OldTroubador's Blog - page 10

I rolled out of Jeffersonville, OH a couple of hours before the sun climbed over the hills to the east. I was headed south through Cincinnati, OH, Louisville, KY, and Nashville, TN before setting the brakes in Birmingham, AL. Not long after putting Louisville in my rear view mirrors, I had my windows down. My left arm hung out the window, acquiring the first installment of this year's driver's tan (left arm done to a beautiful brown; the rest of my body as white as a toad's underbelly). As the sun warmed my skin and Molly Hatchet and Blackfoot bellowed from the speakers, I had a chance to reflect on the past eight weeks of winter.
By all accounts, this has been a rough winter. Even though I missed most of the worst of the storms, a few did catch up with me Driving conditions were horrendous from Louisiana over to North Carolina north into Virginia, West Virginia, and Ohio, and one storm in Illinois. Louisiana was totally closed for a day and a half due to the icing of the highways (this eventually effected the whole Gulf Coast region, but luckily, I did not have to deal with all that). It's just as well the highways were eventually closed as I nearly lost control of the Freebird a couple dozen times before I could find a place to park. A week ago, I had to get USA Truck to pay $350 a towing company to help get me started on a hill after the state of North Carolina closed the highway. A dozen other trucks in my line of sight had to pay the same. It mattered not that, as soon as my wheels were rolling, I had to lean on the horn and throttle back to keep from running over the tow truck. And just a few days ago, a winter storm caught Illinois by surprise; they struggled to get ahead of the sloppy roads as we fought to keep from sliding off into the woods.
The polar vortex also effected how I drove the highways. From Minnesota and Wisconsin down through the Midwest to Kansas City, temperatures were so far below zero that the salt spread on the highway could not melt the ice. We all had to adjust our speed to deal with the hundreds of miles of black ice. Those that didn't soon paid for their carelessness as they found themselves in ditches, the median, the woods, or a farmer's field. At times, where a big rig carved a hole through the trees, scorch marks on the trunks gave evidence of a fire; the depth of the hole, evidence of how hard the truck hit the treeline.
In spite of the extreme cold and the hazards of driving, Mother Nature blessed me time and again with unmatched beauty. Wintertime, with only a few colors, is one of the prettiest seasons of all.
Early in the season, while driving through central Oklahoma, a fog had clung to the hilltops early in the day. I could see the elevation where the temperature dropped below freezing for the trees near the top glistened in crystal finery while those lining the road were just wet. The road climbed into the freezing zone, a glittering faerieland, a magical land of diamond crusted trees. This same wondrous sight was repeated in Louisiana, of all places – live oak and cypress trees transformed by frozen water into Waterford crystal arches over the bayous.
When cuts were blasted through the mountaintops to allow the road to go through, the rock faces served as a canvas for ever-changing ice sculptures. Icicles hundreds of feet long clung to the cliffs. Some were blue, some green, others white, all three hues showcased along the same cut. Long grasses and shrubs hung down from their precarious footholds, weighed down by the coating of ice each wore, fragile glass fringes and tassels adorning the rocks. When the temperature warmed enough, the icicles melted until all that remained was a delicate web of crystalline lace.
One effect of the extreme temperatures was to be found in western Utah. While traveling past the Great Salt Lake and across the salt flats, a heavy fog from the lake blanketed everything. What little grass grew alongside the highway collected the fog which froze. Instead of crystal though, the salt laden ice was of the purest white as it encrusted the grassy tufts in weird caricatures of trees; miniature avant garde forests lining the interstate.
The full-sized trees exhibited their own beauty too. After a snowfall, each limb of the leafless hardwoods was outlined in white, highlighting the starkness of the bare branches. Not to be outdone, the boughs of the pines, spruces, and firs were cloaked in mantles of snow, the weight bending them toward the ground. Occasionally, the snow would become too heavy and slide off, the limp snapping upward, released from its burden and releasing others of theirs. This would set in motion a chain reaction, a cascade of snow as the tree shook itself free of its frozen blanket. Surrounding the tall pines were their offspring - smaller pines just a few years old, huddling together like so many children hiding behind their mothers' skirts.
The waterways coursing under the highways were not immune to the magic of the season. When the creeks and small rivers ran fast enough to remain ice free, many times the water was clear enough to see each individual rock lining the bottom. Other streams were running pale green, a liquid jade river meandering between banks of snow. And yet others ran dark, the cold water black against the white backdrop of the land. In many, large rocks stood tall, capped with snow as the inky waters parted and rolled along each side of these islets. Larger rivers, especially in the north, ran slow enough to freeze solid, allowing easy passage for the woodland creatures to pass from one bank to the other. And in one creekbed, I spied three does pawing at the ice trying to get to the water beneath.
Pristine fields of white lined both sides of the road, unsullied but for the tracks of animals crossing – sometimes in a straight line, sometimes aimlessly, but always with a purpose. Snowdrifts on either side of the road were works of art, sculpted to an infinite number of shapes – some art deco, some avant-garde, some abstract. Others brought to mind curling waves, breakers along a beach highway, highlighting the sea of white blanketing the fields beyond. And in the early part of the morning, as the sun was still only a hint of light in the sky, the drifts in the open reflected the pastel hues of the early morn. Some drifts were still in the shadows but were not drab. Rather, they seemed to have an inner light and glowed in their blue-grayness.
In the morning, the clear dry air and hillsides of leafless tress made awe inspiring spectacles. As the sky lightened from pink to salmon to peach and then orange, it would back-light the forested hills. And for a few moments in time, every branch, every limb, every twig along the ridgetop was seen plainly in stark contrast to the ever-changing pastel pallette behind. Soon the sun would rise fully, obliterating the image, but for a time, the trees were deeply and fully etched against the morning sky.
By now, in deep south Texas, wildflowers are spreading a colorful carpet across the land. A little further north, swamp lilies bloom and sweet gum trees are starting to leaf. The water is warming and catfish, crappie, and bass are moving to the shallows to feed, then spawn. And yet, I still think of winter, the trouble it causes, its hazards, but mostly, its beauty.

In case you haven't noticed, I've been MIA for about a week now. I had a really good reason, which I will get into in a bit.
I tried to put together an “end of run” report for everyone, but I'm as bored writing them as you probably are reading them LOL. Just to recap, I spent almost eight weeks on the road. The miles were not all that great this trip, although a couple of the runs were spectacular. The high point was getting to visit with Northern Star once again. The low point – the weather finally caught up with me this past trip. Icy highways in Kansas City, Iowa, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and especially Louisiana. One of the last runs was a load from Houston, TX to New Orleans, LA – only 360 miles. Because of ice, and the lack of equipment for dealing with it, Louisiana closed the interstates for two days, turning a six hour trip into a 78 hour marathon going nowhere. The worst part, other than being scared out of what little mind I have, was that Saturday. As soon as the sun came out, it seemed like everyone hit the highway. Well, the highway had not been fully opened yet – an 18-mile long causeway was reduced to one lane and there were still accidents getting cleared from the night before. Anyway, it took me 5.5 hours to go 25 miles – average speed: 4.5454545..... miles per hour. By the way, the highway opened at 5:30 pm – about the time my chicken fried steak hit the table. Yeah, I wasn't going anywhere then.
The reason I took nearly a week off – you guessed it. My daughter. It was her 15th birthday last week. We spent the week hanging out, driving around looking at fishing spots for the summer, shopping, and her trying to convince me that One Direction was a good group. I wasn't buying it. We had a blast though and it was tough to leave.
So here I am, riding the Freebird again. Even though I was off the road for nearly a week, all the old sights and sounds and feels came rushing back in a few miles. The tires singing on the pavement, the turbocharger whistling a happy tune, the throaty growl of six huge cylinders pulling hard. The steering wheel dancing in my hand as I led the 10-speed through a Texas swing number. Traffic in the city, tight turns downtown, then the open road calling my name. I leaned hard on the accelerator and answered the call. Who knows where the road may lead? Then again, who cares? As long as there is fuel in the tanks, coffee in the thermos, and that ribbon of highway sliding past under my front bumper, I am in my element. I am happy.
In another six or eight weeks, it will be time to once again shut down for a spell. Maybe by then I will have new tales to tell, new experiences to share. One thing for certain – by then I will be ready to boogie back to Texas.

The 1960’s were a turbulent time in this country. The rise of the counter-culture, the ever deepening spiral of the Vietnam War, and the realization that racial injustice, especially the de jure segregation of Jim Crow laws, was an anathema to society. From this unrest came a voice, the voice of a preacher who was also the son of a preacher. He preached that all men and women were created equal, that none were more equal than others. He asked not for special treatment, but equal treatment. He chose a path of peace to foment change, instead of violence. He sought an end to the words spoken by Strom Thurmond, “We have separate bathrooms for men and women. That is segregation, but by no means is discrimination.” He took the words of our forefathers and held them up for all to see for the hypocrisy that those words had contained for the previous 190 years. And he spoke of a dream, a dream that died on 4 April 1968, on a motel balcony in Memphis, TN.
Nearly 50 years ago, one of the greatest speeches of all time, in my opinion, was spoken by Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Today, we celebrate the birthday of this man who wanted all people to be judged, not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

Once again, I shall flout authority and post more than 4 photos (because I just can't decide which to use). ALSO - this is not exactly how I spent my New Year, but rather the time over the holidays. Those who know me know that I celebrated Christmas a few weeks early with my daughter. I spent the holidays running the roads and was lucky enough to catch a trip out west - some of my favorite places to run. So without further ado.....


A Wyoming sunrise


A Cheyenne sunset


Darkness on the edge of town


Outside of Rock Springs, WY


The Utah/Wyoming line


An Iowa farm

A mere microcosm of my trip, there was so much more that left me in awe. I hope you enjoyed my holidays and be sure to visit all the others who had a more "normal" New Year's Eve

guitartxn, amancalledpony, Whispermyname, JediMasterBater, Showy_Showy, ali_dee, tributestar, bighoss2, WendySilvia, MieleGattina, KaioticEvil, Arr0w, d_licious_d, Innate Lovers, free2bladyV and tight_wet_lips.

This past year has been a good one - One of the best I can remember. It had it's moments to be sure, but hey, what's life without a little trouble now and then?
The new year promises to be another great one. Old friends, new friends, new roads, the possibilities are endless.
I recall a toast I gave as a best man at a friend's wedding; with a couple changes:
Something old - The love and friendship we have for each other.
Something new - Possibilities to improve ourselves, our lot in life, new friends, new lovers, new love.
Something borrowed - The strength we receive from each other, may we return it in kind
Something blue - Except for the sky, may the blues never enter into our lives.
For each of you, my friends, I wish a year filled with health and happiness, more than you know what to do with.
May you always have a little jingle in your pocket.
May the sun always shine on you.
May your joys be many, your troubles few.
And as you walk through life hand in hand with your friends
May you love and be loved, these blessings to you.
And one final thought, may your dreams all come true.

Fair winds and following seas everyone.

Christmas is but a couple days away. A time of family, friends, togetherness, peace. Due to the nature of the business I am in, I will be working on that day. But so will many others - emergency personnel, many plants and factories will be running, and of course, the servicemen and women of our respective countries.
Working on Christmas does not bother me though. First and foremost, I was able to spend the weekend with my daughter a few weeks ago and we exchanged gifts on that day. To see her eyes light up and the smile on her face, well, what more does a daddy need? You see, Christmas isn't just a day, an outlined date on a calendar, it is something carried in the heart.
Every time I receive a gift from a friend - some token of affection, or an e-mail saying "How the hell are you?", or just a smile and a "Howdy!!!", that day is Christmas.
Below this is a blog I posted last year as a gift to all of you. To me, it still carries the special feeling I have always had for this time of year. I hope you enjoy it.
I am doubly blessed this year, for a couple old friends and I are starting to reconnect after many months of silence. Thank you Howlin and Sugar.
When I say to y'all that I carry each of you in my heart, I do. I may not be the best at staying in touch, but I think of you every day. I talk to you, I wonder what you are up to, I can see you riding shotgun with me as the Freebird carries us to points unknown.
So on this holiday season, however you may celebrate it, what ever you believe, remember - the spirit of giving is in each of us and the gifts of love and friendship are the ones that mean the most and will stay the longest. Sometimes, that may be all we can give, but that's okay. They are the ones that will be cherished long after the lights come down, the wrapping paper is discarded.
I wish there was the time to sit a write a personal note to everyone, unfortunately, I don't. So this is an open letter to all of you. I am grateful to each and every one of you for your friendship, support, love. And I love and cherish each of you.
May the hope and joy of the season stay with you now and forever.
From the highways and the by-ways, headed out there to where the sky meets the road, Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas. Peace on earth, and unto each of you, my friends.
Bill

Christmas Eve was always a special night when growing up. In the late afternoon, my sister and I would get cleaned up and put on our Sunday best clothes. Supper was served on the good china and the tradition was a meal of meatballs in a sweet tomato gravy and green beans – the colors of the season. Dessert was Cherries Jubilee, a flambé which was then ladled over vanilla ice cream. The whole meal, the two of us were giddy with excitement , for tomorrow was Christmas. But first, there was the Christmas Eve candlelight service at church, a very special time.
The church was a hundred year old Methodist church in the downtown area and drew people from miles around. When we arrived, we would seek out our friends and chat a while before taking our pews with our families. The children would impatiently wait for the service to start because they wanted to get back home, put out cookies and milk, and get into bed. Probably, this was the only night of the year when the wee ones went to bed willingly, for to not do so would delay Santa’s arrival. The service, when it began, was simple; there were no strenuous exhortations about following the Commandments and being righteous. There were no strident voices shrilly promising an eternity of hellfire and brimstone for the sinners and the damned. Merely a telling of the simple tale of a man and a woman travelling to his hometown, and the humble birth of their child.
After the Gospels were read, the final act was about to unfold. The acolytes had lit the candles in the aisles prior to the service. Now, everyone in the congregation picked up their candles and waited. The pastor lit his from the Christ candle in the Advent wreath and passed this light to the ushers. They, in turn, passed this light to the people sitting on the ends of the pews and the light was passed to the rest of the congregants. While this was happening, the lights of the church were turned off. Soon, only candlepower lit the inside of the old church and a hush fell over everyone. Even the babies stopped their fussing, as if they knew something special was going to transpire.
The choir took a note from a pitch pipe and began to sing. Immediately, the rest of the congregation took up the words and melody, but softly, for no one wanted to awaken the slumbering baby, which was wrapped in swaddling clothes and laying in a manger.
Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin mother and child.
Holy infant so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace.
The first verse was sung a cappella. As the second verse began, the old pipe organ softly introduced itself. The voices swelled to echo the Hosannas from on high, to proclaim the glory of the humble birth – but not too loudly as no one wanted to frighten the shepherds, for they were sore afraid.
Silent night, holy night
Shepherds quake at the sight
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia, Christ the Savior is born.
The rest of the verses were sung with the same reverence. As the last notes of the hymn caressed the walls of the church, the organ opened up like thunder and the people broke into “Joy to the World”. The candles were extinguished and the house lights snapped on. After the last ‘amen’ was sung, the benediction was given, and all returned home, still carrying with them the gift of a special moment in time.
The following version of the song is one I heard years ago when it was first released. To me, it carries with it the magic, the emotion of that moment in that old church, surrounded by family and friends. This is my gift to you, my friends – Silent Night.

May the hope, the joy, and the blessings of this holiday season stay with each of you, now and forever always. From my heart to yours – Merry Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone, In a one-bedroom house made of plaster and stone. I had come down the chimney, with presents to give and to see just who in this home did live. As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see, no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand. On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land. With medals and badges, awards of all kind, a sobering thought soon came to my mind. For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen. This was the home of a U.S. Marine. I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more, so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door. And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone, Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home. He seemed so gentle, his face so serene, Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine. Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read? Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed? His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan. I soon understood, this was more than a man. For I realized the families that I saw that night, owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight. Soon around the Nation, the children would play, And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day. They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year, because of Marines like this one lying here. I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone, on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home. Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye. I dropped to my knees and I started to cry. He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice, "Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more. My life is my God, my country, my Corps." With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep, I couldn't control it, I continued to weep. I watched him for hours, so silent and still. I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill. So I took off my jacket, the one made of red, and covered this Marine from his toes to his head. Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold, with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold. And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride, and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside. I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night, this guardian of honor so willing to fight. But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure, said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all secure." One look at my watch and I knew he was right, Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.

The Kinks

Greg Lake

And two from Bruce Springsteen