Partitioned Sky

 

Damn, who would have expected a jogger out on a windy wooded road hours after the sun had set? I felt bad, I mean, I had my brights on till I was almost on him, coming the other way. I don't know what I thought he was in his reflective vest with a flashlight strapped to his head; a construction barricade or reflective tape on someone's mailbox or something, certainly not a jogger.

The early dawn light was soft as ever, but seemed chill this morning, reflected as it was off of the layer of white that still covered the lawn. I turned on a light to counteract that impression. My compact florescents aren't bad, being second generation. I mean they're not cold per se, but in in the vent hood above the range I still have an ancient incandescent that hasn't expired yet. I have to admit they give off a cozy glow, and that's all the light I needed anyway. I'll have to experiment with the new high efficiency bulbs they're coming out with now, when it goes.

It was nice too that there was a fire still smoldering in the wood stove. I only had to throw a couple of pieces of wood in there and I was done. In a few minutes it was warm enough for me to take a shower. A fairly warm day was forecast so I didn't bother to stoke the stove when I left for work. As I was cleaning out the ashes after work I was pleasantly surprised when I dug into some live coals. The newspaper was beginning to smoke before I'd even placed the kindling. And I'm still only using poplar, a fairly soft hard wood. My neighbor has some real hardwood cut and split he's going to sell me cheap, as soon as it dries up or freezes so that he can get into his property over in Brown County. The way it's been going it may not do either for the duration of the winter!

I was going to kvetch about my car problems, and work, which are interrelated, but we were going along so nicely and I really don't want to think about all that right now. There is one more thing that I want to tell you though. Something that happened at work this morning:

I was on a small two lane highway in the glacier flattened north of Indiana, flat as a pancake. The sun was shining full on me but the western horizon was dominated by a massive purple cloud trailing the shadows of isolated rainstorms; trailing like the tentacles of a jellyfish swimming against a swift current. That rain, or snow or whatever it was didn't reach the ground until it had traveled miles and miles from where it started in the sky.

I noticed more cloud bursts to the north, but these fell at a gentle, normal angle. The interesting thing was that they fell at an angle opposite to the others. Then I noticed that the southernmost of these rain showers, a fairly heavy downpour, bent at a sharp angle two thirds of the way to ground, forced backward to the same angle as those thrashed trailing tentacles. The division was half way to the cloud by the time that I got to Logansport and lost sight of the phenomenon. It would have been cool to see the one storm completely overtaken by the other.

 

Occupy Nightmare

I don't really have anything to say except maybe: "Forgive them truck driver, they know not what they do." Or should that be, "Forgive them truck driver, they're stupid and can't do any better?" No, some are downright stupid, I'm sure, but most are simply ignorant. I wish they'd say, "Forgive him, for he is trying to pilot that behemoth safely through these streets and it ain't easy."

But why is it always about the job? I know it started out that way because being an over the road truck driver was novel and exciting and at that time the job and sleep eclipsed 90% of my life. It's no longer novel or exciting, but still consumes, along with the necessary sleep, at least 75% of me. I pay a heavy price to earn a living. And what a great living it is. I make a median income and still live paycheck to paycheck.

The days are short. Darkness fall early and the Xmas lights are up. They range from the trashy to the extravagant, and occasionally the truly elegant. I shouldn't put them down though, I do like them; I mean at least they're something to look at.

I started doing some research. I'm tired of this damned rhetoric from both sides of the aisle, but especially from the serfs staunchly defending their cruel overlords. It's tragically comical; stranger than fiction.

I don't remember my elementary school history well enough to retort but I'm sure what's being bandied about isn't right. After hearing an interview with Catherine Crier I decided to get her new book, *Patriot Acts.* I mean, she worked for Fox News, she's main stream enough that I can't get accused of reading subversive literature, which I'm also open to.

She thinks we're in deep do do, but we already knew that, right? I was after Adam Smith and the "Invisible Hand," but lack the time to read primary sources (or even Wikipedia entries with my schedule). Just as I thought: the Right's wrong; got it ass backward, or rather, "selectively edited" (quoting Catherine there). Given my new found penchant for speaking out I'm sure you'll hear more about this. If not, look it up.

Stream of Concientiousness

In addition to this public and my private journal I also keep what I call a poetry journal. Not that what I write is any good as poetry, it's just a place where I can express my thoughts without the need of a narrative thread. I experimented with the format here for a bit. It didn't work out. There's usually an image or two in an entry that I like, but the whole breaks down, and if I get political then the results are just silly. Every once in awhile a little gem emerges so, without trying to win any literary prizes I may share them with you. Here's one from a couple of days ago that I kind of like:

Sure, I'll remember, like
I remember the way
to an abandoned factory where
all the machines are silent.
It was easy to follow the grade of the
old road untill the wash out.
Leaves blow through the broken windows.
But I do remember, I remember
the barn swallows cavorting in
the dim heights,
I just can't picture you there anymore.

The coffee filters are almost gone again,
can that many mornings have passed already?

Follow the Footpaths

 

The windows aglow with a soft grey light barely revealing the outlines of the furniture. Ouch, stubbed my toe (not). I prefer not to use the electricity in the presence of such beauty.

That was before the time change. My internal clock still wakes me an hour early, as does my cat, wanting food, and my regularity. I turn over in bed and await the alarm. The light is broad again before ever I arise.

This morning I had an appointment, on my day off, and rose well before dawn. There was only moonlight as I stoked the fire, then the orange light of the open wood stove flickering off the walls and reflected full on in the computer's blank screen; later dawn sneaking quietly on rosy tipped fingers, or whatever Homer said.

The leaves are mostly gone, the branches bare. Following Dolan Ridge toward town the vista over the Beanblossom is once again revealed. Oh was it fine this morning with frost edging everything close at hand like some digital trick and the melting rays of the sun only half way up the western hills. There was fog hanging low over Wylie Road, my secret backwater.

It has been a magnificent autumn, but this too shall pass.

I had to take my car in. I came really close to buying a new or late model vehicle. I mean, I make a median income, I ought to be able to afford a car, right? Well, on paper I could, but even now there are weeks that I struggle through. I chickened out. It's probably a good thing. The I Ching thinks so, even though I got a changing line that I'd never seen before. It said something like: the sage stands ready with many rags to plug the holes in his boat. This was when I asked about keeping the old vehicle. The prognosis was much worse for buying new though: Stagnation.

So I dropped the car off on the Northwest side and took off walking toward the South side where the cheap car rentals are (of course I could have taken a cab, silly). There was still frost in the shadows at first. I know Bloomington so much better now. Leaving aside the details let me just say that I am no longer a youngster. Trespassing derelict properties because they're interesting would be a lot harder to explain now, not that that stopped me. And here's a tip that I knew, but had forgotten: when you're on foot, follow the footpaths.

That's not exactly true, I recognized the short cut across 37, "the brutal highway," but it went up a pretty steep embankment and I wasn't entirely sure. I might have saved myself a step or two, no matter.

I visited some old haunts along the way. I once lived right across 5th street from Rose Hill Cemetery, nearly thirty years ago. I was looking for Hoagy Carmichael's grave. They've put a new headstone and I couldn't find it. "I thought it was here..." I was just about to leave when I saw the bottle of Crown Royal. I dug the rose out from under the fallen leaves.

I (we) am so blessed to live in such a wonderful place. Multiple adventures latter, involving graffiti art, solar panels, flying fish, and more, and after lunch at a local micro brewery I headed south on the "B-line," a Rails to Trails pedestrian thoroughfare. I knew that there was no way over the "Jordan River" past Grimes but I kept going because I have some old friends who live down that way.

It was the middle of the day and I didn't expect anyone to be home. I stopped first at the son's apartment at the bottom of the stairs. I knocked and called his name. No movement. It's a small apartment so I climbed the stairs to the Stepfather's apartment. Again no answer. Just as I was turning to leave the door at the bottom of the stairs opened. As we were saying "Hey, hey!" the door at the top of the stairs opened. All of a sudden it's a party!

But this too shall pass. I axed if there was a way over the creek short of Country Club and was told about the "Old Bridges." That's what I'm saying, "I know Bloomington so much better now." I'm saying, "follow the footpaths." I'm saying, "Rock On!"

 

Whole Cloth

 

I'm at a loss for words. Just a moment ago I was so clever, so to the point. I remember that I'd declared the not too hidden fact that I'm depressed. Not so that I'd want to end it all, except slowly. Three times under. There was something else, I can't remember what, then the words of my friend Mary, "You're the only one who can change it."

I quipped the memory of her remark, and that's what I can't recall; I was so clever, so to the point.

Godess I'm depressed. Self medicated (i.e. drunk, on the weekends anyway). I got onto facebook drunk. Oops.

I mean, the level of discourse is not. One of my co-workers came into a little gathering in the office and declared that the protesters on Wall Street are being paid by Obama. He was serious. He'd heard it on the internet. Is there some misconstured kernel of truth there or was this fashioned of whole cloth? Does such a distinction even matter?

The Autumn progesses beautifully. I saw my first bare tree this evening, its bronchial structure displayed like spilt ink across the sunset. I've got my poplar stacked and covered and my neighbor said he told some tree hound to get lost so that I could cut up his fallen hickory. I guess I'll be warm even if the electricity fails this winter.

Yeah, I know the truth. It may be beautiful, but it ain't pretty.

 

I Daresay

 

This goes beyond neglect. I daresay I have no regular readers left. Not that I could blame you. It's been a long time since I've had anything truly interesting to share. Should I go back out on the road again? Banish the thought!

Wednesday last was a grey day, constant drizzle punctuated by the occasional downpour. The city is grey, punctuated by neon. How indistinct; I realize how much we rely upon light and shadow to structure our world, all the time imagining everything to be so clear.

Overcast and rain makes the city dissappear; not so the autumn woods. The muted colors glow, take on new life. I get frustrated with the tourists clogging up the roads, rubbernecking the leaves. I guess I can share. I feel sorry for the welfare mothers though, the ones who couldn't afford the petrol to come down here even if they had a car. Occupy Brown County! (That's not a racial slur; Brown County is the autumn tourist destination in Southern Indiana, with colors equal to New England's.)

It's not grey now. The sun is bright, filling my living room with the moving shadows of the leaves still on the trees, and there are many. It's just now approaching peak. (Who among thee remembers peaking on LSD?) I work too much, too long. I pay a heavy price to earn a living, yet I am blessed. Yes dear reader, I neglect you. Another Lotus Festival has come and gone. Last night I attended Carrie Newcommer's CD release concert at the Buskirk-Chumley theatre.

Everything is Everywhere.

 

Chiropractor, Heal Thyself!

 

It was the kind of pain that turns your stomach, that beads your brow with sweat. I'd jumped out of bed without realizing anything was wrong; now I was hobbling around the living room saying, "Oh shit" over and over. "Oh shit, this sucks, I don't think I can make it to work today. Oh shit." I called my chiropractor but his office was closed till Wednesday. "Oh shit, fuck!"

I'd been experiencing some lower back pain since Saturday, after I'd cut up some downed trees in the back yard and hauled the wood up to be split. The pain was low level and I'd hoped it would simply work itself out. Then Sunday my buddy brought his splitter over. He ran the machine while I fed it. I could tell it wasn't the best for my back, but it didn't feel like I was doing any more damage, nor was I in any more pain after than before. I even went to work that evening.

Monday morning was when I got slammed. I recognized this pain. I'd had it before, after cutting wood once years ago; duh. I forced myself to eat a little dry toast, swallowed massive amounts of ibuprofen, did stretches and hobbled around for about half an hour. "Oh shit, oh shit." I started to feel better and headed for Indianapolis thinking maybe my boss would know of a chiropractor close by so that I could get cracked and then keep cracking. I can't afford to lose work.

By the time that I got there the pain was manageable and I figured I'd wait till Friday to seek help, my day off. It was a busy day. I was climbing in and out of the tractor continually, dropping trailers, hooking to trailers. Lo and behold come evening time I was feeling good; not just better, really fucking good, like that ambrosial peace that descends on one after an intense migraine has departed.

"The morning will be the test," I figured, "after a night of inactivity." When morning came I was still good. I'm healed, thank the Goddess!

 

Hot Damn

 

Hot again. I was going to remove the air conditioner from my bedroom window this weekend. It's Labor Day, summer's over, right? I've already missed some beautiful sleeping weather where I had to have the AC on low, or the fan going just to give the air a semblance of freshness because I couldn't open the window. But it's hot again. Exactly why I left the job undone.

It has been lovely lately. I've been enjoying the mornings especially, when I wake up and the temps are cool (I've pulled out a long sleeve shirt) and the humidity low. Autumn is definitely on it's way; I've even seen some early color in the leaves, and the flocking of birds. I miss the geese back at Electrolux, but I'm sure they're doing fine.

There's no such thing as a pond at the warehouse that I work out of now. A mudhole yes, even after the scant rain that we've had. I never knew that I had it so good. I used to hook to one trailer and drag that around to several stops. Now I have to hook to a new trailer at every stop I visit. It's a lot of work. I don't have to move the appliances around anymore, but once I'd learned the technique that wasn't really so hard. I counted it as exercise and I suppose I should do the same about climbing in and out of the tractor and dollying the landing gear up and down all the time.

The people are OK; no, they're good. I like my new Fleet Manager better than my last, by far. I always thought that he was slimy, but harmless; just dong the best he could with less than a full deck. Now that he's screwed up my vacation pay so badly I have to wonder if he's really that dumb, or is he actually malicious? I'm going to enlist his help to try and at least salvage what I'm due. We'll see if he steps up.

All in all the new job seems a loss. The first paycheck, sans erroneous vacation inflation seems good so it may even out. It'll certainly improve once I learn the peculiarities of the different customers and can get in and out more quickly. It's already getting better in that respect.

Overall, though, it's more work. It's only seven miles further than my last job but the quality of those miles (traffic) increases both the travel time and the fuel mileage. That will ease too, once the construction at the junction of IN 37 and I 465 is completed. I think it's do-able.

I had a fairly early day once, where I didn't have to rush home so that I could arrive at bedtime if I wanted eight hours sleep and still needed to both relax and eat (and they admonish us not to eat just before bed!). I stopped at the liquor store on the way and bought a six pack (shh, don't tell anyone) and jumped off the four lane onto Old 37 through the forest so that I could begin my relaxation earlier.

Can you believe it, the road was closed for some more of that drainage work they were doing awhile ago, only this time they didn't even bother to put up a sign!? I thought about taking Brummets Creek back over to 37 but Farr Road was before that. I couldn't recall the way, but I did remember that if you made a wrong turn it was a fur piece so I brandished my smart phone and looked at the map. It was a way awesome drive but I still ended up making a wrong turn and had to backtrack to Old 37. I'd been hoping that I could go out on the bicycle, something I used to do after work in the old days, but these "mountain" roads are dangerous in the twilight.

Still, it seemed to me that if I got the route down it really wouldn't be much longer to cut across country than to go up the highway. It would certainly be much more beautiful. But I dismissed the idea; I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to explore the back route in the daytime again, let alone ride my bike after work.

See how wrong you can be? I not only got to explore the cross country route again (oops, I missed Miller road and had to go up Shiloh) but got home in time to take a bike ride before the twilight, but after rush hour. I'm pretty sure that is a rare occurrence.

I get the feeling that my new boss is testing me, trying to decide where I fit in on the work spectrum. I'll have some intensely hard days, and then a really easy one. Like a true Taoist I embrace them all equally. I don't know what to tell the dude. I'm a hard worker, and will only call in the Calvary in desperation, and desperately need to make money. On the other hand I need time to release the pressure valves, so I'll take either.

 

Sun Rise, Sun Set

I've been looking for the upside, the silver lining. Morning light is surely a part of that. It's light when my alarm goes off now. Indeed, most people are already at work at 0800. But then, as I clatter around with the coffee things and feed the cat the sun breaches the top of the trees and paints the western wall of the kitchen yellow. I know that will change as we sink into winter, but for now it's nice.

Hey, and at least it's dark when I go to bed! I still have to keep a blanket over the window though, or I'd probably wake up too early. I need my rest, what I can get of it.

Let's see...The flat, pebble strewn roofs of a warehouse complex make a nice pattern of foreshortened parallelograms as I climb the ramp onto I-70 westbound into the city, if I'm going that way.

I'm learning new parts of Indiana, and of Indianapolis. Perhaps for the first time ever I realize that Indianapolis is truly an American city, in the 21st century. It always sort of seemed like a really big small town before. I'm exaggerating, but there's some truth in it.

I got my first paycheck this morning and said, "Hot damn! I'm liking this!" but it turned out to be a mistake. I had two vacation days coming that I was going to lose. I only got to take one as a day off but was supposed to be paid for both. Somehow or other it seems they paid me for two weeks out of my new roster instead of two days out of the old. I'd like to keep it but I think I'd rather get the vacation time. Plus I got taxed at a much higher rate, I can't afford to lessen the deficit all by myself. No, the verdict is still out on the pay.

I don't get to watch the sun rise every morning anymore, but I do get to see it set at night. That's not an upside , it's not the same. I will say this though: when I get home at night I can appreciate the stars for real. I used to always look up as I left the house, and again at certain points along the road, but I was in a hurry, on my way to work. Now I'm coming home from work, in relaxation mode, and to top it off the sky is clearer at night, without the mists of morning. The Milky Way is awesome!

Oh, didn't I tell you? My very first day back from vacation we had a meeting at work. They wanted to tell us that Electrolux was moving its operation up to Chicago Land before we heard it though rumor. Still I was the only one who didn't already know, since I'd been gone. My job would end by October. Welcome back!

They said I could always go back out over the road, or regional but I refused. "I want to go home every night!" They promised that if something opened up we'd get first pick. I was stressed. I knew that I'd be able to get another driving job, but would I like it? And as much I detest Company I really do like those three weeks of vacation. I couldn't imagine starting over with nothing again.

Well, a position opened up delivering pallets to customers in the area and I took it. I won't go into the downsides right now, they're manifold. I'll fill you in on that later perhaps. Is this move a good thing or a bad thing? Right now the downsides far outnumber this paltry list of pluses so I'll have to fill you in on that later too. I'm not sure; and not sure that I'll ever be sure that driving a truck is better than abject poverty.

Fear and Loving

 

The memory of my river crossing (Washing the Undercarriage April 22, 2011) is still very present; visceral. I can feel the terror of it in my gut. The beauty of it haunts me like a dream.

There is often a mist in the predawn bottoms; the water of the Beanblossom ascendent. The other morning I looked down Wylie Road, the site of my adventure, in passing to my normal route up Sample. The waxing gibbous moon was setting there, red and shrouded in that moisture. “How beautiful!” I exclaimed. “I should have gone that way. I will tomorrow.”

So yesterday morning it was my intention to do so, but when I came down off of the ridge there was no mist to greet me. Then crossing the flats I saw a layer of fog out in the field with a large curl of mist rising off the end of it like the neck of a brontosaurus. “Oh cool, there is mist, good.” It spread to cover the entire valley, but close to the ground so that the raised grade of the old highway was clear.

As I climbed the small rise before the cutoff to Wylie the fog among the trees looked for a moment like standing water and I was given a start, a little trill of fear. Then I turned and descended into it. My headlights panned across the road signs and the HIGH WATER sign was open, a warning diamond rather than the usual blank silver triangle. Now I was afraid. It was silly I know, we're in the middle of a minor drought. I wasn't afraid of high water though, now I was afraid of the mist, the supernatural.

Ooooou.

I wasn't disappointed, it was beautiful. The Moon, just one morning later was higher, not red but bright, ringed by double almost rainbows in the fog. The fear? It was there, irrational but real. I actually thought of turning around, momentarily. But why run? She let me pass before, what cause to harm me now?

*              *              *

But I neglect you, dear reader. I only told you a fraction of what happened in New York, and that wasn't even the whole of the vacation, just the beginning. Shosh and I took the Metro North to our friends' home in Connecticut, on Long Island Sound. From there Tom drove us to Boston where we stayed with his son in Somerville, next door to Cambridge and Haavaad Squaa. Then we took the Amtrak back to CT for a little relaxation before flying west again

So for me the vacation went like this: Indianapolis to Chicago; Chicago to New York; New York to Madison (CT); Madison to Boston; Boston back to Madison; Madison to the airport in Providence RI; Providence to Chicago; Chicago to Bloomington. Whew, city hopping indeed. I have three public transportation passes in my wallet with money on them still: CTA (Chicago); Metro Card (NY); and a Charlie Card (Boston).

What to tell you about it all? I can only hit the highlights, and then only briefly. Shoshana booked the flights and she did a smash up job. We left so early in the morning from Chicago that we got to NY while it was still morning, then left late enough out of Providence that there was time for brunch on the beach before we had to leave. Relaxing that last Sunday morning with coffee, reading the NY Times the Arts section had asked its reviewers to contribute to a bucket list of summer must dos in the City. Shosh and I had hit two of them. What were they? Suffice it to say that while in the Met I saw the entrance to another and was tempted to enter, but there wasn't time. Why, one day in NY, while Jonah was at work Shosh and I went from Brooklyn to Manhattan; Manhattan back to Brooklyn; Brooklyn back to Manhattan; Manhattan to Queens; Queens back to Manhattan; Manhattan home to Brooklyn, with all kinds of interesting stops along the way. City hopping indeed.

I should probably point out here that this was before the heat wave hit. The weather was mostly gorgeous. It did rain once, in Boston, but we were well prepared with umbrellas and actually enjoyed it.

The trip to Queens was to smoke the hooka with my brother-in-law in Little Egypt. We sat outside so that Shoshana wouldn't be bothered by the smoke (it was a nice night, we probably would have sat outside anyway) yet she ended up being downwind from Essam, brave girl. I had actually hoped to discuss the Arab Spring, having smoked with him before, inside with Al Jazeera on the big screen TV. There wasn't an opportunity for such seriousness. Essam was introducing us to his new wife Asmaa, with pictures on the laptop from the double wedding cum honeymoon starting in Morocco, then back home in Egypt; Alexandria, Cairo and The Valley of Kings. I would occasionally lean in to look at something and absentmindedly blow smoke in my daughter's face. That was the worst.

It was a little awkward since Asmaa spoke only French and Arabic, yet she seemed content to listen, then smile and laugh when Essam filled her in. He was inside paying the bill and Shosh was using the facilities. Asmaa and I stumbled around a little on our language legs but she knew enough that (I think) she said “No, not difficult not knowing English.” They live near but far north of the City, yet it's still those overlapping neighborhoods on steroids, seems to me. City of Immigrants (Steve Earle).

We could have easily found our way back the way we'd come but Essam insisted he drive us back to Manhattan. I knew why when I saw the glow like an artificial sunrise shinning around the skyscrapers ahead. Times Square; chock full of people even at this hour. It's true; Shosh and I wouldn't have gone there on our own, but it was awesome. Tokyo may be brighter (if it is), but NY is the prototype.

I'm sure that I'd get tired of it, having grown up in the hardwoods, but I always wish that I lived there when I have to leave NYC. We would have stayed longer but Shosh, who is staff at Shedd, in Chicago had an invitation to go behind the scenes at the New England Aquarium in Boston. As much as I'd like to grow old in the city who could pass up the opportunity? The trip to Madison was a given anyway.

So I didn't get to spend as much time in Madison as I wanted to either. We were off to Boston. I didn't go to the Aquarium. Tom's son Pat and his fiancee Shayna got the tour. I hung with my old friend, walking the Freedom Trail, then visiting some of his old haunts from when he lived there. There were even some who [vaguely] remembered me, from back when I was an over the road driver. It was awesome. Down to the Crossroads.

Shosh and I made it back to Boston in time to take a later train. It turns out we should have taken an even later one but the clerk behind the counter wasn't interested in saving us money. We walked down to the Dirty Water, turned left and followed the Freedom Trail ourselves for awhile, then went home to Madison.

I'm not sure that I deserve both the success and the friends that I have, not to mention my children that I'm always bragging on, but there you have it; here I am.

 

Authentic Brooklyn

 

Now that I have access to a keyboard I can be more expansive in my descriptions. I wanted to tell you about an incident that happened while on the way up to Shoshana's, at the very start of the vacation. I was almost to her apartment, in fact I could see the building when this car stopped in the middle of the street in front of me. There was room along the curb but it stopped plumb in the middle of the one lane of traffic. A woman got out of the passenger side, closed the door and stood there. The car remained stopped. It began to rock back and forth, quieted, then rocked again. The rear passenger door opened and a flip flop was thrown onto the pavement. Another flip flop followed. The car rocked again and a huge black woman emerged, one leg at a time from the back seat. She fitted her fat feet into the waiting flip flops then hoisted herself upright. The cars behind me were honking but the woman paid no mind and sauntered over to join her friend on the curb.

I dunno, I kind of enjoyed the show. It was like, classic ghetto [ironic disdain] or something. Not that the kids live in the ghetto. Au contraire. They live in Renaissance Lofts, an old beauty college converted to condominiums, though Shoshana and Amir are only renting. It's an up and coming part of the city but bad neighborhoods are close by. Although still within walking distance of the Big Lake it's not advisable to do so, like we used to when they lived in Wrigleyville.

It's interesting; one couldn't really say that there's a neighborhood there, where they live now. That's Shoshana's biggest complaint about the move. Every necessity is close to hand, but it's all insulated and characterless. Where Jonah lives in Brooklyn, by contrast, is neighborhoods (plural) on steroids, all overlapping. Williamsburg is a trendy part of the city now. What makes it trendy is that it's still affordable, relatively speaking. I never saw his East Village apartment that he was so proud of.

“So why move?” I asked.

“Half the rent,” was the answer.

Looking out his kitchen window my first question was, “What's up with all the Ohio flags?”

“That's Puerto Rico [duh].”

On the weekend the men set their chairs on the sidewalk (there are no stoops to speak of in this part of town). The women have their own gatherings but seemed much busier, what with children in tow. There was one elderly matron who had a wingback armchair against the curb, her subordinates distributed around her, either standing or seated on lesser thrones. We passed that way again, after dark. The people were gone but the armchair remained, with no rain in the forecast. Jonah paused to admire its upholstery.

Young children playing on the street, running up and down laughing, or riding their bikes (New York sidewalks are wide enough to accommodate life). That was mostly in the early evening, before or during the “blue dark.” All but the youngest children seemed to be occupied somewhere during the days. I know that summer school was in session. Jonah and his roommate both get their coffee from the office so it was up to me to find my own. I passed the junior high school in doing so and saw the kids waiting to enter. There were crossing guards on the corners, as if a New York kid didn't know how to cross a street, bless their hearts.

So yeah, the age groups congregated together. Only once did I see a bunch of restless adolescents that looked like they might be trouble. Then again, they didn't look that tough. I'd wager there was respect there. From Jonah's fire escape you can see the projects. I'm sure there's respect there too, but I wouldn't visit unless I had to (or had a guide?).

My first morning out in search of coffee I went the wrong way. If I'd been more perceptive the day before I'd have turned right on Bedford Ave. but I continued on down toward the East River and turned left, under the bridge. New York is always in transition. There's still industry along the river in Williamsburg, both functioning and defunct, as well as vacant lots that Jonah calls “rural Brooklyn.” I found the Bridge Deli and poured two coffees and a hot chocolate from the machine. There didn't seem to be any creamer so I turned to the guy who'd been standing at the counter playing with the store kitten and asked for milk?

“Sukar?” he looked confused.

“Leche.”

“Ah...” he pointed to the cooler next to the coffee station where I found an open gallon.

“Gracias.”

“OK”

I thought it was cool. I'd actually had a chance to use my very limited Spanish. Alright, I've had other opportunities which may or may not be recorded in The Reluctant Trucker but I always get a kick out of it.

Eh, the coffee was good and Shoshana said the hot chocolate was some of the best she'd ever had. I didn't want to tell her it came from a machine. So on Monday I went back to the Bridge Deli despite that I'd since realized my logistical mistake. I'm glad that I did. I'd already seen several Hassidic Jews with their ringlets, including a couple guys in their fur hats on the Sabbath, despite the heat, but it was cool to see a school bus with Hebrew on the side, no English, and the little boys with their little ringlets inside. They're kind of like Jewish Amish, in a way.

There had been an attractive young Latina sitting on the step (not stoop) when I'd set out that morning. She was still there when I returned. I thought I'd use my Spanish again and said, “Pardon.” She came back with a Brooklyn, “Hi, how ah ya?” I saw her again the next morning, our last in New York. On my way back into the building she asked, “Did you just move in or something?”

“I wish,” I thought, but said aloud, “No, I'm visiting my son.” We chatted briefly, wished each other well, then parted.

 

City Hopping

Vacation time! I drove to Chicago after work on Friday. The fastest way to the kid's apartment is up Lake Shore Drive, which is fine by me as I'm all about the views of the city. It was a beautiful day, the temperature along the water mild. People were out in droves exercising and enjoying the day. I thought, "I wish I were coming to spend the weekend here!" But it was OK, Shoshana and I were scheduled to fly out in the morning to NYC to visit my son Jonah who neither of us had seen in over a year.

Saturday dawned bright and fair. Flying out of Midway we got an excellent view of the city. The big buildings looked to me like a crystalline encrustation growing along the shore of the big lake. The fields of Michigan reminded me of a circuit board schematic, interrupted by the organic element of drainage. Later, over Appalachia the organic ruled and you could see how it all flows. Then, in our descent to Laguardia the schematic principle returned with the industrial warehouses as microprocessors and the semi trailers backed up to their doors the connections to the grid.

Every time that I've flown into or out of NY I've been on the wrong side of the plane to see the city (I had a window seat if you haven't already guessed), but not this time. I was just beginning to see what I thought might be the tip of lower Manhattan when the plane took a turn to the west and my heart sank. Then it turned back east and the Statue Of Liberty came into view. It was awesome. Another crystalline encrustation along the mouth of a river this time; an estuary full of ships and boats.

I'm pecking this out with my thumbs so I'll leave it at that. I wanted to post a couple pictures of the view from Jonah's fire escape, authentic Brooklyn, but there's no search dialouge box on this android, at least that I've found. I'll have to get back to you.

Hallucinatory Gambit

 

There's a sodium security light on Dolan Ridge that casts a wan orange glow onto the pavement through the trees that line the road. It looks as though there's of a group of deer ahead, the color their russet flanks. I fall prey to this illusion every single morning! I get annoyed and complain, “You'd think I'd have learned by now!” But today I realized that it's actually right to be continually fooled. What if there actually were deer standing there one morning? If I became complacent I might easily run straight into them. Still I find it kind of amazing that I am able to remain so unconditioned and open to the moment to be tricked time and again. Is that like Zen, or maybe old age?

That put me in mind of the trucker's legend about the driver who saw an elephant in the road. “That can't be real, it must be a hallucination,” he surmised and kept on driving only to run smack into an elephant standing in the road. It seems the pachyderm had recently escaped from a circus train.

Do I detect a note of incredulity concerning such a gargantuan hallucination? There are many stories of trucker's delusions, most notably the infamous Black Dog that has wrecked more than a few rigs. I myself have only experienced such phenomena once: I was crossing western Utah at night, perfectly legal but nevertheless exhausted, my circadian rhythms way out of whack. Plain as day I saw a log laying across the highway ahead of me. It never occurred to me that I was in the Great Salt Desert where there are no trees, I just wondered, “Am I going to be able to move that thing to keep going?” As I pulled to a stop before it the entire exquisitely detailed log sort of fizzled and disappeared. “Whoa,” I thought, “I think my subconscious is trying to tell me something!” I pulled over at the very next rest area and shut down, though my schedule would only allow a short nap.

The clouds were awesome today. I have sat and stared at clouds before, watching them grow oh so slowly. They were growing so fast today that I could see it happening in stolen glances from the highway!

 

Exercising My Thumbs

Ah, Springtime! Truth be known I was sorry to see the lineal play of boles and branches obscured; sorry too to lose the vista across the Beanblosom from the top of Dolan ridge. Don’t get me wrong, I'm happy to see the forest clothed in green again. I just find beauty in the starkness of winter too. It's always something and [I'd much rather clean bugs off of my windshield than ice and snow.

Three dimensional clouds. Grey cloud-wrack scudding quickly beneath more sedentary bulbous shapes; the horizon dominated by the dome of a massive thunderstorm, its edges lost in purple obscurity, its crown splayed out across the prevailing winds of the upper atmosphere. It's been a rough spring in the Midwest and across the South, what with all the storms and all. Why, we had a tornado here the other night. It took out some mobile homes on the southwest side of town and I've heard it wrecked havoc with some trees on campus too. Nobody was hurt, thank goodness.]

Crap, what happened? The text incased in brackets above was simply gone after I posted. I gave myself carpel tunnel syndrome and more than half of what I'd pecked out was gone!? Then auto correct wouldn't let me write the word "crap," but kept replacing it with "deal." I may have to go ahead and get that new laptop before I go off on vacation!

test post

This is a test post created on my new android smart phone. Since I came in off the road I'm making a lot less money and won't be able to afford a new laptop. I'm trying to see if I could get by just with the phone. It's obvious that it won't be that easy, but then I'll get better at typing with my thumbs too.

Testimony

 

I interjected my commanding voice into the conversation at a booth in Max's Place. I wanted to testify about how close I'd been to the Mississippi River in Southern Looziana. We've all heard about the mighty Mississippi lately, and the spillway that they might open; the houses and farmland that would then be flooded. I said that I'd seen some of those “structures” and that they looked old and rusted. “I hope they'll still work if they need them.”

I searched through the archive of The Reluctant Trucker and finally found the relevant post, which follows. The map was pirated from DeLorme Maps. I'd gladly pay their licensing fee but the hassle still doesn't seem worth it. I hope they don't put me in jail, or bankrupt me. Hey, I'm advertising their brand, right?

1/05/07

It’s nice of Spring to come so early this year.  I love the bright green of young grass.  But then I was in the Deep South, I doubt many of you have seen the grass growing just yet, despite the unusually warm start to winter this year.  Don’t worry, it’s probably going to hit with a vengeance soon, trying to make up for lost time.

I had an interesting drive across Louisiana 15 today, following the Mississippi River.  They call US 61 the “Great River Road,” but I’ve always been disappointed following it.  Other than some interesting architecture in the towns it's just another highway and you never really get close to the river.  I was close to the river today, and I mean close.  For much of the way the road ran along the top of the levee, marshy woods on one side, and marshy woods on the other, except that the eastern side often opened up into wide expanses of water and there were no buildings, with one exception.  There was quite a bit of water on the western side too, but most of that was due to the heavy rains the night before.  I didn’t actually see the river itself except in a couple of places, but there was no mistaking that it was the shaper of the landscape.

The Army Corps of Engineers has been busy out there.  Every creek and river that pierced the levee had elaborate spillways.  They were all of different design.  Some had huge concrete superstructures that towered over the road; others rose little higher than the water, but they were all built in segments, I presume so that some segments can be opened wider than others, and all of them looked old.  There were locks too.  I got a close up view of a lock looking right down into it from the bridge I was crossing.  It was huge and could have easily accommodated at least two of those big barges, one in front of the other, though it was empty at the time.

And I saw poverty like I’ve never seen it before.  There were literal tar paper shacks, with tin roofs perched drunkenly on blocks of concrete; the yards full of junked cars, old washing machines and piles of other stuff.  Grandma sat on the porch while a group of men leaned over the open hood of a beat up pick-up truck.  There were other dwellings as well, they weren’t all dirt poor, though most of them were modest.  Still, many of the other houses may have had tin roofs too, but they were level and their lines straight.  And there was one large white two story with huge columns along the front of it.  It didn’t look old enough to actually have been a plantation house, but it was sure modeled after one.

All of the buildings were on blocks, because of the swampy ground, and the couple of graveyards I saw had those above ground tombs that you see in New Orleans.  At one place there was a row of modern ranch houses built in a flooded field.  The only ground that was showing was that immediately surrounding the houses and the driveways.  That flooding was due to the rain, I’m sure.  They expected it too, or they wouldn’t have built on raised ground and made a causeway out of the drives.  Still, I’m not sure that I’d want to live anyplace where the front yard was dominated by a levee more than twice the height of your home.

I passed signs for two ferries.  The first I didn’t think much about but the sign for the Angola Ferry caught my eye since it was as crooked as those shacks had been.  As I passed I looked down the drive.  It was one lane gravel and wandered shakily into the woods.  It makes me wonder what shape the boat is in.  I’ll bet it smells like fish down there.

There wasn’t much that was truly old; perhaps the moisture rots things before they can become antique.  But there were a few indications that people had lived there for a long time and that things have changed.  One was a high wrought iron fence with a double gate decorated with scroll work.  It was tilted, rusty and surrounded nothing more special than a plowed field.  Another was the sign for a store, eatery or maybe a filling station that rose right up out of the ditch that ran along the bottom of the levee; behind it nothing but scraggly woods.  The name of the establishment was missing, only the Coca-Cola logo remained.  It was probably from a day before the levee was built, or when it was smaller.  And then of course there were the graveyards with those eerie crypts.

It was an interesting and pleasant drive.  The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky (here’s an observation: even brown muddy water can reflect a clear blue sky without sullying the color in the least).  I needed something like that since this load had been hell up to that point.  The shipper was in a little town along the river and there was no direct way to get there from where I was coming from.  I’d tried to follow their directions but got lost in the dark and the rain out in the country.  I was on narrow little roads with no shoulder, my lane barely wide enough for the truck and the fields on either side were flooded.  Shortly after I got found again I had to wait for over a half an hour while they cleared a fallen tree off of LA 1.  Then, when I finally got to the shipper I found out that the load wasn’t going to be ready until the next day, so I parked along the fence for the night.  They’d said that the shipping office opened at 8:00 so I stayed up late playing my computer game, setting the alarm for 7:00, but at 5:30 in the morning they came banging on my door.  I was due for something nice, don’t you agree?



* * *

I know that I promised I wouldn't use the “N” word again, but I came across this related entry as well:

1/07/07

I feel blessed somehow, in a painful way.  Stuck here in Memphis (with the mobile blues again) I opted not to go into town and spend money.  Instead I spent just a little on some cut rate movies from the local Walmart.  One of them was The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, a 1973 film about an 110 year old black woman and her story from slavery to the Civil Rights Movement in east central Louisiana, on the Mississippi River.  Hey, I was just there!  The history that I had assumed has taken form and weight.

I feel compelled to say a few more words about that shanty town.  I didn’t think that I needed to mention that the residents there were black.  I figured you could guess that, especially with the reference to the large manor style home.  Forgive me if I made it seem like just so much more scenery.  I was appalled by it; fascinated, but appalled.  That's the third world people, right here in America!  What do I think about all the unsightly junk in the yards there?  Resources.  That’s where those unemployed young men will get the parts to make that beat up old pickup truck run.  One could make a derogatory slur to describe a machine made to run with inadequate materials, but I think it takes ingenuity and resourcefulness.  And what about Grandma on the porch?  I bet she could tell you a thing or two.  I recognize that I am just a passing spectator, and don’t know the local circumstances, but I can tell you this: it isn’t just one or two lazy souls who choose to live that way, there is a whole community there, right now, as we speak.


* * *

I wonder where those lazy souls are now. If they open the spillway on its rusty hinges there ain’t much chance of them saving those fancy homes.

 

Lemmings

 

It's too much. I'm not bitching now, just reinforcing earlier observations. My last delivery today was in Owensboro, KY. There are many ways home from there. None of them are good, winding across the hills of Southern Indiana, and most funnel through Bloomington and up the path of my daily commute. I chose the windy way through the Hoosier National, to see the Green Glory, but that's not this Story.

On 67 past Martinsville (it was nice to see the River from the higher seat of a truck; I see where the sand came from) we all fell into relation in the long stretch of open highway.

There were three of us. A small straight truck was in dire competition with a four wheeler several hundred feet in front of me. The four wheeler won, the straight truck accepted his position behind it and we all moved along together at the same speed for a long time. I kept my distance.

We finally came upon the first traffic signal on that stretch. I do this daily and know how the lights react so when it turned green again I was able to sail past those two lovers thinking they were both in my past.

Not so: they pursued me aggressively, both of them obviously breaking the speed limit, demanding to be in front.

“Hey, I'm not in competition; just trying to get down the road. Have it your own way.”

I don't know what happened to the four wheeler but I had multiple chances to pass that straight truck again but didn't; we were in the thick of traffic. I hope we all got where we were going.

 

Life as a Traffic Barrel

 

Actually I've got plenty of positive things to say, I just feel like bitching. Shut up Mom, I'll say something nasty if I want to!

The weather's actually quite nice at the moment so first off I'll bitch about my job. What's that hexagram, Exhaustion, with the lake drained dry? That's why I don't give you the benefit of my daily observations. Oh well, I'm lucky to have a job, right, and one that pays over minimum wage, which I figure would be about 30,000 a year.

What I really want to gripe about is related to my job, but not confined to it. It's this misplaced spirit of competition on the roadways governed by the principle, Thou Shalt Not Be Before Me!

Why just yesterday, on my way home from work, I was running 9 miles per hour over the speed limit in the left lane, having just passed a line of slower cars. Looking in my mirror I saw another car a few hundred feet back slowly gaining on me. I flipped on the blinkers and moved over into the granny lane, like a good boy. We continued like that for maybe a mile or two and then the guy floored it. He roared past me, put me in his blind spot, then slowed to exactly my speed. Hey, at least he wasn't right beside me, like some of them do. I still felt that I needed to slow down, to be comfortable. “Yes, you win!” Later, in Martinsville, I had to come to a stop to wait for him to make a left turn.

Now about the job: I travel a lot of highways, non-interstates with traffic lights interspersed amid long sections of open roadway. I try to time the lights so that I don't have to roar to life from a dead stop, but even rolling slow it's going to take me a while to gain speed. The cars all go zooming past. Inevitably there are a couple of cars along side me as I approach my running speed. As I speed up, they speed up. It's obvious they are pissed off, in competition with me. OK, I've learned to just give them the road but were I to follow it through to the logical conclusion of this scenario they would get past me, pull over right in front of me endangering both our lives, then slow down to the speed they really wanted to travel in the first place. Wait a second, these are people that I'd already passed out there on the open stretches!

This is not the exception, it's the rule. Ugh, I have to let you all go by so that I can then grab the left lane and pass you back? I'm at work here, in a heavily time constrained industry!

What really gets me is when I'm in “competition” with a recreational vehicle with a bunch of bicycles strapped to the front, towing an SUV with a canoe on top. “Chill out dude, you're on vacation!” (The professional RV movers are cool; they're professional, we get along.)

In a construction zone they usually give plenty of notice as to which lane is closed. Everyone chooses that lane, of course, because it actually moves faster as the through lane is forced to slow down to let them in. When I first started this job a Big Truck Driver wouldn't dare to be caught taking advantage of that phenomena; at the risk of being heckled over the CB radio and shut out at the end of the line. “Shame on you!” No more, unfortunately. It's every man or woman for themselves.

So I still suffer through the long wait. At the end of the line I make an opening for a few cars. We could all just keep rolling but it seems that a four wheeler who is alongside a big truck feels that he or she has the right to pass that big truck. As the four wheelers that I've let in pass the ones who fill the gap feel that they have the right to pass too; and so it goes until either someone relents or I assert myself, risking a collision. What do I look like, a Traffic Barrel? It's no wonder the through lane is so slow!

The worst is during evening rush hour, with a lot of people eager to get home. Big Trucks keep a wide space in front of themselves for a purpose. Four wheelers seem to think that purpose is to suit them. Approaching a popular exit on the interstate they'll just keep coming around me, forcing me to slow down to keep a semblance of following distance, for their safety and mine, in case someone has a flat tire or there's a fender bender or something. I can't take the left lane because there's already cars there waiting to get in front of me. I've been down to 25 mph, on the interstate, mind you, before I had a chance to grab the left lane and pass them all back!

I'm not above laying on the air horn in a situation like that, once I'm traveling free. I understand why people don't want to be behind a big truck, besides sometimes being slow you can't see anything ahead. But if you're just going to be getting off the freeway...

I was heckled over the CB radio once (well, more than once but...). I was in a serious traffic backup on The Beltway, 495 approaching the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, which was under construction at the time. Knowing that the right lane ended ahead I was creeping in the next lane over. Moving along with the rest of traffic I kept a space open in front of me into which a steady stream of four wheelers flowed like water. I was told that I should tighten up, stop that gap, make those four wheelers wait like everyone else. “Why,” I asked, “So they can gum things up even more?”

Can't we all just get along?

 

River Mist

 

An early riser in Martinsville this morning would have looked outside and said, “Oh, it's foggy outside,” and they would have been right; for Martinsville. If they tried to extrapolate from that to the rest of the state then they would have been mistaken, however. Although the fog was thick in places it was solely associated with bodies of water.

I first encountered it in the Beanblossom valley, then in Martinsville and on up IN 67 for as long as the highway followed the River. I went up US 31 and don't recall any more fog until I got to the Wabash, which was shrouded in mist though not nearly so thick as that in the predawn darkness along the White. Then it was up and over the hill to the Eel River which was misty too. By the time that I'd gotten to the Tippecanoe it wasn't so much misty as hazy, except for the wisps still rising off the river's surface.

Speaking of rivers I don't have to tell you the water's high. Surely you've heard about the Army Corp of Engineers blowing up the levee in Missouri? I was just down in Evansville, on the Ohio not far upstream from its confluence with the Mississippi and the town of Cairo, IL, the town they were trying to save. The river was higher than I'd ever seen it before. Parts of Evansville were actually flooded. I mean there were houses and vehicles sticking out of a new lake. They had a huge pump going in the area where I delivered and water was bubbling up out of one storm drain then running back down another, which I can't quite figure out. On the approach to the bridge to KY the water was so deep that the current of the Ohio was tugging at the sag in a power line.

The Beanblossom is high too, of course. Her waters have spread into the fields along Old 37, higher than I ever remember seeing them. I haven't forgotten my little adventure; neither the terror nor the beauty.

I had to take IN 10 from I 65 over to US 41 while it was still raining. “Oh shit,” I thought, “what if it's flooded? Surely they'd have a warning at the interstate if it was, wouldn't they?” I was nervous until I saw another truck coming the other way, and was still nervous. IN 10 wasn't flooded but it looked like the Kankakee had claimed a few houses along US 41.

And I hear the sirens' call of that moonlit night. I want to go back. It's a little like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon and wanting to jump.

 

Power Line Serenade

 

I woke up at KC's. He was up but Rachael was still in bed so I folded the blankets and took my cup of coffee outside so that she could rouse herself in her own space (it's very nice, but very small). I scared up a bird that flew immediately onto the power line to the house; a wren perhaps, I could only see it in silhouette.

Amidst the morning cacophony I could distinguish this bird's contribution because he put his body into the act of singing. I counted ten elements to his song. It started with two sharp notes that never varied, but what followed was never the same except that there was always one element with a tremolo.

Although I could distinguish the same pattern coming from round about it seemed that my bird never received an answer. The poor guy was trying different combinations to unlock a mate, and failing. Or so I projected onto the scene.

I have to laugh at myself. “Go away!” I keep singing, as I try to say, “Come hither.”

Say Levine. I'm good with it.

 

Give Me a Sign

 

Here's one of those billboards I was telling you about:

 

Washing the Undercarriage

 

OMG

Some things should not be shared.

But then what is this crazy mixed up blogosphere good for?

It's not that I might once again prove myself an idiot. I will, always. It's that I might give my power away unnecessarily. Pearls before Swine.

I was out of gas at the same time that the well was dry. I could have used credit but knew that I had enough to get home, while payday was tomorrow. There was a gallon of new gas in the shed, shy one mower's tank. That would get me back to Martinsville, where the prices are cheaper.

But I had forgotten that the homeless kid staying here had already poured that into his tank.

No fear; no need to go begging at the neighbors'. I still had enough to make it to the station on the hill; out of my way and more expensive, but hey...

I'm a stubborn man. I hate back tracking. I figured I'd go through the bottoms and come up the hill to get there.

Some back story: It's been raining; the water is high. A couple days before, on my way home from work I'd seen a minivan come to a stop in the bottom as I was passing. “Don't cross when flooded,” I repeated by rote.

But then I saw an SUV coming the other way, barreling through the water like nothing.

Then, just last evening, on my way home, with the empty tank, I saw a small pickup run straight into the water, kicking up a wake with complete confidence.

I thought, “It's passable; that's the way I'm going in the morning; shortcut to gasoline.”

That turned out to be a bad idea. I mean: I don't have an SUV, nor a pickup truck; just a little Hyundai Accent.

It started out OK, then got deeper. “Where's the road?!” I got into some gravel on the shoulder and floored it to get back onto the pavement. It got deeper yet. “Oh shit, no turning back now!” Seriously, I thought about backing out but if I was having trouble following the roadway forward how was that going to work out? Besides, I was afraid to stop. My headlights were lost in the wave I kicked up before me. If it weren't for that waning gibbous moon high above I'd have been lost (five AM EDT).

Lest you think I'm a complete idiot let it be known that I wasn't afraid of a current. Wylie Road traverses a floodplain backwater surrounded by hills, away from the stream proper. Otherwise I would have tried Mel Currie Road, which actually crosses the Beanblossom. Though looking at Google Earth I see that I was closer to the main channel than I thought!

I climbed out of the water and thought I'd made it, but it was not to be, there was more water ahead. This was the true test of my intelligence. I was afraid that I might not make it back the way I'd come, so I continued on; April Fool that I am.

My hopes were soon dashed as it quickly became as deep as before. I was in the same position again: no turning back! Then it got deeper. My headlights were literally underwater. Then they went out. The dash lights were still on but other than that it was just me, the river, and the moon.

It was probably agricultural detritus but in my heightened state I saw them as floating mats of watercress. I imagined tiny flowers, stand-ins for lotus blossoms. I didn't miss the beauty of my position. I looked out the drivers side window and saw the moon reflected on the water, gut high to me. I slowed quickly once for some reason and the compression wave took off at the same speed I'd been traveling like a mini-tsunami. I only wish I'd looked behind to see what my wake looked like in the moonlight, but I had to navigate. My knuckles must have been white on the steering wheel.

I was resigned to my fate. I seriously didn't think that I would make it. It was 36° Fahrenheit outside and water was seeping in around the doors. I was looking forward to some uncomfortable hours ahead, not to mention what a fool I would feel having done what we all know not to do.

I could see the end ahead, the road rising in the moonlight onto the hill. The water got deeper still.

I've only told this story to two worthy people, with one other listening in. All three of them wanted to know, “Did you Float?”

“No,” I told them. I never felt like I was floating; but come to think of it, near the end I had it floored but was going nowhere fast, nor was the tach anywhere near the red. I just thought it was my engine ready to die.

Nor did I feel my brand new drive tires grab the road at any point, as I emerged from the Red Sea, but there was plenty of power when I asked for it, and the headlights came back on, steam rising from the hood. “Christ,” I thought, “now I just need to make it up the hill to the station before I run out of gas!”

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you Water of the Beanblossom for letting me pass; Thank you Luna for your light; Thank you my Lucky Stars (Goddess)!

I'm overdue for having my transmission flushed, I think I'll do that today.

 

Hollow Log

 

It's starting to look a lot like Easter, everywhere I go... The grass is green, and long, perfect for nestling Easter eggs. Between the redbud, the dogwood and the various “peachy” buds, not to mention the delicate green of newly opened leaves, the hills look like an Easter Egg. He is risen! The Green Man returns; the resurrected god.

It's Little Five Weekend!

I'm not sure what sparked the memory but the other day I recalled the mystery of the forest behind my house, before they cut the trees. Everywhere you looked was harmonious elegance; the cacophony of young growth long orchestrated by the conductor of need. All the sunlight utilized, yet none of the branch tips touching. But it wasn't all brightness and light. There was a dark side, intimated by the evident decay; the rotten, hollow logs.

Whether they were forgotten, abandoned, or discarded there were several child's dolls mouldering into the substrata just behind my house. I put their heads into the gaping woodpecker holes of senior sassafras. I remember one in particular with one eye open, the other permanently closed. This somehow expressed that beautiful immanent darkness; Headhunters' Light.

Those might have been some of the last honest hollow logs in the State of Indiana; long since disintegrated.

 

Truth Will Out

 

Dawn sneaks slowly through the windows
Listening to Joan Baez
singing Zimmerman.
I show my age, but how about that Bernie Sanders?
Who are these Robber Barons anyway,
my relatives?

Mitachie Oywasin (Oy ve).

 

Nostalgia

 

I awoke yesterday, picked up the paper and perused the adverts, looking all the time like a general in the army. If I'd looked in the mirror I'd have given up, but I didn't, I kept on marching. MARCHING, MARCHING, MARCHING into April Fools.

Go Dawgs!!

Diamonds and rust; I'll try to deflate slowly.

Sometimes it was Russia, sometimes it was Poland. I heard Yiddish when I was young, but have forgotten what it all means.

 

Eek A Mouse!

 

It's usually light by the time that I make it to the wind farm north of Lafayette. I generally have another stop or two somewhere, and early for Northwest Indiana is an hour later for me, it being on Central Time. I passed through there twice this week in the predawn darkness though. The warning lights on the tops of the turbines are all wired to the same switch. They're all on at the same time; all dark at the same time. The scale is vast. It's spooky. It looks like some gigantic industrial instillation and seems menacing, conjuring an image of a blasted nightmare landscape. I know, however, that the windmills are set amid fertile fields awaiting planting, and rather than being sinister offer hope.

It's not fair: I don't want to go to bed at night, and I don't want to get up in the morning either!

I was cruising to work the other morning, the interior of my car lit only by the dash lights. I imagined some movement out of the corner of my eye and ignored it. I saw it again, looked and OH MY GOD, there was something moving! I found that I had changed lanes without looking and was headed for the median, away from whatever it was over there. Granted I knew that I had the road to myself at the time but still, one mustn’t overreact, it was only a mouse.

 

Extra, Extra

 

I can see the headlines now: Rock and Roll Wins!
Murder will out
Secular Humanism
Duh!
I know, my naivete knows no bounds.

Yes, I'm going with this new identity. My birthday is coming up after all. I be a natural born fool!

Since I mentioned it I've been paying attention to the river. The sand inside the cofferdam is actually higher than that outside of it, which spreads itself downstream. The old shoal is still there, the sand deposited on top of of it, but the second channel of the river is gone. It's a single stream now.

The forsythia is blooming, and so are the daffodils. I love those cute little green dots that follow the arms of the Weeping Willow. I've been out on my bicycle and can't wait to do more.

 

Everywhere a Sign -or- Changing Course in Mid Stream

 

The water has receded revealing that the channel of the White River has changed. There used to be a broad shoal dividing the stream in two at the bridge in Martinsville. The shoal might be there yet, the water is still high, but now there is a sizable sand bar deposited in the lee of that cofferdam the construction people built. The shoal was coarse. From the distance of the bridge like it looked to be made of rocks and pebbles, clam shells and debris. The sand looks fine and clean. There is one obvious piece of debris though: a huge tree trunk got caught by its roots on the edge of the cofferdam. The sand is inside the dam too, almost to the same level as outside, so I guess they're going to have to dig it out again. Today was the first day that I've seen them back to work.

Oh, that last post? Yes; another drunken ramble. I wasn't trying to be clever, but I sure imagined myself so. It's really nothing more than stream of consciousness, and its only purpose was to put something beneath the title, which is actually what I like. Perhaps I should clarify something though: I am no Tea Partier; heavens no. In my estimation their brand of fiscal discipline is irresponsible; liable to bring down the whole house of cards; throw the baby out with the bathwater (after its been saved from abortion of course). I best be careful what I say.

I think that I shall never see a billboard as beautiful as a tree. Why are there so many billboards when a third of them are simply advertising available billboard space? Oh, then you have the high tech billboards made of lights. They have multiple messages on them. I can't quite figure why though, it must cost more to advertise there. I guess people figure their ad looks better in lights but it's irritating because the ads change so quickly. I see something and don't quite get the message, look at the road, then look back to figure it out and the ad has changed. It's very effective.

Most billboards are just a nuisance but there are a few that I truly hate. I suppose someone thinks they're designed well but they disgust me. There's one on old 37 outside of Bloomington. I don't even know what it's advertising, I always look away. There were several that affected me that way sprinkled around the country when I was over-the-road.

There were billboards that I liked too; like when I was tired and almost out of hours, looking for a place to park. Give me a billboard advertising a truck stop ahead and I'd be very grateful. I could imagine a better way though. Take down the eyesores and put up transponders with a display in every vehicle. The driver could choose which messages they wanted to receive.

There's a billboard on I-70 over toward Terre Haute that's hawking advertising space. It says something like, “24 hour visibility,” only I noticed that it doesn't have any lights. It must be talking about some of the other available spaces.

There are other signs that I like. Mostly the old school ones without a current tenant. There might be several layers of ads all peeling off at different rates. It's abstract; it's beautiful. Then there are the empty boards that look to be made up of an older sign cut up into strips. Usually the strips are alternating right side up, upside down. For what reason that's done I can only guess but it's visually interesting, like an assignment in freshman design school or something. I saw a current add the other day that seemed to made of strips, contrary to the way its usually done nowadays. It wasn't that the add read as if it were done in strips, but a strip from an earlier add had come loose and fallen to rest on the workman's walkway. What was interesting about it was that the fallen strip looked exactly the same as the current ad displayed. I was traveling down the highway at high speed and wasn't at luxury to ponder it but didn't see any difference in the lettering. I wished that I could pass my cursor over it to reveal the old ad underneath.

Nowadays they print the ads onto a sheet of plastic and stretch them across the board. It looks cheap to me, the way that vinyl siding looks cheap on a house, and if they get messed up in the wind it's not so much interesting as untidy.

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

 

Buddhist Extreemism

 

What you gonna do
in the midst of time?
Gotta feed yo family.
I ax u
Hoosier daddy?
Who's knocking at my door
The government or
legitimate.gov?
I prefer Black Cohosh.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

 

Apology

 

I heard the first mourning doves the other day. Their seductive cooing evoked summertime; an experience belied by my senses. I looked around, startled because the trees were still bare, the grass dry and brittle. There might have yet been piles of snow in the shadows.

My crocuses came up, but declined to open because it got cold again. They might be open now though, the sun is shining. I haven't been outside yet this fine morning. I can hear the birds singing; not in mourning, in what sounds to me like jubilation; though I know is just their way.

Do I need to apologize for my use of language? I don't know, I certainly don't mean any harm. In one sense it very definitely expresses my deep frustration at the state of society (again I hear Patti Smith, ”Outside of society...” OK, I'll get over it). That entire post was one of those drunken rambles that I was telling you about, that I later decided had enough merit to let stand. I dunno?

I'll say this because I'm proud of it: I was called a n---- once, by a black man in Memphis, TN. I took it as a compliment.

I'll not retract the word, but I won't use it again. I do apologize though; for the entire shameful history that necessitates my apology.

 

Flood Warning

 

The geese are back. They disappeared so surreptitiously that I never realized they were gone; they who once dominated the yard. I'd seen a few V formations out on the routes but didn't give it another thought. Then, while doing a post trip inspection I rounded the back of the trailer and there were two couples; four geese on the surface of the pond. They were obviously already aware of me, though I was taken by surprise.

The next morning I was pleased to see that something else I hadn't remembered to miss was back: the gentle reflection of the warehouse lights off of liquid water thrown onto the sides of the trailers in the predawn darkness. It's been a “Canadian style” winter. I wondered early on how the fish could survive in a block of ice then forgot about it when winter became commonplace. I hope the fish survived; the pond's not very deep.

Damn the Goose shit!

With four inches of rain and a Winter's worth of snow melt the rivers in Indiana are high. More rain is not only predicted, it's falling. They're building a new bridge over the White River in Martinsville, along my commute. They built a cofferdam to pour a foundation or something. It was fun to watch the water rise against the dam day after day until one day it was simply gone; only a ripple, then not even that. They moved all of their heavy equipment away from the bank. I think they're going to have to move it further up; the water was already lapping at its treads yesterday.

I'd heard about real flooding but it was just an abstraction; until US 224 was closed in front of me due to high water. The first time that I saw the ROAD CLOSED AHEAD sign I had no choice but to make the turn, I was simply following the highway. I got into the left turn lane before the next Road Closed sign and while waiting for an opening noticed that everybody else was going straight ahead, regardless. “There's the bridge right there,” I thought, “the water's not too high. Maybe they just haven't taken down the signs yet, or maybe there's a way around it; at least I'll already be on the other side of the river.” So I put my right turn signal on and fell into line behind everybody else.

Two blocks up the street was barricaded. Beyond the orange and white boards the road disappeared into brown water. “Now that's high water!” I exclaimed, following the other cars up a street to the right. I was still hoping that I could get around the flooding. The first thing I saw, however was a sign that read “Weight Limit 8 tons.”

“Oops, I think I'm a little too heavy!”

Fortunately there was a business on the corner with a parking lot that I could turn into. It wasn't large enough for me to turn around in but it wrapped around the building to the closed road on the far side of the barricade. As I was backing up to go back through the lot the other way a guy came running out of the building and pulled back the barricade, opening the road for me. Whew, a potentially horrible situation was made easy. I had to go miles and miles out of my way but for no reason at all I'd started early that day and I was still on time for my appointment. Sometimes I get lucky.

 

the "N" word

 

Listening to Patti Smith; things don't seem so easy as they did in the Seventies. Still, it's the Truth, only more so. Rock and Roll Nigger! Graffiti Lascaux!

I always wondered about Prometheus's liver. You know, the eagles that feasted on it daily. Humans have this enormous liver, we can deal with toxins, like alcohol. Woodsmoke? And Prometheus stole fire from the gods for us? How did the myth makers know such things, or is it merely coincidence?

Pissing in a River.

People have the Power? I first heard this before Tienanmen Square, where the Peoples' Army opened fire. Yah, you were dreaming. Now we have Egypt, and Libya. Goddess bless them. Is it too little too late?

The night belongs to Love.

 

Another Day, Another Dime

 

A February thaw. It feels like an early spring. I spoke to the birds when I let the cat out. They had nothing to say to me. A couple thrushes did cock their heads to listen to my pathetic whistle. The dawn multitude had much to say to each other though. I'm so glad that I live up here on this ridge top with the forest at my door.

I wrote that last weekend. I apologize for my reticence. Some of you may have seen some drunken scribbles here as I search for an identity other than as a driver that I quickly (oops, one was up for a week) deleted. More on that later, perhaps, but guess what! I'm a driver! Here's my latest misadventure:

The name of this blog is apt. I was sent over the road last week. It was a nightmare. I'm so glad that I only have to fight for a space to park my truck, so that I can sleep, occasionally. And the food...

Joplin Missouri was my terminus. On the way I saw the Arch, my favorite piece of Public Work. An early co-driver of mine once asked, “What's it good for?”

“Would you live in a world without Art?” I asked in reply.

I have spoken before about the many faces of the Arch I have seen: without apparent foundation, or stainless steel edged; but that's all lost in the archive. Unfortunately traffic was tricky both as I crossed the Mississippi, and later when I passed beneath the Arch itself, going back northwest after my first delivery. I didn't have the chance to appreciate it. I stole a few glances, and its reflection in the glass of the downtown skyscrapers surprised me once.

Coming home on I 255, however, I watched the Arch with the City behind it in minute parallax as I traversed the abandoned canal and viable train yards. It's undeniable; it's there; the Gateway.

Is this job really so bad, is it really a nightmare?

I thought my luck was changing when I got a back haul that picked up in Webb City, just north of Joplin, instead of 90 miles further west in Coffeeville Kansas, like the last time I did this run. I pulled into the Flying J on my way to the pick up so that I could clean out the trailer and met gridlock. I never got past the entry and ended up doing a U turn in the drive 20 minutes later.

I was lucky. If I'd gotten into the lot how long would it have taken me to get back out again? And it didn't matter that my trailer was dirty in the end.

Once backed into the dock I had to laugh, I mean really. After getting my empty weight the scale operator told me that the docks were on the opposite corner of the building. He turned to confer with someone then said, “The easy way to do it is to go up 'the trail' along that side of the building, but it's blocked right now. You'll have to go that way and take a left, turn right and straighten out, then back in.” Fair enough.

I headed up “that way” and looked down the first lane to the left. It looked like it might have been possible to get my rig through there except the piles of scrap metal were overflowing into the road so I went further up. I stopped. There was no right to make after the next turn to get straightened out; end of the line. So there I was traipsing through the mud, in the rain, trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get to the docks. A garbage truck driver stopped and gave me some moral support and I laughed it off but thought, “Dude, you drive a straight truck.”

I ended up doing an S back. The sight side part was easy, wide open, but it narrowed to a bottleneck in the blind side. Fortunately the tire tracks in the mud were easy to follow even in my little convex mirrors. I lined up next to another trailer parked there, then got out to give the dock workers my load information. There was nobody around. I looked to check how I was situated to the dock and...what the hell? That one trailer was parked against the only part of the bay that was parallel to the building, the rest of the docks were set at an angle. It was an angle that was impossible to back straight into because of the piles of scrap aluminum. All I can say is that I'm glad I'm a veteran driver or I might have had trouble there.

It was a heavy load and was immediately apparent that I had a tire low on air. “Great, how long is this going to delay me?” I thought, “I just want to go home.” I got out my air hose that hooks to the inboard compressor via the trailer emergency brake line to air up the flat temporarily, so that I could get out of there. My mistake then was in checking the pressure of the other tires. All eight of those trailer tires were low! I admit; like 99% of my compatriots I merely thump the tires and only get out the gauge when I detect trouble. Usually the loads I deal with aren't heavy enough to worry about it but this one was. So I spent an hour there kneeling in the mud, airing up my tires. Sometimes the angels do smile on us though. I don't know why those tires were all so low, but the pressure held and I never had to go into the shop. One more night on the road and I was headed for home!

I was feeling pretty good Friday, on my way back. The load I was hauling didn't deliver until Monday but I was supposed to try and deliver that day. Then my fleet manager sent me a message that said never mind. He must have called ahead to arrange it and been told no go. All I had to do was drop the trailer on the yard on the north side of Indy. I still had to shuttle the Chicago load to the other side of the building in Plainfield but that was supposed to be ready for me by the time I'd get there. The weekend was just ahead. As I rolled into Indiana listening to WISU a fresh snow delineated the branches of the hardwoods. Things were looking OK. I'd forgotten all of my trials and tribulations. Life wasn't so bad.

Then there was an injury accident that had southbound 465 shut down. I jumped off at Crawfordsville Road and took Lyndhurst south. Lyndhurst is a big wide road both up north and further down. I didn't know, however, that it turns into a two lane residential street in between, with lots of school bus stops! I finally made it to Washington street, my destination but then had to ask, “Am I dyslexic, or what?” The accident was at Sam Jones. I was thinking Washington St. was below Sam Jones, but it's not, it's above it. Oops. With everyone else trying to get around the accident too Washington St. was a mess so I jumped on 465 going back north to Rockville road and followed that all the way out to 267, stop light after stop light.

I don't know if I could have done better but it ended up taking me an extra hour in traffic. I was lucky though, because when I got there the Chicago load still wasn't ready yet. That's an hour I would have had to spend reading or something.

I made it home though, I survived. It could have been a lot worse. So is this job a nightmare, is it hell? Naw, it's all in a day's work.