ministers would not touch.
No, it was not that I had little respect for the institution of marriage. Neither was it an act of rebellion. For I just did not consider myself as being qualified to pass judgment upon the intentions of others.
Anyway: one of the marriage ceremonies that I performed involved 2 couples, with the youngest of them being 70 years old, who wanted to be married in the sunshine at the Monett City Park. Another one was held at the mouth of Rockhouse Cave.
Speaking of Rockhouse Cave: Darrel Greenstreet lived a mile or so down the road unto the east from it. In fact: he was the one who introduced me unto Larry Tyler and his blushing bride.
Now, to say that Darrel was an interesting character would be quite an understatement. For his I.Q. (Intelligence Quotient) had to be over 200; and he was well-versed in a number of subjects: including religion and philosophy.
He was also a Marine Corps Vietnam Vet; and this contributed greatly unto an evening that I do not believe that I will ever forget. For while we were walking back unto his house to get his tractor to pull my pick-up truck (not the same one that I had in high school) out of a snow-bank: Darrel told me that the most valuable thing that he learned in Vietnam was how to hate.
In response: I informed him that I also knew how to hate. Unto which: he retorted that I was sorely mistaken; and then he proceeded to make his point by asking me what I would do if my worst enemy was drowning in full view of his wife and 4 small children, who were begging me to save him, which could be accomplished by simply reaching down and pulling him out of the water.
Talk about being surreal: the surrounding landscape was blanketed with a foot of pure white snow. A very bright full moon was shining down, which made it look much more like day than night; and there I was with this fairly small man (around 5'8", I think), with a foot-long beard and a pipe full of tobacco, jumping about 3 feet off the ground while screaming: "I would stomp on his head", after hearing me admit that I would seek to save my worst enemy, even if only for the sake of his family.
If I remember right: I wet myself; and that gave us both a laugh. A little later on: Darrel asked me another question; and the mood turned decidedly more somber. For what he asked was about why a loving God would let a bus-load of little children die in an accident if He could do anything about it.
I was absolutely stumped; but I had to say something. For I was, after all, the pastor of a church.
Therefore: I fell back on a patented response that is often given when faced with an inexplicable question. This was, of course: "Well, I am sure that He has His reasons".
Is it not brilliant? For it neither concedes that God cannot really do much; nor denies that He is indeed full of lovingkindness. It also alludes unto His mysterious ways; and that should be enough for anyone with a semblance of reason unto themselves.
That is: except for Darrel; and this really haunted me. For I felt like such a failure; but before I could devote more time unto the salvation of his soul: I had much more pressing matters to attend unto.
Yes, life had been going on; and things had been going from bad to worse. For we were drowning in debt; and the only lifeboat in sight at the time was bankruptcy.
The year was 1981; and we initially tried to file under Chaper 13 Bankruptcy Protection. For that would allow Sam and I to keep what we had; and pay far less per month for it.
The lawyer that we hired to handle our case was corrupt, however. For he did not disclose unto us that he was on retainer for a number of our creditors; and by the time "they" got through with us: we were required to pay over $400 per month MORE!!!
So: that left us with only one option; and that was to re-file under Chapter 7, which constitutes a liquidation of assets. For if we could not afford to make our payments before: we certainly could not do so after we got ambushed.
1981 was also the year when Terry graduated from Cassville High School; and soon after that: our father died. For he had been given only a few weeks to live in November of 1980 because of the kind of cancer that had ravaged his lungs (14 years after quitting smoking); but he was granted his wish to stay alive long enough to see Terry's diploma.
Yes, my father and I had put a lot of our past problems behind us by the fall of 1980. In fact: I would often drive him to and from his appointments at the VA Hospitals in Fayetteville, AR and Kansas City, MO; but when he wanted me around the most: I was off with Sam on a float trip down the Buffalo River in Arkansas, which was where my mother had spent most of her earliest years.
No, I was not there when my father passed away in that state hospital in Mt. Vernon, MO (around 40 miles north of Cassville and around 8 miles south of Miller). For I just could not face that look of deep disappointment upon his face while he lay on his death-bed.
Hence: another thing about my past that I am deeply ashamed of. For I was simply too gutless to be there for my family when I could have been of some comfort unto them.
As with 1977: one good thing did come out of 1981 for Sam and I. For Amanda Marie was conceived in that year; and on the 21st of May, 1982: our second daughter was born at the Cox Medical Center on the northside of Springfield, MO.
Thankfully: Amanda's birth was nothing like Vicki's. For she "only" weighted 8 pounds flat; and Sam was given all sorts of good drugs because of her doctor being there when he should have been.
Nonetheless: I would have still liked to have had some "good" drugs of my own. For unlike before: I was allowed in the delivery room this time.
Yes, I truly believed that I could handle it. For I had assisted with the births of calves, pigs, and even rabbits; but I quickly discovered that I was not at all prepared for Amanda coming out blue with a bunch of really icky-looking stuff smeared all over her.
No, I did not faint; and I began to feel so much better after being told that Amanda would not have to endure what Vicki did after her birth. For everything about Amanda was right where it was supposed to be.
The subsequent hospital stay was also a lot better this time; and it included care for another procedure: to boot. For Sam had her tubes tied after Amanda was born.
Finally: a legitimate reason to celebrate. For the birth of Amanda really was a joyous occasion; and what made it even better was that we had thought that we had lost her during the 6th month of Sam's pregnancy.
Talk about being scared: I was absolutely terrified (again). For blood started gushing-out of Sam; and by the time I got her unto the hospital in Springfield: at least a half of an inch of blood covered the floor beneath her feet.
Since I had called her doctor before we left home: he was waiting for us at the hospital; and after a preliminary examination: he confirmed our fears by telling us that Sam had indeed suffered a miscarriage. He then directed a nurse to do a sonogram on her, which is standard procedure before performing a DNC, which cleans out the womb; and there Amanda was.
No, I did not see her at first. For my attention was focused upon another image in the picture; but after she was pointed-out unto me: it became clear that Amanda was very much still alive.
I have often joked that Amanda must have been literally "hanging-on for dear life"
as all of that blood rushed past her; but then there was also the matter of that image of a man's face in that sonogram picture of her while she was still in the womb to consider. For was it the face of Jesus, or a guardian angel, or just a figment of my fertile imagination???
It was enough to drive a Southern Baptist preacher to drink; and I felt like it was only right for me to do that very thing: despite no longer being active as a Southern Baptist preacher. For there is nothing like being in a drunken stupor to mellow a person out.
Yes, common sense would dictate that the last thing that I should have been doing was getting drunk. For there were plenty of examples of that kind of conduct leading unto disaster; but since I only got wild on the weekends: I saw no reason for concern.
Besides: Sam really enjoyed going-out on the weekends to dance and forget about what a mess I had made of her life for a few hours; and after we got hooked-up with some others from the Cassville area: the fun did not have to end when the band called-it a night. For we then started to observe the universal tradition of eating breakfast before going home; and this was usually good for a few more laughs.
Alas, good times have a habit of coming unto an end; and such was the fate of our merry band. For after Pulaskiville had to close for awhile: there was not another place to go within a reasonable distance to travel.
No, we did not stay home for long. For we hooked-up with another group; and this one was even more fun. For instead of going dancing: we would go rambling through the backwoods in 4-wheel drive and off-road vehicles while consuming massive quantities of beer and other adult beverages.
Well, maybe for some; but not for most in our group. For a case of beer was often consumed by each of the fellas; and rare was the day when anyone got too much out of control.
Yes, I am quit sure that most of us would have qualified for a MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) Top Ten Most Wanted List if such a thing existed back then; but none of us would have really cared. For we were charter members of DAMM (Drunks Against Mad Mothers) in our area; and since we did not get into any trouble to speak of: we thought that we were all doing just fine.
Some better than others. For I lost my family unto one of the members of our group.
No, I could not really blame her. For with all things considered: I was miserable failure as a good husband.
Nonetheless: the timing of our break-up really messed with my head. For I had been working at the same job for about 3 years; and in comparison unto what it was like the first 4 years of our marriage: we were doing fairly good.
Perhaps the "7 Year Itch" syndrome also effects women? For Sam and I had been married 7 years and 7 days when the end came.
On the other hand: maybe where we lived at the time had something to do with it? For it was called the "Heartbreak Hotel" by those who knew about the history of the house. For no couple, who actually lived there, had ever left the place still a couple: including the original owners. For the husband (I think) died while they lived there; and I truly wanted to join him after it became all too painfully clear unto me that life as I wanted to know it was over on the 5th of May, 1984.
Yes, most would think that it was all so very sudden; but they would have no idea of just how long I had waited. For according unto my internal clock at the time: a day felt like a thousand years; and I honestly believed that we were ready.
Well, I was half right. For Sam was a great wife from the very beginning. Whereas: I could not do much of anything right.
Alas, the magic appeared to be gone. For almost everything I touched would turn into....fertilizer.
Even though she did not say much: it must have been a nightmare for Sam. For instead of getting a man who would quickly make her life in Gaddis Holler seem like a distant memory: she got a drowning boy who had no idea where the shore was.
An early example of the madness that Sam faced was my decision to join the Army less than a month after we got married. For the only advantage that I gained from my ROTC experience at Mizzou was being able to start-out as an E-2 instead of a E-1.
Oh yes, it was a sad situation. For I believed the recruiter in Monett (around 20 miles north of Cassville) when he assured me that Sam would be allowed to join me on base at Ft. Jackson in Columbia, SC after Basic Training was complete. For Ft. Jackson was where I would also receive my Advanced Individual Training (AIT).
No, what he assured me of was not necessarily a lie. For I really could have had my wife join me on base after Basic was over.
On the other hand: it was in what he failed to mention where the problem was. For it all depended upon the availability of on-base housing; and at the time: none would be available for almost a year.
I also believed the recruiter when he told me that I did not need to specify which unit I would like to join after Basic and AIT was completed since I would surely be granted permission to stay at Ft. Jackson until I completed my degree from the University of South Carolina; and that was not all. For he also assured me that the Army would pay for my bachelor's degree; and would then send me unto any law school that would accept me!!!
Yes, I swallowed the bait: hook, line and sinker. In fact: I even spent some time in serious thought about whether I wanted to attend law school at Duke (in Durham, NC) or at Virginia (in Charlottesville, VA) or at Harvard (in Cambridge, MA).
Much unto my chagrin: those thoughts of law schools went by the wayside when I was ordered to attend a meeting of those in the current training cycle who did not have a pre-approved unit to join after Basic and AIT was done with; and that was also when I no longer wanted to be a soldier. For the choice that I was given to make was between joining the 2nd Infantry Division (in South Korea) or the 82nd Airborne Division (in Ft. Bragg, NC); and neither location would have any on-base housing available for quite some time.
Be assured that I was absolutely terrified. For I felt like a rat in a discarded 4" sewer pipe with traps set at both ends.
Surprisingly: it was my father who came unto my rescue. For he was the one who informed the U.S. Congressman for the 7th District of Missouri about my recruiters assurances; and about 2 weeks later: I found myself stepping-off of an airplane at the Lambert International Airport in St. Louis, MO with an Honorable Discharge in my suitcase.
Sadly: I was more appreciative of Congressman Gene Taylor's efforts on my behalf than those of my father's at the time. For like what was said before: holding grudges comes quite naturally unto my family.
No, I am not at all proud of my appalling behavior back then. Neither am I proud of getting out of the Army after only 6 weeks of being in. In fact: I have felt a deep sense of shame ever since; but at the time: I just could not see the benefit of setting myself up to receive a "Dear Jerry" letter before I even had a chance to experience what it was really like to be married.
On the other hand: there were some bright spots unto my brief stay in the military. For I passed the 2-Mile Run Test with a time of just over 11 minutes (16 minutes was the cut-off, I think); and I placed 2nd in my training company with 51 knees bent-hands behind the head sit-ups in a minute. I was also one of two who qualified for a Military Driver's License out of 70 who applied.
It was, however, that Military Driver's License that got me into some very scary situations. For there was one night (after he was informed of my desire to leave his kind of life behind) that my main Drill Sergeant had me drive him out past where the crickets dared to tread: all the while talking about how much he learned about killing from his Special Forces training; and with that insignia on his sleeves: I had no reason to doubt what he was telling me.
There was also another night when I was assigned as the driver for the Non-Commissioned Officer of the Day (NCOD) after being kept awake for over 3 days that had the potential to become problematic. For I fell asleep at my post, which was a desk in front of the door unto where the NCOD was sleeping; and I awoke unto someone asking me if I was asleep.
My answer was, of course: NO DRILL SERGEANT; and thankfully that was all there was unto it. For the person who asked me such a silly question was a Major.
Oh yeah, I was just reminded of a couple of other things about my time at Ft. Jackson that are worth mentioning. For I had the great honor and privilege of meeting the Command Sergeant Major of the Army at the time while I was down there; and I also "found" Jesus "again" out there on that dusty road with my main Drill Sergeant.
Skeptical? Well, how could I have survived such an encounter without Him?
Yes, it was a reunion of sorts. For at the tender age of 7: I went forward to announce my acceptance of the Lord Jesus Christ as being my own personal Savior at the First (Southern) Baptist Church of Shell Knob; and I was subsequently baptized in Table Rock Lake around a hundred yards (I think) from our house near the Central Crossing Bridge.
Just as a side-note: I used to joke about Terry being a better Christian than me. For I was baptized in the fairly warm waters of the lake during the month of September. Whereas: Terry was baptized in the 38 degree waters of Roaring River during the month of March.
Perhaps it was not that much of a joke. For after attending church on an extremely regular basis for almost 19 years: I rarely attended services after I left for Mizzou.
No, my stellar attendance record was not just the result of my parents dragging me to church kicking and screaming. For it was another place where I really shined; and I thoroughly enjoyed the attention.
Yes, it could be said that I was very religious for the most part; and that served me well at Ft. Jackson: be assured. For what I felt down there was all too painfully familiar unto me. For I had "heard" His call unto the ministry before.
No, I cannot remember just how many times I had felt like I was being called to serve; and I do not have a good reason for why I was always so reluctant to answer those calls. For I had read the Bible completely through 5 times before I graduated high school; and I had been teaching Sunday School classes for years.
I suppose that it was mostly about personal financial gains. For I knew of Oral Roberts back then; but I had no idea just how much money there really was out there for a charismatic minister to gather unto himself (all in the name of the Lord, of course).
My circumstances at Ft. Jackson were different, however. For I could not see where I was in any position to bargain.
Nonetheless: is it not funny how a change of scenery can often change the way we look at our circumstances? Maybe not for all; but it has worked like that for me occasionally.
One of those occasions occurred when I stepped-off of that airplane in St. Louis. For instead of being engulfed in a dark cloud full of doom and gloom: I could see the sun shining ever so brightly.
Subsequently: I felt like I really did have some options to explore; and I wound-up enrolling for the 1977 Fall Semester at Southwest Baptist in Bolivar, MO (around 75 miles northeast of Cassville). For I had heard that preachers with appropriate degrees made more money than those without any papers.
Alas, such are the plans of the foolish. For I only lasted about 3 months in Bolivar; and my very supportive wife had to suffer through another failure of mine.
One good thing did come out of the summer/fall of 1977 for us. For Vicki Lynn was conceived; and on the 18th of May, 1978: our daughter was born at St. John's Hospital in Springfield, MO.
No, the birth of our daughter was not as joyous of an occasion as it should have been. For Sam's doctor did not show-up until it was time to cut the umbilical cord; and this resulted in her having to endure a "natural" child-birth. For the nurses in attendance said that they were not allowed to administer any drugs until the doctor told them to; and what made a bad situation even worse was that Vicki weighed-in at 10 pounds 4 ounces!!!
Yes, Sam suffered greatly from fourth degree lacerations; and St. John's did not do much to make it feel all better. For after I thought I had met the most sadistic somebody to ever work in a hospital: another nurse would then come in and make the other one look like the epitome of kindness.
On the other hand: the problem may have been all with my way of looking at things. For I had not received any sort of medical training, except for some advanced first-aid classes while in the Boy Scouts. Therefore: it would not be all that unreasonable to think that I must not have any idea what "Do No Harm" really means.
Nonetheless: one look at Vicki's full head of very dark brown hair (3-4" long) made it all worthwhile; and there was something about holding her in my arms that made time stand still. For she was such a good baby.
Then: complications arose. For it was discovered that Vicki's hips had been dislocated during her birth; and she would have to stay in a double-brace for awhile in order to insure that they would stay in their proper place as she grew-up.
Yes, the news was devastating; but it wound-up being just another brush with disaster. For Vicki came out of the brace with a clean bill of health; and in what seemed like no time at all: she was walking and running all over the place with youthful abandon.
As expected: Sam was a wonderful mother. For she had already had a lot of experience in that area from helping to raise her younger siblings.
What was not expected was how much I was able to help her. For Sam already knew about me being thoroughly domesticated by my parents; but what she did not know was that my extensive "home-training" also included changing diapers and feeding babies.
Neither did I. For I was too young to be of any help unto my parents with that sort of stuff while Terry was a baby; but it all came quite naturally unto me. That is: except for always being afraid of sticking Vicki with a diaper pin.
Speaking of my parents: the birth of their first grandchild smoothed a lot of ruffled feathers; and Sam had a lot to do with that. For she made it crystal clear that they were more than welcome to spend time with Vicki whenever they wanted to; and that touched them deeply.
Yes, some things were most definitely looking-up. Others were not. For I was of a lot of help in a lot of areas; but in the area of providing for my family: I was generally a miserable failure.
No, it was not for lack of trying. For I never went more than 8 days without a dependable source of income; but I would not stay anywhere long enough to maintain a reasonable level of financial stability.
Oh what a foolish boy was I. For my inability to hold a job for longer than just a few weeks came from thinking that I was too good to do this or that.
On the other hand: having 30 some jobs in the first 4 years of our marriage allowed me to gain knowledge about an awful lot of things. For I worked as a machine shop worker, welding inspector, precision flange lay-out designer, cattle rancher, pork producer, cab driver, advertising sales representative, saw-miller, hay hauler, brush cutter, convenience store attendant, truck stop attendant, tire repairer, mobile home sales manager, chicken plant worker, electrical motor factory worker and inspector, fishing fly-tier, feed mill worker, and pastor of a Southern Baptist Church.
Yes, I kept my promise unto the Lord by becoming a permanently-licensed minister through the sponsorship of the First (Southern) Baptist Church of Cassville in 1978 (I think); and I even saw some success in the 2 years that I served as the pastor of the Twin Valley (Southern) Baptist Church, which was located at the top of the hill going down into Gaddis Holler in sight of Lohmar Tower (Forest Fire Watch Tower seasonally-manned by the MO Forestry Department). For the average Sunday morning attendance rose from 5 unto 35; and this was in the middle of a Pentecostal stronghold!!!
No, I did not accept ordination. For I felt unworthy of such a charge; and it did not appear to be a hindrance. For as a permanently-licensed minister: I could legally perform marriage ceremonies; and business was fairly good for a period of time.
All in all: I resided over 14 ceremonies. For I was willing to marry people whom other ministers would not touch.
No, it was not that I had little respect for the institution of marriage. Neither was it an act of rebellion. For I just did not consider myself as being qualified to pass judgment upon the intentions of others.
Anyway: one of the marriage ceremonies that I performed involved 2 couples, with the youngest of them being 70 years old, who wanted to be married in the sunshine at the Monett City Park. Another one was held at the mouth of Rockhouse Cave.
Speaking of Rockhouse Cave: Darrel Greenstreet lived a mile or so down the road unto the east from it. In fact: he was the one who introduced me unto Larry Tyler and his blushing bride.
Now, to say that Darrel was an interesting character would be quite an understatement. For his I.Q. (Intelligence Quotient) had to be over 200; and he was well-versed in a number of subjects: including religion and philosophy.
He was also a Marine Corps Vietnam Vet; and this contributed greatly unto an evening that I do not believe that I will ever forget. For while we were walking back unto his house to get his tractor to pull my pick-up truck (not the same one that I had in high school) out of a snow-bank: Darrel told me that the most valuable thing that he learned in Vietnam was how to hate.
In response: I informed him that I also knew how to hate. Unto which: he retorted that I was sorely mistaken; and then he proceeded to make his point by asking me what I would do if my worst enemy was drowning in full view of his wife and 4 small children, who were begging me to save him, which could be accomplished by simply reaching down and pulling him out of the water.
Talk about being surreal: the surrounding landscape was blanketed with a foot of pure white snow. A very bright full moon was shining down, which made it look much more like day than night; and there I was with this fairly small man (around 5'8", I think), with a foot-long beard and a pipe full of tobacco, jumping about 3 feet off the ground while screaming: "I would stomp on his head", after hearing me admit that I would seek to save my worst enemy, even if only for the sake of his family.
If I remember right: I wet myself; and that gave us both a laugh. A little later on: Darrel asked me another question; and the mood turned decidedly more somber. For what he asked was about why a loving God would let a bus-load of little children die in an accident if He could do anything about it.
I was absolutely stumped; but I had to say something. For I was, after all, the pastor of a church.
Therefore: I fell back on a patented response that is often given when faced with an inexplicable question. This was, of course: "Well, I am sure that He has His reasons".
Is it not brilliant? For it neither concedes that God cannot really do much; nor denies that He is indeed full of lovingkindness. It also alludes unto His mysterious ways; and that should be enough for anyone with a semblance of reason unto themselves.
That is: except for Darrel; and this really haunted me. For I felt like such a failure; but before I could devote more time unto the salvation of his soul: I had much more pressing matters to attend unto.
Yes, life had been going on; and things had been going from bad to worse. For we were drowning in debt; and the only lifeboat in sight at the time was bankruptcy.
The year was 1981; and we initially tried to file under Chaper 13 Bankruptcy Protection. For that would allow Sam and I to keep what we had; and pay far less per month for it.
The lawyer that we hired to handle our case was corrupt, however. For he did not disclose unto us that he was on retainer for a number of our creditors; and by the time "they" got through with us: we were required to pay over $400 per month MORE!!!
So: that left us with only one option; and that was to re-file under Chapter 7, which constitutes a liquidation of assets. For if we could not afford to make our payments before: we certainly could not do so after we got ambushed.
1981 was also the year when Terry graduated from Cassville High School; and soon after that: our father died. For he had been given only a few weeks to live in November of 1980 because of the kind of cancer that had ravaged his lungs (14 years after quitting smoking); but he was granted his wish to stay alive long enough to see Terry's diploma.
Yes, my father and I had put a lot of our past problems behind us by the fall of 1980. In fact: I would often drive him to and from his appointments at the VA Hospitals in Fayetteville, AR and Kansas City, MO; but when he wanted me around the most: I was off with Sam on a float trip down the Buffalo River in Arkansas, which was where my mother had spent most of her earliest years.
No, I was not there when my father passed away in that state hospital in Mt. Vernon, MO (around 40 miles north of Cassville and around 8 miles south of Miller). For I just could not face that look of deep disappointment upon his face while he lay on his death-bed.
Hence: another thing about my past that I am deeply ashamed of. For I was simply too gutless to be there for my family when I could have been of some comfort unto them.
As with 1977: one good thing did come out of 1981 for Sam and I. For Amanda Marie was conceived in that year; and on the 21st of May, 1982: our second daughter was born at the Cox Medical Center on the northside of Springfield, MO.
Thankfully: Amanda's birth was nothing like Vicki's. For she "only" weighted 8 pounds flat; and Sam was given all sorts of good drugs because of her doctor being there when he should have been.
Nonetheless: I would have still liked to have had some "good" drugs of my own. For unlike before: I was allowed in the delivery room this time.
Yes, I truly believed that I could handle it. For I had assisted with the births of calves, pigs, and even rabbits; but I quickly discovered that I was not at all prepared for Amanda coming out blue with a bunch of really icky-looking stuff smeared all over her.
No, I did not faint; and I began to feel so much better after being told that Amanda would not have to endure what Vicki did after her birth. For everything about Amanda was right where it was supposed to be.
The subsequent hospital stay was also a lot better this time; and it included care for another procedure: to boot. For Sam had her tubes tied after Amanda was born.
Finally: a legitimate reason to celebrate. For the birth of Amanda really was a joyous occasion; and what made it even better was that we had thought that we had lost her during the 6th month of Sam's pregnancy.
Talk about being scared: I was absolutely terrified (again). For blood started gushing-out of Sam; and by the time I got her unto the hospital in Springfield: at least a half of an inch of blood covered the floor beneath her feet.
Since I had called her doctor before we left home: he was waiting for us at the hospital; and after a preliminary examination: he confirmed our fears by telling us that Sam had indeed suffered a miscarriage. He then directed a nurse to do a sonogram on her, which is standard procedure before performing a DNC, which cleans out the womb; and there Amanda was.
No, I did not see her at first. For my attention was focused upon another image in the picture; but after she was pointed-out unto me: it became clear that Amanda was very much still alive.
I have often joked that Amanda must have been literally "hanging-on for dear life"
as all of that blood rushed past her; but then there was also the matter of that image of a man's face in that sonogram picture of her while she was still in the womb to consider. For was it the face of Jesus, or a guardian angel, or just a figment of my fertile imagination???
It was enough to drive a Southern Baptist preacher to drink; and I felt like it was only right for me to do that very thing: despite no longer being active as a Southern Baptist preacher. For there is nothing like being in a drunken stupor to mellow a person out.
Yes, common sense would dictate that the last thing that I should have been doing was getting drunk. For there were plenty of examples of that kind of conduct leading unto disaster; but since I only got wild on the weekends: I saw no reason for concern.
Besides: Sam really enjoyed going-out on the weekends to dance and forget about what a mess I had made of her life for a few hours; and after we got hooked-up with some others from the Cassville area: the fun did not have to end when the band called-it a night. For we then started to observe the universal tradition of eating breakfast before going home; and this was usually good for a few more laughs.
Alas, good times have a habit of coming unto an end; and such was the fate of our merry band. For after Pulaskiville had to close for awhile: there was not another place to go within a reasonable distance to travel.
No, we did not stay home for long. For we hooked-up with another group; and this one was even more fun. For instead of going dancing: we would go rambling through the backwoods in 4-wheel drive and off-road vehicles while consuming massive quantities of beer and other adult beverages.
Well, maybe for some; but not for most in our group. For a case of beer was often consumed by each of the fellas; and rare was the day when anyone got too much out of control.
Yes, I am quit sure that most of us would have qualified for a MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) Top Ten Most Wanted List if such a thing existed back then; but none of us would have really cared. For we were charter members of DAMM (Drunks Against Mad Mothers) in our area; and since we did not get into any trouble to speak of: we thought that we were all doing just fine.
Some better than others. For I lost my family unto one of the members of our group.
No, I could not really blame her. For with all things considered: I was miserable failure as a good husband.
Nonetheless: the timing of our break-up really messed with my head. For I had been working at the same job for about 3 years; and in comparison unto what it was like the first 4 years of our marriage: we were doing fairly good.
Perhaps the "7 Year Itch" syndrome also effects women? For Sam and I had been married 7 years and 7 days when the end came.
On the other hand: maybe where we lived at the time had something to do with it? For it was called the "Heartbreak Hotel" by those who knew about the history of the house. For no couple, who actually lived there, had ever left the place still a couple: including the original owners. For the husband (I think) died while they lived there; and I truly wanted to join him after it became all too painfully clear unto me that life as I wanted to know it was over on the 5th of May, 1984.
TCC: The Seventh Crumb, Part I
Perhaps it is tantamount unto plagiarism; but the opening line of Dickens' "A Tale Of Two Cities" is a perfect description of what I felt in the fall of 1976. For it really was the best of times and the worst of times for me back then.
Yes, I was absolutely ecstatic about Sam's decision to take me back into her heart; but it came at a terrible price. For I had to choose between what was and what could be.
No, none of this account is meant to portray Sam as being rather selfish, nor quite demanding. For it would have been grossly unfair to expect her to have virtually no social life to speak of until "Jerry came a-marchin' home again" with her growing popularity from being a member of Cassville High Schools Pep Squad, which performed choreographed dance routines at their football and basketball games.
Nonetheless: I was still left between the proverbial "rock and a hard place". For I knew that our lives together would greatly suffer if I did not return to school; but since my parents would not allow me to drive my pick-up truck back and forth: I could not return to school without losing Sam.
Yes, I suppose that the smart thing to do would have been to forget about love until I could really afford it. For my future was looking very bright indeed; but my heart would not be denied.
So: I did what needed to be done to survive on my own; and all was going fairly well until I made a very serious error in judgment. For I went unto my old Scoutmaster to ask him for some advice on how to deal with my parents; and he then betrayed me unto them.
No, I should not have blamed him. For he did what he truly believed was in the best interest of all concerned.
Nonetheless: I had trusted him with the knowledge of me no longer being at school in Columbia; and the fall-out from his decision turned-out to be devastating unto all of the parties involved. For the "stuff" really hit the fan that time; and I wound-up being an orphan (for all intents and purposes) for quite awhile.
Since so much damage had been already done: I did not see much of a down-side unto "repossessing" "MY" pick-up truck. For it was not like my parents could get me arrested for Grand Theft Auto.
Yes, I could be said that it was a "hostile take-over" of sorts. For I snuck-up to the place under the cover of darkness; and my parents considered my audacity to be quite outrageous (not to mention: a great insult unto them).
On the other hand: it sure made my life a lot easier. For I no longer had to depend upon the kindness of others to get around.
A case of having my cake and being able to eat it too? For having my truck meant that I could go back to school AND see Sam often enough to keep her appeased: right?
Hardly. For I could not afford to drive back and forth from Columbia without getting a job; and there were not enough hours in a day to pull it off.
Besides: my passion for formal learning had gone into hibernation; and all efforts to revive it were unsuccessful. For I got a "C" in Introductory Electrical Engineering, and a "F" in Introductory Accounting, out of enrolling in a couple of night courses at SMS (Southwest Missouri State, now: Missouri State) in Springfield (around 60 miles northeast of Cassville) for the Spring Semester of 1977.
Ultimately: some good did come out of my futile attempt to continue my education. For my parents were encouraged; but we remained somewhat estranged for the time being.
Talk about being in an uncomfortable position: that is where I found myself in those days. For crossing paths with my parents was unavoidable in such a small town (population: 1,910); and the level of discomfort increased dramatically when I went back to work for Kenneth and Lucille Johnson.
No, I do not doubt that it was just as bad for my parents: especially for my mother. For she was the head of the Sporting Goods Department at Johnson's; and I often challenged her judgment, as well as her authority.
Yes, I was particularly wrong of me to treat her so disrespectfully. For she was still my mother; and she really did know what she was doing at Johnson's: as generations of customers would readily attest unto.
Whether justified or not: I was angry. For I blamed my parents for me being there at work in Cassville instead of being at school in Columbia; and my mother presented me with a rather easy target to hit.
Yes, all the ugliness took much away from the place; but working at Johnson's was still an experience that I have many fond memories of. For the store offered as much merchandise as a standard-sized (not a Supercenter) Wal-Mart did in a third of the floorspace.
Moreover: Johnson's was famous for having a unusually wide variety of items in inventory. In fact: the slogan of the store was "If We Don't Have It, You Don't Need It".
An example of that could have been found in the Sporting Goods Department. For hundreds of different fishing lures hung on the walls; and aside from having all of the most popular types and styles of rifles, pistols and shotguns in all of the most popular calibers: there were also 218 Bees, 22 Hornets, 22 Magnum rifle/20 Gauge shotgun over/unders, Winchester Centennial 30-30's, 30-40 Krags, 45-70's, along with plenty of ammunition for whole lot, of course.
Needless to say: the store was packed unto the rafters; and there was a running joke about not wanting to be in the store when the time for the New Madrid (pronounced: New Madree) Fault in the "bootheel region" of Southeastern Missouri to generate another mammoth earthquake came to pass. For with ceilings of 15 to 20 feet tall: it would take days, maybe even weeks, to dig out.
Ever so slowly: the relationship between my parents and I was improving; but then a "situation" involving my brother threatened to negate all of the progress that had been made. For Terry decided to run-away from home; and I got blamed for his short-lived dash for daylight.
No, I had nothing to do with it; and I tried to be as helpful as I could be unto my parents after he made his escape. For I could have just kept it unto myself that I had a feeling about Terry probably being at one of his friend's house in Butterfield (around 5 miles north of Cassville) if I wanted to cause trouble; but I did what any good older son would do: I ratted-out my little brother.
Yes, Terry was found in Butterfield; but my parents were not in a mood to be grateful for my help. For they had it in their heads that he would have never even thought of doing anything like that if I had not of set such a bad example for him to follow.
No, all was not soon forgiven; let alone: forgotten. For holding grudges comes quite naturally unto my family; but when the time for the wedding came around: my family came around enough to attend.
Yes, I was absolutely ecstatic about Sam's decision to take me back into her heart; but it came at a terrible price. For I had to choose between what was and what could be.
No, none of this account is meant to portray Sam as being rather selfish, nor quite demanding. For it would have been grossly unfair to expect her to have virtually no social life to speak of until "Jerry came a-marchin' home again" with her growing popularity from being a member of Cassville High Schools Pep Squad, which performed choreographed dance routines at their football and basketball games.
Nonetheless: I was still left between the proverbial "rock and a hard place". For I knew that our lives together would greatly suffer if I did not return to school; but since my parents would not allow me to drive my pick-up truck back and forth: I could not return to school without losing Sam.
Yes, I suppose that the smart thing to do would have been to forget about love until I could really afford it. For my future was looking very bright indeed; but my heart would not be denied.
So: I did what needed to be done to survive on my own; and all was going fairly well until I made a very serious error in judgment. For I went unto my old Scoutmaster to ask him for some advice on how to deal with my parents; and he then betrayed me unto them.
No, I should not have blamed him. For he did what he truly believed was in the best interest of all concerned.
Nonetheless: I had trusted him with the knowledge of me no longer being at school in Columbia; and the fall-out from his decision turned-out to be devastating unto all of the parties involved. For the "stuff" really hit the fan that time; and I wound-up being an orphan (for all intents and purposes) for quite awhile.
Since so much damage had been already done: I did not see much of a down-side unto "repossessing" "MY" pick-up truck. For it was not like my parents could get me arrested for Grand Theft Auto.
Yes, I could be said that it was a "hostile take-over" of sorts. For I snuck-up to the place under the cover of darkness; and my parents considered my audacity to be quite outrageous (not to mention: a great insult unto them).
On the other hand: it sure made my life a lot easier. For I no longer had to depend upon the kindness of others to get around.
A case of having my cake and being able to eat it too? For having my truck meant that I could go back to school AND see Sam often enough to keep her appeased: right?
Hardly. For I could not afford to drive back and forth from Columbia without getting a job; and there were not enough hours in a day to pull it off.
Besides: my passion for formal learning had gone into hibernation; and all efforts to revive it were unsuccessful. For I got a "C" in Introductory Electrical Engineering, and a "F" in Introductory Accounting, out of enrolling in a couple of night courses at SMS (Southwest Missouri State, now: Missouri State) in Springfield (around 60 miles northeast of Cassville) for the Spring Semester of 1977.
Ultimately: some good did come out of my futile attempt to continue my education. For my parents were encouraged; but we remained somewhat estranged for the time being.
Talk about being in an uncomfortable position: that is where I found myself in those days. For crossing paths with my parents was unavoidable in such a small town (population: 1,910); and the level of discomfort increased dramatically when I went back to work for Kenneth and Lucille Johnson.
No, I do not doubt that it was just as bad for my parents: especially for my mother. For she was the head of the Sporting Goods Department at Johnson's; and I often challenged her judgment, as well as her authority.
Yes, I was particularly wrong of me to treat her so disrespectfully. For she was still my mother; and she really did know what she was doing at Johnson's: as generations of customers would readily attest unto.
Whether justified or not: I was angry. For I blamed my parents for me being there at work in Cassville instead of being at school in Columbia; and my mother presented me with a rather easy target to hit.
Yes, all the ugliness took much away from the place; but working at Johnson's was still an experience that I have many fond memories of. For the store offered as much merchandise as a standard-sized (not a Supercenter) Wal-Mart did in a third of the floorspace.
Moreover: Johnson's was famous for having a unusually wide variety of items in inventory. In fact: the slogan of the store was "If We Don't Have It, You Don't Need It".
An example of that could have been found in the Sporting Goods Department. For hundreds of different fishing lures hung on the walls; and aside from having all of the most popular types and styles of rifles, pistols and shotguns in all of the most popular calibers: there were also 218 Bees, 22 Hornets, 22 Magnum rifle/20 Gauge shotgun over/unders, Winchester Centennial 30-30's, 30-40 Krags, 45-70's, along with plenty of ammunition for whole lot, of course.
Needless to say: the store was packed unto the rafters; and there was a running joke about not wanting to be in the store when the time for the New Madrid (pronounced: New Madree) Fault in the "bootheel region" of Southeastern Missouri to generate another mammoth earthquake came to pass. For with ceilings of 15 to 20 feet tall: it would take days, maybe even weeks, to dig out.
Ever so slowly: the relationship between my parents and I was improving; but then a "situation" involving my brother threatened to negate all of the progress that had been made. For Terry decided to run-away from home; and I got blamed for his short-lived dash for daylight.
No, I had nothing to do with it; and I tried to be as helpful as I could be unto my parents after he made his escape. For I could have just kept it unto myself that I had a feeling about Terry probably being at one of his friend's house in Butterfield (around 5 miles north of Cassville) if I wanted to cause trouble; but I did what any good older son would do: I ratted-out my little brother.
Yes, Terry was found in Butterfield; but my parents were not in a mood to be grateful for my help. For they had it in their heads that he would have never even thought of doing anything like that if I had not of set such a bad example for him to follow.
No, all was not soon forgiven; let alone: forgotten. For holding grudges comes quite naturally unto my family; but when the time for the wedding came around: my family came around enough to attend.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
TCC: The Sixth Crumb, Part II
Again: the trouble was over me not being allowed to drive by myself. For my parents presented a united front that appeared to be quite impregnable against me driving back and forth between Cassville and Columbia.
Yes, I could have just attended a school much closer unto home; but that would have messed things up. For I had come to know and understand that "where" someone went to school was at least as important as their grade-point average: perhaps even more so. After all: what employer really cares about the grade-point average of a Harvard graduate? That is: unless it is very, very low, of course.
Besides: I did not believe that it would have made any difference. For my parents insisted that they were only concerned with me doing well at school; but my idea of what was in my best interest was quite different from their's.
Yes, I suppose that I should have been ashamed of myself; and I was unto a certain extent. For I did feel somewhat guilty about not honoring my father and my mother as much as I should; but when the "stuff" started hitting the fan: I felt more justified about my attitude towards them than ever.
Alas, it was the beginning of a protracted end; and I did not see it coming. For I really was focusing all of my attention upon making a very good life for Sam and myself.
Yes, I quickly discovered that college was a lot harder than high school. For in just the third week of my Algebra 10 class: we were already getting into some trigonometry; and I had joined the Army R.O.T.C. (Reserve Officers Training Corps), which added a whole other level of pressure.
Thankfully: ROTC was not as hard on me as that algebra class was; and I was doing very well in it. For I was ranked #1 on their competition rifle team; and I was asked by the main instructor of the Freshman class if I would like to see if I could make it as a "Black Beret".
No, being a Black Beret was not at all like being a "Green Beret" (Army Special Forces); but it did allow its members to do some things that were more advanced. For example: rappelling; and after I got over being afraid of it: I had a blast!
My father brought Sam up for a visit in October (I think); but it was not what I hoped for. For after she left: I fell into a deep, dark depression.
Please, do not get me wrong. For I was over-joyed to see her; and as an added bonus: my dorm room-mate and several other residents of Clark House saw that I was not exaggerating about Sam's beauty, style and grace.
Nonetheless: it felt like most of my heart left with her; and the old adage: "absence makes the heart grow fonder", started to make some sense unto me. For I came to realize that it was surely an anthem unto masochists.
I also learned a thing or two about William Shakespeare. For either he was nothing at all like me in sentiment or not speaking from personal experience when he wrote: "parting is such sweet sorrow". For I found nothing sweet about it!!!
Much unto my chagrin: life went on as before; but that was about to change. For it was during a routine call home a couple of weeks later that I was told that my father would be coming-up there by himself the next Saturday.
Surprisingly: we had a relatively good time. For we went to see Mizzou beat USC (University of Southern California) in a football game at Faurot Field; and then he saw me shoot at a rifle team practice.
Now, the plan was that we would spend the night in a motel room; and then my father would head for home the next day. For driving 400 miles in one day, along with all that we had done on campus, would have been just too hard on his back.
Plans often go awry; and that was what happened when my father finally got around unto telling me why he was really there. For the truth was that he did not want me to have to hear over-the-phone that my mother, brother, and himself had seen Sam out with a boy at a Cassville High School football game the week before.
It was the first time that I ever yelled at my father without him immediately putting me back in my place. For he just calmly gathered his stuff and meekly went-out unto the car after I "insisted" upon going home NOW!!!
Yes, my father displayed a great deal of sensitivity towards my feelings by coming all the way up there just to be there for me during a time of great sorrow; but I really did not care about any of that at the time. For he was the bearer of some very bad news; and like what almost always happens in similar situations: the messenger gets hit with the initial shock-wave of such a message.
Understandably: the drive home was very much on the quiet side. For my mind was racing between scenarios of still being with Sam and being without her.
No, my father did not say a word. That is: except for occasionally asking me to stop so that he could use the restroom and get another cup of coffee.
Aha! So my driving skills were not in question after all. For if they were: would he have asked me to drive 200 miles over some very narrow roads in the dark, while being in such an emotional state?
Okay, maybe my father did have some sort of a death-wish. I certainly could not blame him if he did. For he was constantly in unbearable pain: even with all of the pain pills that he got through the V.A. (Veterans Administration); and I am sure that being so often at war with his oldest son made his life all the more worth living.
Anyway: we made it home without a scratch; but it was not a very happy reunion. For my father had regrouped quite nicely; and with my mother protecting his flanks: he proceeded to inform me that I would not be allowed to go see Sam until I had time to think about what I was going to say.
In other words: my parents did not want me going over there and begging her to stay with me; and after a few days of "thinking about it": that is exactly what I did. For she was my everything; and I was very serious about not wanting to live without her.
Despite how much I would like for it to go away: I can still feel the chill in the air when I finally got to see Sam in person; and it did not take long for me to realize that my parents hopes were close to coming true. For she had discovered that life went on very well without me; and I went back to school feeling more alone than I ever thought possible.
No, it was not that my parents had developed a dislike for Sam. For she was still a welcome member of the family.
Nonetheless: it was that my parents wanted to keep her membership in the family "unofficial" for as long as possible. For they truly dreaded the day when my umbilical cord had to be cut.
Oh yeah, there was also what happened unto Terry at the Lake Dardanelle State Park near Dardanelle, AR that I got most of the blame for (of course) the summer before. For it was my idea to race on foot unto a certain tree and back; but some blame was also assigned unto Sam. For my parents had it in their heads that I would have seen the wire that Terry tripped-over if my mind had not been so focused upon her; and they did hold it against her unto a certain extent.
Yes, it was indeed a tragedy. For Terry suffered a lacerated liver; but that was not the worst of it. For the surgeon at the hospital in Clarksville, AR was convinced that his spleen had ruptured; and Terry almost bleed to death before they finally found the problem.
He did, however, get a wicked-looking scar out of the ordeal. For the spleen and the liver are on opposite sides of the abdominal cavity; and after the surgeon made his incision in order to work on Terry's spleen: he just kept cutting across his belly until he got unto his liver.
Yes, Sam and I felt very bad about what happened unto my brother; but that was nothing in comparison unto how bad I felt after returning unto Columbia. For I could not eat, nor sleep; and I was certainly in no condition to attend classes: not even ROTC.
Talk about having a dark cloud hanging over yourself: mine had completely enveloped me. For I found myself waking around in a fog too thick to see out of.
Yes, I made some attempts to fight my way clear. A couple of them were quite heroic: even if I must say so myself.
Unfortunately: all of them still failed miserably. So: I borrowed the car of a girl from Cassville who was a year ahead of me at Mizzou; and after begging Sam to take me back for longer that I would like to reveal: she finally relented.
Yes, I could have just attended a school much closer unto home; but that would have messed things up. For I had come to know and understand that "where" someone went to school was at least as important as their grade-point average: perhaps even more so. After all: what employer really cares about the grade-point average of a Harvard graduate? That is: unless it is very, very low, of course.
Besides: I did not believe that it would have made any difference. For my parents insisted that they were only concerned with me doing well at school; but my idea of what was in my best interest was quite different from their's.
Yes, I suppose that I should have been ashamed of myself; and I was unto a certain extent. For I did feel somewhat guilty about not honoring my father and my mother as much as I should; but when the "stuff" started hitting the fan: I felt more justified about my attitude towards them than ever.
Alas, it was the beginning of a protracted end; and I did not see it coming. For I really was focusing all of my attention upon making a very good life for Sam and myself.
Yes, I quickly discovered that college was a lot harder than high school. For in just the third week of my Algebra 10 class: we were already getting into some trigonometry; and I had joined the Army R.O.T.C. (Reserve Officers Training Corps), which added a whole other level of pressure.
Thankfully: ROTC was not as hard on me as that algebra class was; and I was doing very well in it. For I was ranked #1 on their competition rifle team; and I was asked by the main instructor of the Freshman class if I would like to see if I could make it as a "Black Beret".
No, being a Black Beret was not at all like being a "Green Beret" (Army Special Forces); but it did allow its members to do some things that were more advanced. For example: rappelling; and after I got over being afraid of it: I had a blast!
My father brought Sam up for a visit in October (I think); but it was not what I hoped for. For after she left: I fell into a deep, dark depression.
Please, do not get me wrong. For I was over-joyed to see her; and as an added bonus: my dorm room-mate and several other residents of Clark House saw that I was not exaggerating about Sam's beauty, style and grace.
Nonetheless: it felt like most of my heart left with her; and the old adage: "absence makes the heart grow fonder", started to make some sense unto me. For I came to realize that it was surely an anthem unto masochists.
I also learned a thing or two about William Shakespeare. For either he was nothing at all like me in sentiment or not speaking from personal experience when he wrote: "parting is such sweet sorrow". For I found nothing sweet about it!!!
Much unto my chagrin: life went on as before; but that was about to change. For it was during a routine call home a couple of weeks later that I was told that my father would be coming-up there by himself the next Saturday.
Surprisingly: we had a relatively good time. For we went to see Mizzou beat USC (University of Southern California) in a football game at Faurot Field; and then he saw me shoot at a rifle team practice.
Now, the plan was that we would spend the night in a motel room; and then my father would head for home the next day. For driving 400 miles in one day, along with all that we had done on campus, would have been just too hard on his back.
Plans often go awry; and that was what happened when my father finally got around unto telling me why he was really there. For the truth was that he did not want me to have to hear over-the-phone that my mother, brother, and himself had seen Sam out with a boy at a Cassville High School football game the week before.
It was the first time that I ever yelled at my father without him immediately putting me back in my place. For he just calmly gathered his stuff and meekly went-out unto the car after I "insisted" upon going home NOW!!!
Yes, my father displayed a great deal of sensitivity towards my feelings by coming all the way up there just to be there for me during a time of great sorrow; but I really did not care about any of that at the time. For he was the bearer of some very bad news; and like what almost always happens in similar situations: the messenger gets hit with the initial shock-wave of such a message.
Understandably: the drive home was very much on the quiet side. For my mind was racing between scenarios of still being with Sam and being without her.
No, my father did not say a word. That is: except for occasionally asking me to stop so that he could use the restroom and get another cup of coffee.
Aha! So my driving skills were not in question after all. For if they were: would he have asked me to drive 200 miles over some very narrow roads in the dark, while being in such an emotional state?
Okay, maybe my father did have some sort of a death-wish. I certainly could not blame him if he did. For he was constantly in unbearable pain: even with all of the pain pills that he got through the V.A. (Veterans Administration); and I am sure that being so often at war with his oldest son made his life all the more worth living.
Anyway: we made it home without a scratch; but it was not a very happy reunion. For my father had regrouped quite nicely; and with my mother protecting his flanks: he proceeded to inform me that I would not be allowed to go see Sam until I had time to think about what I was going to say.
In other words: my parents did not want me going over there and begging her to stay with me; and after a few days of "thinking about it": that is exactly what I did. For she was my everything; and I was very serious about not wanting to live without her.
Despite how much I would like for it to go away: I can still feel the chill in the air when I finally got to see Sam in person; and it did not take long for me to realize that my parents hopes were close to coming true. For she had discovered that life went on very well without me; and I went back to school feeling more alone than I ever thought possible.
No, it was not that my parents had developed a dislike for Sam. For she was still a welcome member of the family.
Nonetheless: it was that my parents wanted to keep her membership in the family "unofficial" for as long as possible. For they truly dreaded the day when my umbilical cord had to be cut.
Oh yeah, there was also what happened unto Terry at the Lake Dardanelle State Park near Dardanelle, AR that I got most of the blame for (of course) the summer before. For it was my idea to race on foot unto a certain tree and back; but some blame was also assigned unto Sam. For my parents had it in their heads that I would have seen the wire that Terry tripped-over if my mind had not been so focused upon her; and they did hold it against her unto a certain extent.
Yes, it was indeed a tragedy. For Terry suffered a lacerated liver; but that was not the worst of it. For the surgeon at the hospital in Clarksville, AR was convinced that his spleen had ruptured; and Terry almost bleed to death before they finally found the problem.
He did, however, get a wicked-looking scar out of the ordeal. For the spleen and the liver are on opposite sides of the abdominal cavity; and after the surgeon made his incision in order to work on Terry's spleen: he just kept cutting across his belly until he got unto his liver.
Yes, Sam and I felt very bad about what happened unto my brother; but that was nothing in comparison unto how bad I felt after returning unto Columbia. For I could not eat, nor sleep; and I was certainly in no condition to attend classes: not even ROTC.
Talk about having a dark cloud hanging over yourself: mine had completely enveloped me. For I found myself waking around in a fog too thick to see out of.
Yes, I made some attempts to fight my way clear. A couple of them were quite heroic: even if I must say so myself.
Unfortunately: all of them still failed miserably. So: I borrowed the car of a girl from Cassville who was a year ahead of me at Mizzou; and after begging Sam to take me back for longer that I would like to reveal: she finally relented.
TCC: The Sixth Crumb, Part I
Her name was Sam (Samantha); and she was perfection personified. An angel straight from Heaven. A goddess amongst mere mortals. Need I say more?
Yes, it sounds like just the musing of a boy caught-up in the enthrallment of young love; but if you could see what my eyes beheld: you would know that what I felt for her went way beyond anything associated with puppy love. For just one look at that angelic face of her's made everything else meaningless unto me.
Besides: she did not seem to mind spending time with me; and that had to count for something. For it was not like I had a long line of ladies impatiently waiting for their turn to have a little "slap and tickle" time with me.
No, it did not start-out that way. That is, at least not on my part. For I found Sam to be a little too skinny for my taste.
Furthermore: I could not see her fitting into the plans that I had made for my future. For I was going to be a great lawyer; and I envisioned myself being with a lady of distinction: well-grounded in the social graces.
Nonetheless: my parents persisted; and I was soon on-board: albeit only for the sake of appearances. For it was better to be uncomfortable around a girl they liked than to face their wrath.
Much unto my parents chagrin: the relationship got way out-of-hand in a hurry (in their opinion). For taking things slow and easy is not in my nature.
No, I did not get her pregnant; and my school-work, Scouting, and other activities were not adversely effected. My parents still wanted to keep me on a very short leash, however; and this greatly added unto the tension between them and myself.
Yes, I suppose that I should elaborate a little upon how it all got started before the window of opportunity closes. For it was rather unusual.
Perhaps not for everybody; but if you consider finding the light of your life (even if only at the time) at a C.B. Break being held in a hay field in front of her parent's house way down in the depths of Gaddis Holler to be something that does not happen everyday: then we are in agreement. For a chance encounter in a hallway of the high school that we both attended would be much more typical.
Now, for those who do not already know: a C.B. Break is a gathering of people in a given area who are Citizens Band (C.B.) radio enthusiasts. Many are held as a sponsored event of a particular C.B. Club; but the ones that we went to were not so formal. For everyone was welcome to attend: regardless of whether they had a C.B. or not.
Oh my, what fun was had by all (usually). For Sam's father (Mandolin on the radio) and mother (Hummingbird on the radio) worked really hard at being good hosts (food and drink was always served and bluegrass music was often played); and many came from miles away.
Suffice to say: C.B. radios were quite popular back then; and not just in the truck-driving community, neither. For the advent of the age of cell phones was yet to come; and many families used them to keep in touch with their loved ones when they were out and about.
A lot of communication between different families also took place. In fact: much more of that could be heard on Channel 11 than anything else. For this was the frequency that almost everybody in the area monitored whenever they were not on another channel talking to somebody in order to keep Channel 11 clear for others to use; and with the right equipment: you could reach out and touch somebody 20 miles or so away when the skip was down.
To the best of my knowledge: skip on a C.B. radio is caused by an atmospheric phenomenon that will carry radio signals long distances; and there are times when you can even have a conversation with someone far away. For I have heard my father talking to people who lived near Atlanta, GA and Albany, NY; but for the most part: you can only hear one side of a conversation that someone is having with someone else.
This is also happens while mobile. For there was one night when I was traveling west on I-40, somewhere in New Mexico (NM), that I heard someone give a bear report (giving locations of highway patrol cars in an area); and when I asked him where he was: he told me that he was just north of Medford, OR headed for Seattle, WA (well over a thousand miles northwest of where I was)!!!
Anyway: it was soon after we made our move from the Eagle Rock area unto the Bates Corner area in 1972 that my father got bitten by the C.B. bug; and the virus quickly spread throughout the family. For a mobile unit was installed in all of our vehicles; and the base unit was constantly on during waking hours.
Since that was before the days of deregulation: everyone who wanted to use their C.B.'s as a means of communication had to apply for a F.C.C. (Federal Communications Commission) license in order to legally do so. My father was assigned: KFS-6407; and I am absolutely amazed that I can still remember that.
In the beginning: I was very enthusiastic about talking on the radio; but the thrill was soon gone after I was finally allowed to drive by myself. For I had to be in almost constant contact with either Buddy B (my father) or Cherokee (my mother) while driving.
It was a lot worse when Sam and I were out on a date. For I had no idea what embarrassment really was until I could hear my voice over the speakers at the drive-in movie theater when I had to answer my father.
No, just turning the thing off was not an option. For my father told me (in no uncertain terms) that he would come up there if I ever tried it; and I believed that he really would.
Even worse: my father also told me that my days of driving by myself would be over if I ever failed to answer him over the radio; and that was not a risk that I was willing to take. For I had already suffered through not being allowed to even take my driving test until I was almost 17.
No, the reason for the delay was not because of not being ready. For I had already purchased (with my parent's permission) a 1961 Chevrolet Apache 10 pick-up truck with money that I had saved from working at Johnson's during the summer months while school was not in session; and as for the drivers license test: I scored a 100% on the written part, and a 98% on the road skills part (the evaluator told my father that he took-off 2 points for general control because he never gives a 100% score unto new drivers).
Yes, it could be said that I probably brought it all upon myself. For it was not like I had always been the epitome of responsibility; and that D- certainly did not bode well for my cause.
Despite all of that: be assured that the real reason for the delay was another outbreak of Rheumatic Feveritis. For my parents just could not shake the great fear that they felt for my safety.
No, I had no appreciation for their concern at the time. For it was putting a major crimp in my style: especially in regards unto my burgeoning love life; but Sam hung in there with me.
Perhaps she really was an angel who was hidden from all others just for me to find. For one of her classmates came up to me one day at school and asked me where I had found such a knock-out; and after I told him her name: the look of shock on his face was one for the ages. For he realized that they had been going to school together for over 7 years!
Just a late bloomer? Perhaps; but what a sight to behold. For she looked a lot like Jaclyn Smith (one of the original "Charlie's Angels", along with Kate Jackson and Farrah Fawcett) unto me; and she certainly turned-heads wherever she went.
Yes, I had it bad for her; and that sure put a damper on my enthusiasm for going on a very special trip with the Vaughn's (my Scoutmaster and his family) during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. For I did not want to spend a minute more away from her than I had to.
By then: my parents were starting to regret the part they had played in getting us together. So: they were all for me spending a month away from Sam; and after making another one of their patented offers that I could not refuse unto me: away I went.
Yes, I wound-up having a lot of fun on the trip. For I got to see Chimney Rock (a National Monument near Scottsbluff, NE) up close and personal, a July snow flurry in Casper, WY, and the rain forest around Forks, WA. We also went deep-sea fishing in the Pacific Ocean (five miles out of La Push, WA); and who could forget the wall of mosquitoes that came upon us at a KOA Campground in Laramie, WY. For I passed Steven (Charlie's son, a year younger than me) like he was standing still; and he could run a 100 yard dash in 10 seconds flat!
Nonetheless: I still could not wait until I was back in my baby's arms; and I was being as serious as I could be when I swore that we would never be apart that long again. Hmm, I seem to remember reading something or another in the Bible about not boasting about tomorrow (Proverbs 27:1); and a little more than a year later I discovered why. For I found myself facing an even longer time away from her.
Yes, it sounds like just the musing of a boy caught-up in the enthrallment of young love; but if you could see what my eyes beheld: you would know that what I felt for her went way beyond anything associated with puppy love. For just one look at that angelic face of her's made everything else meaningless unto me.
Besides: she did not seem to mind spending time with me; and that had to count for something. For it was not like I had a long line of ladies impatiently waiting for their turn to have a little "slap and tickle" time with me.
No, it did not start-out that way. That is, at least not on my part. For I found Sam to be a little too skinny for my taste.
Furthermore: I could not see her fitting into the plans that I had made for my future. For I was going to be a great lawyer; and I envisioned myself being with a lady of distinction: well-grounded in the social graces.
Nonetheless: my parents persisted; and I was soon on-board: albeit only for the sake of appearances. For it was better to be uncomfortable around a girl they liked than to face their wrath.
Much unto my parents chagrin: the relationship got way out-of-hand in a hurry (in their opinion). For taking things slow and easy is not in my nature.
No, I did not get her pregnant; and my school-work, Scouting, and other activities were not adversely effected. My parents still wanted to keep me on a very short leash, however; and this greatly added unto the tension between them and myself.
Yes, I suppose that I should elaborate a little upon how it all got started before the window of opportunity closes. For it was rather unusual.
Perhaps not for everybody; but if you consider finding the light of your life (even if only at the time) at a C.B. Break being held in a hay field in front of her parent's house way down in the depths of Gaddis Holler to be something that does not happen everyday: then we are in agreement. For a chance encounter in a hallway of the high school that we both attended would be much more typical.
Now, for those who do not already know: a C.B. Break is a gathering of people in a given area who are Citizens Band (C.B.) radio enthusiasts. Many are held as a sponsored event of a particular C.B. Club; but the ones that we went to were not so formal. For everyone was welcome to attend: regardless of whether they had a C.B. or not.
Oh my, what fun was had by all (usually). For Sam's father (Mandolin on the radio) and mother (Hummingbird on the radio) worked really hard at being good hosts (food and drink was always served and bluegrass music was often played); and many came from miles away.
Suffice to say: C.B. radios were quite popular back then; and not just in the truck-driving community, neither. For the advent of the age of cell phones was yet to come; and many families used them to keep in touch with their loved ones when they were out and about.
A lot of communication between different families also took place. In fact: much more of that could be heard on Channel 11 than anything else. For this was the frequency that almost everybody in the area monitored whenever they were not on another channel talking to somebody in order to keep Channel 11 clear for others to use; and with the right equipment: you could reach out and touch somebody 20 miles or so away when the skip was down.
To the best of my knowledge: skip on a C.B. radio is caused by an atmospheric phenomenon that will carry radio signals long distances; and there are times when you can even have a conversation with someone far away. For I have heard my father talking to people who lived near Atlanta, GA and Albany, NY; but for the most part: you can only hear one side of a conversation that someone is having with someone else.
This is also happens while mobile. For there was one night when I was traveling west on I-40, somewhere in New Mexico (NM), that I heard someone give a bear report (giving locations of highway patrol cars in an area); and when I asked him where he was: he told me that he was just north of Medford, OR headed for Seattle, WA (well over a thousand miles northwest of where I was)!!!
Anyway: it was soon after we made our move from the Eagle Rock area unto the Bates Corner area in 1972 that my father got bitten by the C.B. bug; and the virus quickly spread throughout the family. For a mobile unit was installed in all of our vehicles; and the base unit was constantly on during waking hours.
Since that was before the days of deregulation: everyone who wanted to use their C.B.'s as a means of communication had to apply for a F.C.C. (Federal Communications Commission) license in order to legally do so. My father was assigned: KFS-6407; and I am absolutely amazed that I can still remember that.
In the beginning: I was very enthusiastic about talking on the radio; but the thrill was soon gone after I was finally allowed to drive by myself. For I had to be in almost constant contact with either Buddy B (my father) or Cherokee (my mother) while driving.
It was a lot worse when Sam and I were out on a date. For I had no idea what embarrassment really was until I could hear my voice over the speakers at the drive-in movie theater when I had to answer my father.
No, just turning the thing off was not an option. For my father told me (in no uncertain terms) that he would come up there if I ever tried it; and I believed that he really would.
Even worse: my father also told me that my days of driving by myself would be over if I ever failed to answer him over the radio; and that was not a risk that I was willing to take. For I had already suffered through not being allowed to even take my driving test until I was almost 17.
No, the reason for the delay was not because of not being ready. For I had already purchased (with my parent's permission) a 1961 Chevrolet Apache 10 pick-up truck with money that I had saved from working at Johnson's during the summer months while school was not in session; and as for the drivers license test: I scored a 100% on the written part, and a 98% on the road skills part (the evaluator told my father that he took-off 2 points for general control because he never gives a 100% score unto new drivers).
Yes, it could be said that I probably brought it all upon myself. For it was not like I had always been the epitome of responsibility; and that D- certainly did not bode well for my cause.
Despite all of that: be assured that the real reason for the delay was another outbreak of Rheumatic Feveritis. For my parents just could not shake the great fear that they felt for my safety.
No, I had no appreciation for their concern at the time. For it was putting a major crimp in my style: especially in regards unto my burgeoning love life; but Sam hung in there with me.
Perhaps she really was an angel who was hidden from all others just for me to find. For one of her classmates came up to me one day at school and asked me where I had found such a knock-out; and after I told him her name: the look of shock on his face was one for the ages. For he realized that they had been going to school together for over 7 years!
Just a late bloomer? Perhaps; but what a sight to behold. For she looked a lot like Jaclyn Smith (one of the original "Charlie's Angels", along with Kate Jackson and Farrah Fawcett) unto me; and she certainly turned-heads wherever she went.
Yes, I had it bad for her; and that sure put a damper on my enthusiasm for going on a very special trip with the Vaughn's (my Scoutmaster and his family) during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. For I did not want to spend a minute more away from her than I had to.
By then: my parents were starting to regret the part they had played in getting us together. So: they were all for me spending a month away from Sam; and after making another one of their patented offers that I could not refuse unto me: away I went.
Yes, I wound-up having a lot of fun on the trip. For I got to see Chimney Rock (a National Monument near Scottsbluff, NE) up close and personal, a July snow flurry in Casper, WY, and the rain forest around Forks, WA. We also went deep-sea fishing in the Pacific Ocean (five miles out of La Push, WA); and who could forget the wall of mosquitoes that came upon us at a KOA Campground in Laramie, WY. For I passed Steven (Charlie's son, a year younger than me) like he was standing still; and he could run a 100 yard dash in 10 seconds flat!
Nonetheless: I still could not wait until I was back in my baby's arms; and I was being as serious as I could be when I swore that we would never be apart that long again. Hmm, I seem to remember reading something or another in the Bible about not boasting about tomorrow (Proverbs 27:1); and a little more than a year later I discovered why. For I found myself facing an even longer time away from her.
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