Small Graces

It was so pretty this morning: at the top of the hill where I-74 plunges into the Ohio Valley to cross the Whitewater River, before that joins the Ohio, on the way to Cincinnati. The wide valley was filled with a silver mist. Above the mist was a band of pale rose fading into a sky just light enough to dim the stars, with Venus a bright jewel. It was just a moment's joy before I was lost in the haze. It was thick and I had to reign it in on the long downgrade. Later, though, on the Outer Loop North I climbed another hill into the clear air with a similar, even better view before I rolled back into the fog filled canyons of the Great Miami River. The hills were closer together there, and deep cut where unnamed tributaries converged with the Miami giving scale to the vista. And still there was the silver mist; the band of rose, stronger now with the sky above becoming aquamarine; and Venus as lovely as ever.

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Yesterday was a bad day, for a number of reasons (including, I might add, my attitude), but it very nearly was much, much worse. I had to deliver first in Peoria, IL, which makes for a long run in itself, but then I had a second stop in Springfield, an hour and a half away with just as long a trip back. I might have welcomed such a run just a couple of weeks ago. I would have seen it as an opportunity to visit Morris in the hospital since it wouldn't make sense to drive home afterward. What? Drive home just to go to bed? But unfortunately we're not allowed to sleep on the yard anymore. I used to anyway but they've taken to closing the gates, which means that I can't pretend the next morning that I sneaked by and am just signing in on the way out. So I was stressed, I admit it. I hate truck stops, particularly with a trailer and the load for the next day pretty much required that I pick up my trailer that evening. So I was trying to make it back in time to drive home. Cosmic accounting aside it would be worth it to drive home just to sleep in my own bed.

I actually had phenomenal luck, considering that I wasn't even on the schedule at my first stop, and that there was already another truck in the door at my second. I might have appreciated that at the time but I was too wound up. I drove like a mad company man, within reason, and made the whole trip, including picking up the next day's load, in twelve hours. That was plenty of time, splendid!

I chastised myself several times as I started for home. The rush was over (though rush hour was in high gear) but I was still in rush mode; driving aggressively not in my limited, safety conscious big truck, but my capable, security inspiring car. I tried to calm down but couldn't seem to.

I began thinking about where I was going to get gas. I knew that I'd need to on the way to work that morning. I thought that I could make it to Martinsville, with cheaper prices, but wasn't sure; I might have had to stop at that Marathon station out in the middle of nowhere. I don't know by what grace I checked my back pocket to feel my wallet then, I clearly remembered picking it up off of the floor of the truck before leaving, but my pocket was empty. I started moving things around on the passenger seat, and looking between the seats and on the floor.

Shit, no wallet! Could I use cash? No, my money clip was empty and I'd even given the last of my change away to a desperate woman at the truck stop when I'd fueled that morning. I was already a third of the way home and knew I'd never make it there. The only option was to turn around and hope that I could make it back to the truck.

I didn't know exactly how close I'd come to a complete disaster until I got back. I didn't go through the guard station again, but pulled into the locked back gates, where we park our trucks, and rolled under the fence. Fortunately nobody saw me and raised the alarm. When I got into the truck sure enough there was my wallet, not on the floor where it sits when I drive (so it doesn't bore a hole in my butt) but on the utility console, next to my CELL PHONE. It was actually my phone that I'd forgotten, not my wallet. The true scope of my predicament struck me then: I'd have been out of fuel, miles from home or work, without cash, without credit, without my phone, without ANYONE'S PHONE NUMBER (even assuming I could locate a phone and panhandle enough for a long distance call), and with no time or energy left before I had to get to bed so that I could get up and do it all again.

I made it home right at my bedtime, if I was going to get eight hours of sleep. Who needs eight hours of sleep every night anyway? Thank goodness for the small graces.