Before I begin the real reason I'm here, two quick funnies.
For those not aware, moonshine can now be made and sold legally in liquor stores. It kind of removes the cachet of drinking 'shine, at least for me. And yes, the stories of shine are true - you feel fine as long as you stay on your barstool, but as soon as you try to walk, your face meets the floor. Anyway, I saw a billboard in South Carolina advertising 'Sugar Tit Moonshine'. If I was still a drinking man...…
Last Sunday, I was driving around Rome, GA and went past an adult boutique called 'The Frisky Biscuit'. Can you imagine the orders placed there? "Excuse me, I'd like two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits please, a side of grits, and, ummmm, how about one of those 'Clone-a-Willy' kits? To go."

In case you haven't noticed, I haven't blogged in a while. I haven't even been in status, although I have stopped in to check messages and to leave a few. The last year and a half have been rough on me - health issues, broken trucks, and, oh yeah, buried Mom and Dad. Needless to say, losing my folks hit me hard. Whenever I see baseball highlights on YouTube, especially the Yankees (Dad was a life-long Yankees fan), I want to call him and ask if he saw what happened. Or I will be driving along and see something that he would find interesting or amusing and I catch myself reaching for the phone. I didn't talk to Mom on the phone that much - it was tough for her to understand the conversation due to being profoundly deaf. But I could hear her in the background and she almost always took Dad's phone just to say Hi and Be careful. And on my birthday, two weeks after we laid Dad to rest, I waited all day for them to call and sing Happy Birthday to me.
Since Mom died, and then Dad, I don't have the old fire to push as hard as I used to. I will drive hard when I need to, but not really because I want to. I'm still making miles and getting the goods delivered, but it feels more like a job now, a chore. It is not a happy pastime where I happen to earn money for doing what I enjoy. And as such, I have nothing to write about. A few times in the last couple of weeks, I have had awesome days, where the coffee was hot, the tunes were loud, the windows down, and the tires were smoking down the highway. I could feel that old spark trying to fire deep inside me. But when it came time to put pen to paper, the pilot light went out and the fire was cold. SInce October of 2017, between visiting Mom for the last time, all the funerals, caring for Dad before he left, and my health problems, I've lost between five and six months of driving. So, I don't have as many experiences to draw from as I normally would. As an aside, I was going to buy a truck this year and lease it to USA Truck, but I lost so much time that it is inadvisable for me to spend that kind of money, not knowing how much driving I can do in a given year.
There is one more reason I am not writing. My sister wrote and delivered Mom's eulogy, and I took care of Dad's. If I do say so myself, it was a helluva piece of work, the best I've ever done. It feels like a culmination to all the writing I have done before. There is a tradition that, when a special toast is given, the glasses used are broken so not to be used again for a lesser purpose. To me, Dad's eulogy was that special glass.
Will I write again? Probably. At some point I will start writing again. And the dam will probably break open and everyone will get tired of me. But for now, the pen will stay in my pocket and the Muses shall go unanswered.

To end on a brighter note, I saw magnolia trees in full bloom in Alabama this past weekend and heard tree frogs singing to each other outside Atlanta. So take heart, spring is coming, slow but sure.

From out where the horizon meets the highway, this is the Old Troubador, wishing you all well.

I want to open up by apologizing if I have seemed distracted or even needy lately. For the last couple of weeks, I have had a lot on my mind. You see, I celebrated my birthday on the road a couple of weeks ago. I don’t generally advertise my birthdays; to me, they are just another workday – it’s just that the desserts are better on that day. But this was going to be a special one. It was my 50th, I was supposed to be off the road, and Mom and Dad were supposed to come down from Pennsylvania to help celebrate it with me. That didn’t happen. Dad has congestive heart failure and has been fighting with it for at least six years. He also wears a pacemaker. Since the first of the year, he has been in and out of the hospital about eight times for complications with all this. He was just too weak to make the trip. In fact, for the three and a half days that I was home, he spent about twelve hours at his house; the rest of the time he was hospitalized again. And Mom seems to be headed into her own little world somewhere, much like her mom did twenty years prior. My sister is bearing the brunt of all this as she lives close by; I drive my truck and have been fiddling while Rome burns down around me. But my sister and I have both come to the conclusion that Mom and Dad will probably never leave Pennsylvania again.
Everything I am, I owe to my Dad. He gave me my work ethic. He gave the gift of laughter and of story telling. Dad taught me that learning does not end when school is over, that that is when the lessons really begin. He gave me a sense of self and told me to never hang my head to anyone. Dad taught me to be polite and about respect for others. He taught me about personal responsibility. He taught me to fish and to swim and to just sit back and enjoy the great outdoors. Some of his lessons were taught with a kind lecture. Others, as you can imagine, were written on the palm of his hand and applied to one of the fleshier parts of my body. We have spent 50 years working, laughing, and crying together. Fifty years of telling jokes and stories of people and places we knew. This is a man who strides through my life larger than life.
Dad is now teaching me how to fight. There are times when it seems like every new day is another one posted to the win column. And he keeps chalking them up. He loses a few here and there. He told me the other day that his best day this week is not as good as his best day last week. And he does get knocked to the mat every so often. But he bounces back and keeps on plugging along. But I have to wonder how long he can, or will, fight. It has to be so tiring. And he has to know also that he cannot leave his retinue of doctors behind. But every day, he gets up and goes after it again – volunteer work, choir and chorus groups, administrative boards, wherever he needs to be. And for one reason – because he promised these people that he would be there, so he makes sure that he is.
So, if I seem lost, if I seem like I am somewhere else, I am. I am inside my heart, replaying 50 years of great memories and hoping and praying that I get another 50 years worth. The late Lewis Grizzard once wrote about going out with some friends and getting “crying about my Daddy drunk”. I now know what he means by that. I worry like hell about him now, and wonder how empty my life will be when his time comes. I laugh at all the cutting up and shenanigans we did. I go back to all our vacations and revisit all the places and people we knew. I spend hours in the rowboat or canoe drowning dead bait with him. And I still lose all the fights we ever had. I live our life together again.
When I grow up, I want to be half the man he is.

The fight ended Friday afternoon. He fought tenaciously to the end but his desire to be with his lovely wife, my Mom, was stronger than his body. I am broken, shattered, as is my sister. Dad walked large through our lives and his memory will continue to do so.

Dad: 14 Oct 1933 - 9 Mar 2018

Dear Mom,
I want to thank you for being my Mom. I want to tell you what a special lady you are. And I want everyone to know it too.
Thank you for all the times you made feel better when I was sick. I wish I knew where you kept that stockpile of little toys that you would give me whenever I was in bed with a cold as a child. Those alone made me feel a lot better.
Thank you for the tenderness you showed every time I got hurt. Your kisses healed me faster than any Bactine or Band-Aid ever could.
Thank you for all the meals you made, all the desserts you baked. It seems like most of your life was spent in the kitchen, adding that one special ingredient ? love.
Thank you for all the laundry you did, keeping me presentable looking even when I did my best to stomp in every mud puddle I could find.
Thank you for teaching me right from wrong, even though I made those some of the toughest lessons for you to get through my head.
Thank you for all the time you spent with me.
Thank you for worrying about me, even though the worrying left you with many sleepless nights.
Mom, I am sorry for all the hurtful, hateful things I said to you growing up. When I think about them now, tears of shame sting my eyes.
Thank you for being a good sport whenever I picked on you or pulled a practical joke on you.
I was, and am still now, always proud to introduce you to my friends.
Thank you for being MY Mom.
You are the loveliest, prettiest, most loving lady I have ever known.
Mom, it?s been a great 50 years with you. And I hope we get 50 more to spend together.
And Mom, every time I picked on your cooking, teased you about your new hair color, re-arranged the drawers in the kitchen, used a leaf blower to put the tinsel on the Christmas tree, or filled the shower with balloons it all meant one thing ? I LOVE YOU.

I was going to write a treatise about the dementia that took Mom from us, but ? yeah. Let me end this by saying that I was blessed to have my Mom in my life for 55 years, 7 months, and 3 days. And our family was blessed in that Mom went in her sleep, finally free from the pain that wracked her, physically and emotionally for the last two years. And we were doubly blessed because Mom passed before the dementia stole so much of her memory that she forgot her own family. I was able to spend the best part of a day with her a few weeks prior, hugging her, her hugging me and each telling the other we loved the other. And the whole time there, she could not say my name enough. It meant that much to her to be able to say it. Spending that day with her, although melancholy, is still one of my best memories of her.
When she left, she was surrounded by her loved ones, including me. We all had a chance to tell her how much she meant to us, to hug her, kiss her, hold her hand. There were laughs as we shared stories, there were tears as we realized what all this meant. There was relief when we realized that she was released from her pain.
I went back on the road Thursday morning following. We will bury Mom in her family plot this coming Friday and have a memorial service on Saturday. I?ll take Sunday off, then back on the road again ? carrying not just freight, but the wonderful memories of the world?s most beautiful lady.
Mom
16 July 1934 ? 1 November 2017

I am thankful for my eyeglasses – for it means I can still see
I am thankful for lousy music – for it means I can still hear
I am thankful for screwing up – for it means I have a chance to learn
I am thankful for the pain in my joints and muscles – for it means I am still alive
I am thankful for the trials my parents are going through – for it means they are still with me
I am thankful for indigestion – for it means I ate last night
I am thankful for crummy days on the road – for it means I am employed
I am thankful for living in my truck - for it means I have a bed and a good roof over my head
I am thankful for heartache – for it means I have loved

No matter how dark things seem, no matter how long the night, the sun will shine again.

There are so many things to be thankful for everyday.
And I am thankful for every one of you.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!!

Follow 309 and Teddy Bear's ghost, all the way to New Orleans


Sometimes I lose, sometimes I win. I just wind up on the highway again


Gotta highway song running through my brain, got diesel oil cruising through my veins

Honor: noun: adherence to what is right or to a conventional standard of conduct
synonyms: integrity · honesty · uprightness · ethics · morals · morality · high principles · virtue · decency · good character · trustworthiness · reliability · dependability
verb: fulfill (an obligation) or keep (an agreement)
synonyms: · observe · fulfill · obey · heed · follow · carry out · discharge · be true to · live up to

Honor is a matter of carrying out, acting, and living the values of respect, duty, and loyalty

Duty: noun: a moral or legal obligation; a responsibility
synonyms: responsibility · obligation · commitment · allegiance · loyalty · faithfulness · fidelity · homage

General Robert E. Lee: Duty is the sublimest word in our language. Do your duty in all things. You cannot do more. You should never wish to do less.

Honor. Duty. Two words that carry much weight. It is to these two words, and their synonyms, that members of the armed forces have sworn to carry as their standard in peace and in war. Even though their duty may take them to far away lands, they honor the commitment they made by performing their obligation, their duty, to the oath they took. They regard their duty as an honor.

Sacrifice: noun: an act of giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy

The sacrifices the members of the armed forces make are considerable. Time away from home and loved ones. Living in conditions that are unimaginable. The constant, mind-numbing horror of war. Yet they make these sacrifices on our behalf, for they have taken this as their duty. And they honor their commitment to something greater than themselves.

This day, 11 November, is a day set aside, nearly 100 years ago, for us to honor the sacrifices these men and women have made. It is our duty to remember what they have given up so that we may live our lives as we wish. It is our duty to honor their commitment to a cause with a commitment to them. It is our duty to honor their allegiance, their loyalty, their faithful discharge of duty with allegiance, loyalty, and faithfulness to them.
If we are negligent in honoring our veterans, then their sacrifices have been in vain. If we are negligent in our duty to the veterans of our respective countries, then we have broken faith with them.
Let us then swear that we will not forget these men and women, nor the sacrifices they made while performing their duty. Let us honor their commitment to something greater than themselves, on this day and all days. Let us strive to be as faithful to our duty as they are/were to theirs.

Thank you veterans, and active duty, for your sacrifices and for your allegiance. I am humbled by your service and am grateful for your commitment to honor and duty.

In this version of my time on NN, I have submitted 200 blogs. WOW!!! Two hundred of them. No wonder I have arthritis (it couldn’t be old age, no way). Some were repeats from my old profile, some were songs that I liked. But most of the ones I have posted were original. I have delved into poetry a little more. I have found that it expresses feelings better, more succinctly. But I still revel in recording my travels, my impressions, the things I see and hear and feel as I drive.

These journeys have included my travels on the road, but also travels through my mind and soul. There are many things that I have recorded that I have not shared; I needed to clear them out, cleanse my self, purge my soul. I may or may not share them with everyone; a few people here have heard the sadder tales. For this, I thank you very, very much.

I started writing back around the year 1999 or 2000, I am not quite sure. I wrote then, as I do now, to record events that I witnessed or as a way to collect my thoughts. Some were prose, some were poetic in form, some were hopeful and some were dark. Most were, as they are now, short pieces, more like essays and I used them to set down on paper things I had seen – a sunrise, the early morning fog, things of that nature. Others were essays about my state of mind, which at the time, was not all that good. I was having serious doubts about myself as a person. Then in late 2000, an event happened in my personal life which forever changed me. A few months later, I needed to seek therapy and the help of psycho-active drugs. My therapist encouraged me to write down my thoughts, as a way to get them out into the sunlight.

I am about to start trying to make a small profit from my meandering cursor though. Through the encouragement of many here, I am going to start collating and editing the last six or seven years of writing. I have a couple of memory sticks with everything on them (my sister’s computer genius was able to recover everything). Once that is done, I have to choose a publisher, submit my manuscripts, and hope for the best.

It means a lot to me that all of you have enjoyed my ramblings and writings so much. I don’t care if my publishing attempt comes to naught or brings me wealth – the people here on this site, my friends, have been and always will be my favorite audience.

I would love to be able to thank each of you personally for the encouragement you have given to me to keep writing, the comments you have left on my blogs, the advice, the hope, the love each of you has shown me. But I know that if I try, I will forget someone special, and I would hate to do that. So I offer a general THANK YOU!!! to each of you, one that is heartfelt and pure. Your thoughts, prayers, hugs, and words have kept me going – both on the road and on the blogs. I do have to say that my life is richer for having known each of you.

Bill (aka – OldTroubador, Tuxedojunction)

There is a change in the air; summer is winding down. Baseball now shares the spotlight as the football season gears up. Burgers, steaks, and ribs on the grill are soon to be replaced with stews and hearty soups. The days are getting shorter as the nights get longer. There is a coolness in the air now and the heaters come on to drive away the morning chill. It is autumn.
It started a few weeks ago, as the colors of the trees started to change from a deep, rich green to lighter hues. The sumac trees began to wear their fiery red coloration, as did the poison ivy vines climbing up tree trunks. Subtle shadings of red and yellow were evident in the northern states.
Across the land, farmers were starting the harvest. The first fields to be cut were the early plantings of corn as combines criss-crossed the acres, dumping their loads into grain haulers. These trucks hustled to elevators to be off-loaded and make the return trip; both groups working long into the night. As the season progresses, the cutting heads of the combines are changed so the soybeans fields can be shorn, then back again to take the later plantings of corn. Fields of pumpkins stretch along hillsides, the orange globes ripe and ready for picking. In the south, cotton fields are coming close to harvest too, the bolls open and white, making the fields look as if snow-dusted. In Louisiana, the equipment for harvesting the sugarcane is prepared for that harvest which begins in late November. Roadside farmers’ markets feature apples now instead of corn, green beans, and tomatoes. In every state, the farmers are working hard to bring in the harvest.
Ponds and small lakes have turned over, the warmer top layer of water cooling and mixing with the colder layers below. Lily pads and other water plants are brown and curled, beginning their winter dormancy. In the early morning, as the sun begins to rise and the waters lie placid, these lakes and ponds become mirrors, doubling the beauty of the colored trees that surround them. In the afternoons, as the water warms, dimples on the water tell the tale of larger fish gorging on schools of baitfish. The rivers and creeks, those that are not flooded by storms, run shallow and clear, giving one the chance to see the rock lined creek or river beds.
Autumn is a time for migration for all creatures great and small. Butterflies started their travels to warmer climes a few weeks ago. Blackbirds are beginning to gather in huge flocks that will stretch for miles in the sky. Soon, snow geese and Canada geese will also gather in massive V-formations and work their way south, following the harvest of grains before alighting in the cleared rice fields of Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas. Hawks by the thousands will also wing their way to the southern plains to spend the winter, while sandhill cranes leave the northern Midwest for the sands of the Gulf Coast. In the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and the Gulf of Mexico, warm water fish will swim toward the tropics, following the temperate waters. And on the roadways, vehicles with license plates from Canada and the northern tier states are driven to the Gulf shores, their owners desperately seeking the warmth of the southern sun.
In a lesser known sign of the approaching winter, traffic signs on the snowmobile trails are put back in place, telling of intersections and turns, places to yield or to stop.
For a couple of days, I was able to travel through the Adirondack Mountains. For most of the first day, the sky was clear and bright, although the coming clouds foretold of a weather change the next day. Trees sporting leaves of red, orange, yellow, tawny, gold, and burgundy graced the hillsides and ridgelines of green pines and the light aqua of blue spruce. Sometimes, the colors made vivid slashes through the greenery. Other times, whole hillsides were transformed into a kaleidiscopic riot of color, the brilliant sunshine intensifying their brilliant colorations. The most exquisite of all are the maples with their leaves of orange, yellow, and red glowing like fire. Some were in full bloom while others were in the process of changing – the outer leaves having changed color as the inner leaves stayed bright green.
Looking down into the valleys, the fields supporting the dairy operations lay. Fields of alternating brown and green indicated where corn and hay grew – the corn taken and blown into silos to ferment into silage, the last cuttings of hay having been baled and stored, all to feed the cattle through the coming winter. The fields of grass and alfalfa glowed fluorescent under the bright sun and clear sky.
Further south, in the hills of Alabama and Georgia, the same transformation is taking place, albeit without the pageantry of the north. The preponderance of oaks here means the colors are muted, but no less stunning. Brown, burgundy, brass, and copper paint broad brushstrokes through the green of loblolly pine.
While traveling the interstates, ever changing views scroll past windshield. As the highway climbs, drops, and curves, the vista is constantly changing. Ridges close to the road move aside as the curtain on a Broadway play, slowly revealing hill and vale infused with the colors of autumn in broad panorama.
Driving on the smaller roads, I am treated to a different perspective of the new season. The sweet aroma of apple orchards clashes with the dry dust rising from the fields of corn and soybeans being harvested. Tractors towing grain bins and combines share the road with cars, trucks, and school buses. The low sun casts shadows across the road I travel, creating a strobe effect through the windshield. And as the sun pours through the trees of many colors, and as they arch over the highway, I feel as if I am walking down a hallway in a monastery, the walls lined with stained glass.
Whether on large road or small, I am always looking over the sides of bridges I cross to find hidden treasures; I am rarely disappointed. Crossing a small two lane road, there is a beech tree in gorgeous yellow next to it. There is no wind and it has started to drop its leaves. They land on the asphalt, creating a golden halo on the black surface of the road. Small multicolored rafts of leaves drift placidly with the current of creeks and streams. Parents rake fallen leaves into great piles, just to see their work undone by children running through the piles and scattering the detritus all over the yard.
Winter is coming, soon. The monochromatic landscape, the lowering clouds portending another winter storm, the bone chilling cold and wind. But before all becomes drab, nature stages one last hurrah, going out in a blaze of glorious, riotous color.

And Happy Birthday greetings to Freebird IV!!!
I can’t believe a year has gone by since I moved all my gear from FBIII into you. In the past year, you have carried me safely across 141,838 miles. You have been rock steady in the worst weather – from last night’s intense thunderstorms to the high winds in Wyoming last November through the snow and ice last winter. You climb the mountains and hills like a deer and glide down the other side like the raptor you are. You are strong and beautiful, with sexy lines and the heart of a lion.
Working with you is a pleasure as you never tire, never falter. Then, when it is time to relax, you wrap me in your shell like a cocoon and bring me peace and comfort.
You keep me safe from the weather, and from myself. You have an innate sense of what is happening and make the necessary adjustments to keep us both out of trouble. You make me a better driver.
My biggest wish for you is that someday we get to go west together where you can experience the Great Plains, the deserts, and the Rockies – all those wide open spaces and beautiful scenery that you haven’t yet seen.
I want to thank you for being my compadre, my confessor, my protector.
So here’s to you Freebird IV!!! Many we have many great years together. May we see new sights, travel new highways, make wonderful memories with each other. And may we keep each other safe, now and always.

It's 0230 and I'm out of the chute, a foot-ful of throttle and a hole in my boot. I'm outbound.
I rolled out of a southern Oklahoma truck stop in the wee hours of the morning, headed for Fort Smith, Arkansas. Most of the trip was going to be on four-lane highways, traveling through a number of small towns in eastern Oklahoma. I popped a C.W. McCall CD into the stereo and turned it up. There is just something right about listening to C.W. while trucking through the dark, the highway to myself. I joined up with his Convoy as they hauled a load down Wolf Creek Pass; we stopped for fuel and a bite at the Ole Home Fill 'Er Up and Keep On A-Trucking Cafe. The Freebird was making good time as we cruised into the town of Durant. There is a large casino here, owned by one of the Native American tribes that now call Oklahoma home. As a matter of fact, almost every town of any size has a casino; these are about the biggest money making enterprises around, other than the speed traps that are in every town. Heavy industry is almost non-existent in these parts.
The next town of significance was Atoka, one of the larger towns along the route. The speed limit dropped from 70 mph to 40 mph as we wound through streets lined with darkened stores and restaurants and a couple of all night gas station/convenience stores. All the towns we were going to travel through are pretty much the same, differing only in size, the number of traffic lights, and the size of the casinos. The main effect these towns have is the bunching up of the truck traffic. The highway, US69, is a major north/south thoroughfare for commercial vehicles from northern Oklahoma down to Dallas/Ft. Worth in Texas. And invariably, the line of trucks at each traffic light is headed by a driver who starts off in first gear (super low/granny/creeper) every time and takes his time accelerating to the next gear. What happens is all the drivers begin jockeying for position, jumping from one lane to another, trying to time their arrival at the next light so that they are still moving and can accelerate around the slower trucks. It gives the rigs that are governed (cut down and castrated) a chance to get ahead of the ones that can actually run the speed limit; once out of town and on the open road, it's no holds barred. Think of a NASCAR race with a lot of caution flags and guys trying to better their position on the restarts. It's like that, except with 80,000 pound trucks. And all the while, the local cars are racing to get ahead of the big trucks so they can dive into the next convenience store or supermarket. It does keep one on his toes. Anyway, just north of Atoka, the highway splits and I took the right hand fork, running my speed up to the governor. A flatbed truck came off the shoulder in front of me in third or fourth gear; I snatched the wheel to the left, powered around him, and eased back into the right lane.
The next town up the line was Kiowa. I caught another truck there and followed him to the town line. He was slower than I was getting up to speed as we roared out of town, so I ducked left and passed him too. As I signaled my return to the right lane, I looked in the mirror, just as he flashed his high beams at me to show I was clear to merge. This blinded me, and irked me a little bit too. I am not adept at Morse Code at all, so I could not flash “You are supposed to dim your headlights at night, not kick on your high beams, you lazy, can't reach for the dashboard switch, ignorant monkey nut sucking fool.” with my wig-wags, so I contented myself with sending him a Foxtrot Uniform message and merrily went on my way.
Between Atoka and Kiowa, I noticed a faint flash in the sky to the west. I had checked the weather radar before I left and knew there were storms in central Oklahoma. The night sky above was incredibly clear and shimmering with stars; the storm was well over the western horizon. A few more times, the sky flashed as the storm released its energy somewhere to the west. I was reminded of an early morning storm that caught me in central Kansas in the late spring. That day, I pulled out of Tonkawa, OK, north of Oklahoma City about 85 miles, traveling north on I35 into Kansas for a delivery near Olathe, KS, somewhere west of Kansas City. I knew from the radar that a pretty strong storm was going to be hitting Wichita about the time I got there, and as I started that trip, I could see the lightning dancing across the sky. It was a fairly strong storm, but I made it through Wichita without any problems and was soon driving through the Flint Hill region of the state. To say it is lonely out there is an understatement. Another storm was crossing through the area, and it was strange. Instead of forks of lightning, the sky kept flickering like a strobe light; my windshield wipers appearing to stutter across the glass, instead of sweeping across it. This went on for about five or ten minutes, then the hail came down. At first it was just the size of BB's, nothing to worry about. Within minutes though, the hail hitting my windscreen was the size of silver dollars, with no sign of letting up. The ice built up on the roadway and I, along with two other trucks that had caught up to me, slowed down, put on our hazard lights, and drove to the nearest rest area to pull off, another ten miles up the road. When the hail quit, we jumped out of our trucks to assess the damage; the only damage to the 'Bird was a bent wiper arm. We took off again, determined to make up time as the storm kicked the hell out of the cattle pastures to our east. We soon ran into some of the heaviest rain I have ever experienced, including a pair of Category 4 hurricanes. We slowed down again, crawling along the next 50 miles of flooded interstate. Our little convoy made it through; we received no word on any others who might have been swept into the ditches. A few days later, I saw a video on Spaceweather.com that had been shot of the storm from a couple of hundred miles away. The video showed red sprites flickering off the tops of the thunderstorm. It also showed gravity waves moving through the air. These happen when a storm is so strong, it makes the ionosphere ripple. All this being said, this morning's storms never gained that much power, nor did they get that close to the highway I was on..
A couple more small towns appeared in my windshield and disappeared in my mirrors as we drove north. A fair portion of my night was spent dodging skunks and armadillos crossing the road, the coyotes that came out to feast at the roadkill buffet, and potholes. Now, I'm not saying that Oklahoma roads are rough, but I once tried to pour a cup of coffee out of my thermos and splashed coffee all over the console and dash, shorting out half the panel lights and seven switches. This trip, I attempted to light a cigarette just as I hit a particularly bad part of the road; I burned a hole in my beard, singed the nose hair in one nostril, seared off both eyebrows and scorched my left ear so badly that the ear wax ran down the side of my face and matted in the rest of my beard. This evening, I will light the beard/ear wax and enjoy my dinner by candlelight.
The next city on the map is McAlester. This is a fair sized town with numerous restaurants, motels and hotels, shopping centers, etc. On the north side of town is a small rise just off the highway, with a large grassy area about three acres in extant. On this is a well lighted display of three cowboys on horseback driving about two dozen head of Hereford cattle. Many a night I have seen this display as I drowsily rounded the bend and topped the hill and had to slow down to make sure I didn't run over any of the cowboys or cattle that might be following; tonight, I remembered they are mere statues and did not give in to such foolishness. Just north of here are the long steep hills that surround Lake Eufala, an impoundment along the South Canadian River. These hills, like many others throughout Oklahoma, are steep enough to give most rigs trouble if they are dragging any weight; I was light enough that this was not a concern on this morning. I passed a few trucks on the uphill side, and a couple of them rolled on and passed me on the downhill. As I came over the top of the last hill, the town of Eufala spread out before me on the far bank of the lake, street lamps and store lights shining, traffic lights changing color – green, amber, red.
The early morning dampness hung in the air as we rattled up out of the river valley. The road is smoother along here, except for the seams between the concrete sections. These impart a weird, syncopated beat as the trailer tires hit each seam about a beat and a half after the drive tires. The rough surface of the roadway sings under the tires with an off-key whine. We are cutting the fog when the air is split by the atonal blast of air horns. A Union Pacific train on a track parallel to the highway is pointed south, announcing its approach to a grade crossing; no quiet zones here. Forty eight enormous diesel pistons thunder out the power as the train roars past, steel wheels screeching in the night. As a couple empty flatcars go by, small imperfections in the wheels clatter and bang along the rails. Train and truck go their separate ways and a relative quiet again descends upon the landscape, broken only by the throaty growl of Detroit Diesel power and Bridgestone tires humming on concrete.
Soon, we near the town of Checotah. Here, the Freebird and I will exit US69 and merge onto I40 east, another faceless, soulless stretch of highway. We will be trading the intimacy of the smaller highway for the efficient, yet impersonal, interstate system. We settle down and cruise effortlessly along, driving east, chasing the sunrise. And a brilliant sunrise it is, full of reds, oranges, and yellows stretching from the northern to southern horizon. A few high clouds far to the east reflect the fire of the coming day. As we cross the line from Oklahoma to Arkansas, the sun finally crosses the horizon, as if to herald our arrival. There are twenty more miles to drive before we make our delivery, then the two of us will go across town to make our pick up. After that, we will drive north through the Ozark Mountains of western Arkansas, up the west side of Missouri and its cattle ranches, and into Iowa's rich farmland. But that is a tale best left for another day.