Falling Stars

I saw the most beautiful meteor fall this morning on my way to work. It's Friday the 13th, which I've always said was my lucky day, and it was pure luck that I happened to look out the driver's side window just as it was falling. It was a big one, with a long tail and it lasted a long time coming deep into the atmosphere before fizzling out; I think maybe it was quite close. Although it appeared as a white streak across the black sky the meteor itself cycled through the spectrum several times as it fell; just momentary flashes of color. It was dazzling. It made my day, which was a good thing to have happen early because I had a hard one ahead of me.

I think the coolest meteor that I ever saw was when my daughter Shoshana and I stopped to look at the stars at a small lake up in Morgan Monroe State Forest, on our way home from Indianapolis once (on the Forest Road that I take home from work), when she was about nine years old. Suddenly, centered in the sky before us like it was staged, there fell a huge, bright meteor. It then broke into three pieces plus quickly consumed fragments and continued to fall for a little before blinking out. We were both looking right at it.

I remember another time on a camping trip when Shoshana was about the same age. We were looking at the stars and she said, “Wouldn't it be cool if we were out there.” The obvious answer to that was, “We are.”

The Leonid Meteor Shower is coming up and is supposed to be a good one. I'll be out the door on my way to work during one of the peak viewing times: 4:00 AM, 11/17. It'll be the dark of the moon too. If there isn't any cloud cover then I'm there; I'll budget extra time. I always try to look up when I leave the house anyway, to see the Milky Way. On really clear nights, without a moon I can begin to see how that haze is made up of millions of individual stars, like I could when I was up in the mountains; even though the neighbor across the street has installed a new security light (which at least helps me find the steps). Sometimes I get in a hurry and forget to look up. Then I'll catch a glimpse of the sky someplace, like over the big cornfield beside the Beanblossom when I turn left onto Sample Road. I have to slow down and look, wishing that I'd taken the time before I left, when I'd have been able to enjoy it more. Such Beauty.

* * *

Things haven't let up at work at all. I pulled another 14 hour day today, with five stops! I've never had five stops before. It was the heaviest load that I've ever pulled for Electrolux too, over 20,000 lbs. and except for one stop that has a dock and a clamp truck (a specialized kind of lift truck) I had to tailgate the whole thing. Most of the places usually have helpers, but they were all shorthanded today. Ah well, Friday the 13th, more exercise for me. I'm beat though. It's amazing that I'm still up and running. I usually power drive home but I just couldn't. Everybody passed me by and I was just as happy to let them. It was still a relief to pull onto the Forest Road. There was nobody left to pass me by, just the bare trees lining the way. The woods are beautiful naked too.

 

Moonlight Sonata

The moonlight is beautiful, tracing the branches of the late autumn woods in shadow across the leaf littered ground and revealing the road beyond my headlights like a luminous ribbon. Getting up as early as I do I enjoy the moon more than most, as her phases sink into dawn.

Yes, the trees are mostly bare now. I'd thought of writing, the leaves are thinning like a man's hair, but that was a week or more ago. There's only a few tufts left now, around the ears, as it were. Secrets hidden by the leaves are now revealed, some beautiful, some best kept under wraps. I particularly like the tapering end of Dolan Ridge, upon which I live. From the top of the ridge I can look out, for a brief spell, across the Beanblossom Valley to the hills beyond, and if I'm coming home from work and it's dark, or getting dark I can see the headlights of cars as they climb or descend the hill. That's useful information as the stop sign there at the junction sits in a tuft of grass in the middle of the road, a left over from times past, and to turn left up the hill requires caution.

The darkness accumulates. As early as I start in the morning you might think it strange that it would be dark already on my way home from work, but after a 14 hour day that's possible, and we're more than a month away from the solstice.

Christ, they're running me ragged at work! I'm not sure what the deal is. It had become quite easy, with mostly only one or two stop loads that got me back to the yard early. I wasn't making much money, but I liked it. Holly, the morning gate guard at Electrolux, said that it was the beginning of the slow season, which for appliances starts before the rest of retail. I'm wondering, though, if it doesn't have more to do with the new dispatcher I had, who was just recently fired. I didn't think that my dispatcher had much to say about the loads themselves; that he just distributed what he was given from Electrolux as he best saw fit, but now that my old dispatcher is back it's been hell. I wonder if we're playing catch up, or did I piss him off before he left and now it's payback?

I mean, every load now is three or four stops, and they're long, mile wise. I know that I'm still the low man on the totem pole, with the sleeper cab, but come on. By all rights I should have slept on the truck three times last week. Give me a break. Then, the one day that I did make it back at a reasonable hour my first delivery for the following morning was so early that I had to pick up that evening; I wouldn't be able to make it on time if I'd waited for the yard to open in the morning. But that load wasn't ready yet so I had to wait. There's nothing that I like to do more after my work is done for the day than wait around for the next day's work. There is absolutely no compensation for that time spent, it's just my contribution for the privilege of having a job, I guess.

They said that the load wouldn't be ready for an hour or two. I parked my tractor and got out my book, I'm reading Proust, then decided, what the hell, I haven't had a chance to visit Morris at all this week, and bobtailed to TLC for my car. Trucks do drive 10th street but it's awfully narrow and those miles would be unauthorized, plus, if there wasn't a lot of parking available then I'd have nowhere to tether my horse.

So I got to the hospital and signed in as usual, then made my way through the sterile hallways to the Special Care Unit, went through the doors and saw that Morris' bed was empty. No, his space was empty, there wasn't even a bed there. I heard the nurse, who was talking on the phone, say, “Just a minute,” and then she turned her full attention to me, bless her heart. Morris had been moved just the day before to a facility outside of Spencer. Going home that way might add more miles than 10th street, but it's sure as hell a prettier drive.

So he's about the same, really. I've seen improvement though, corroborated by the nurses this time rather than hope dashed by their qualifications, and the staff at Kindred Hospital in Indy sent him off with high expectations, rather than saying “There's no way to tell.” With his own room and the expectation that he is healing and can actually hear me I've begun reading the book I bought for him so long ago: Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stevenson. What pleasure to read aloud such well crafted, old fashioned language. It gives my tongue a workout.

Returning to the day I was talking about I'd figured that by the time that I got back to the yard my load would be ready. No such luck. We truck drivers are allowed a 14 hour day, after which we must shut down, regardless of what the circumstances are. They took it to the very limit before I was out of there. I drew my lines on the graph honestly but without wriggling room. These days the log book, once called a “comic book,” is taken seriously.

By all rights I should have slept on the truck that night, although I would have had to do it there on the TLC yard, which we're not allowed to do anymore. No matter. I have a deep aversion to sleeping on the truck. Once it was my home, when I was on the road, and although a single night at my real home proved to be rejuvenating I was, perhaps, more comfortable sleeping on the truck. But that was when I had no choice, and it was a different truck, with a different mattress. Now I don't care if I get home after my bedtime, I'll not sleep on the truck again unless I absolutely have to.

 

Too Much

I eat too much, drink too much, drive too much...TOO MUCH!

 

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.

*      *      *

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.

 

Leftover Guacamole

It's was a wet summer and it's been a wet fall. I was anxious over the weather because I'd planned a bonfire party for last Saturday. The forecast called for rain through Saturday, but tapering off, then turning nice on Sunday. I still had hope. You want it to be a little chilly with a fire, and unless it was raining steadily then I was going ahead with the plans. I've had successful bonfires in the damp before.

Friday was overcast at home, but as I went south on the Western Kentucky run the clouds broke up and let the sun shine in: sun and shade, sometimes deep shade, chasing each other across a tattered sky. In the shade the fall colors were rich and mellow, in the sun they were bright and vibrant. The color had just begun that far south the last time that I'd been that way, just the week before, but they were coming on strong now.

My final delivery was in Owensboro, which meant that I'd have to get back to Plainfield overland, on small highways through the hilly terrain of Southern Indiana. The more direct route, with the better roads is up US 231, then over US 50 to IN 37. It's a frustrating route, though, passing as it does through the congested towns of Huntingburg and Jasper. Even with the city driving it's slightly faster that way, and I was anxious to get home. They'd stuck me with a second load on Thursday and I wasn't able to go home that night, having to sleep in the truck. That put me behind a little since I had housework to do before my guests arrived. But still, It was peak autumn and I've been wanting to take that drive all the way up IN 37 through the Hoosier National Forest. It wouldn't take me that much longer either, unless there were a lot of Leaf Lookers crowding the roads; my greatest fear.

I needn't have worried, the road was practically deserted. Nor do I think it took me any longer to go that way in the end. When I'd timed the drive it was at night, when it's harder to gauge the severity of the turns, plus I think I'm beginning to learn the route. And oh my God, such beauty! Words utterly fail me. I have tried elsewhere to describe how certain autumn color mixtures ignite a response in my soul; almost a pain, though a pleasant one. There are no words for that beauty, it cleaves the tongue to the roof of my mouth. I definitely chose the right route to travel. My only regret is that the tricky road too often required more of my attention that I'd like to have given.

That tattered sky of sun and shade followed me all the way up through Bloomington and beyond, even opening out somewhat into larger clear patches. I was approaching Martinsville when I got a call from a friend wondering about the party the next evening. He was looking at the sky too and thought that we were past the worst of the weather. “Hey, unless it's simply pouring I'm having a fire,” I said. “I don't care if anybody else comes, I'll be there.”

Just past Martinsville I was waiting for my turn to cross through the construction on the River Bridge when I noticed a dense mass of cloud crowding over the hills on the far side of the river, and then the sheets of rain pouring down as they progressed across the soy fields toward me. “Um, I think you spoke too soon, Miles,” I said to the empty cab, since I'd already hung up with him.

Sure enough Saturday dawned gray and rainy. I soldiered on nonetheless. As morning turned into afternoon the sky cleared and by late afternoon things had dried out pretty well. The next thing that I knew guests were showing up while I was still running around putting the final touches on things. It turned out to be a nice little party. There weren't as many people as I'd have liked, perhaps my smallest gathering ever, but with the weather and the short notice, I didn't start putting the word out until only a couple of weeks beforehand, I can't complain. I'm actually honored because people came both from Indianapolis and Raccoon Lake to visit.

It was a nice party, but the bonfire was kick ass. It was the best bonfire I think I have ever seen, let alone had myself. Perhaps not as big as some, but ineffably elegant in its shape and impressive in its radiant power. There was a slight breeze throughout the evening that blew all of the smoke in one direction, away from the party, and fanned the flames continuously. It was truly a sight to behold.

Yup, it was a mighty fine party, but I still think there were too few people. For the first time ever I had leftovers of my famous guacamole. Mmm, breakfast.

 

Twisted Metal and Body Parts

Sometimes you don't really know how much you love someone until you see them incapacitated in a hospital bed with brain trauma. Morris had a motorcycle wreck. Morris: jack of all trades, salt of the earth, brother's keeper. Morris: Vietnam veteran, former truck driver, pool shark, joker. Morris: the dutiful son taking care of his mom so she can live at home in the country.

Hey, don't go getting any notions. Morris was wearing his helmet, and his leathers; he never rode without them! The only conclusion that I can draw is that he'd be dead now if he hadn't.

According to the police report he was probably going about 40 mph when he got into some loose gravel in a construction zone on a deserted country road and lost control of the bike. There were no other vehicles involved. Fortunately a farmer was out in his fields and saw the accident happen. The farmer whipped out his cell phone and dialed 911.

He sustained a broken arm, broken shoulder and collar bone, broken ribs (but no punctured lung), multiple lacerations on his left side, and brain trauma. They drilled a hole in his head to relieve the pressure. He contracted pneumonia later. Everything's healing nicely, except Morris just isn't home, yet. I mean, he's awake, but he's not conscious. I add the “yet” in optimism, the doctor's can't say; we just have to wait and see.

It was scary going to see him that first time. I was afraid of what he would look like. I was afraid of the wrong thing. He looks great, considering. My friend Wes looked worse and all he did was slip in the shower and hit his head. But at least Wes recognized me when I visited him, and could squeeze my hand. Morris is completely unresponsive.

Oh he can move. In fact he moves a lot. He writhes in the bed, extending and contracting his limbs, except for his immobilized left arm; not as if in pain, but as if restless, wanting to get up and get going. The doctors say it's a good thing, it means that there's something going on upstairs and although it isn't much it suffices for exercise. The nurses hate it. They're constantly having to reposition him, and cover his exposed private parts. “He always was a trouble maker,” I joked. “Well he hasn't changed,” returned the nurse. To me it looks like he's fighting for recovery, or is that just wishful thinking?

He finally opened his eyes and looked at me. I could swear there was recognition there, but the nurses said, “Yes, he'll look at you, but there's no real focus and he doesn't track with his eyes.” My hopes were dashed. I remember, either from my education or subsequent reading that the human face is the first thing that infants focus on; an instinct if you will, a recognition hardwired into our being; and that faces are the most common form of visual imagining. That's why we see a man in the moon.

On my second visit I had more hope. He looked at me and continued to do so, coming back to my face again after straying. On top of that as he extended and contracted his good arm he more often than not stretched it toward me, hitting me in the face, as it were. Or was that just more wishful thinking? I'd positioned myself on that side of him because it was the direction his body was turned, after all.

I didn't have much time on my last visit. I started a new thing with his arm movements; resisting his attempts. He fights back, which is reassuring. His eyes were open when I leaned in to him and said, “I have to go now, I'll be back soon.” It seemed that he grew still, as if he felt disappointment at my departure; or was that just more wishful thinking born of my sense of guilt that I was leaving so soon?

I'll be back. I've made arrangements with the neighbors that if my car isn't in the driveway at 9:00 at night, when Lloyd takes their dog out for her last walk, then they're to feed my ex-wife's cat and fish the next morning (did I tell you that I was babysitting my ex-wife's cat, plants and fish?). I'll sleep in Indy on the truck, which adds a whole layer of subterfuge to the adventure because we're no longer allowed to sleep on the yard there. I can't do too much though, because the cat is high strung and every time that I don't come home I find puke all over the place when I finally do, poor thing.

 

The Best is for Free

I saw some lovely color today, on another Northern Indiana run. The conditions were ideal with a dark dramatic sky rent with vast holes through which the sun shone brightly most of the time. What they call “partly cloudy,” I guess. It's mostly flat up there but every once in awhile I'd climb a rise and the horizon would broaden revealing islands of carnival colored trees set amidst the dun-colored patchwork of mature fields awaiting harvest. That happened once while the sun shone from behind a Swiss cheese bank of clouds sending rays beaming through in all directions; so beautiful, and free for the looking.

Yes, northern Indiana is beautiful, but Southern Indiana is more beautiful still, and of all of Southern Indiana it always seems to me that my own home woods are amongst the finest. I always find sunrise and sunset the best here, and so too the color of the leaves. I guess I'm just partial.