I may have mentioned, once before, that a lot of my ideas for what I write come from actual experiences that I have. The following is a case in point. This happened one evening, a few weeks ago as I was headed to a truck stop in the Dallas area. And while the basis of this poem was written about one particular night, about one particular lady, it is larger than that.
I have often said that each of you rides with me. And you do. Each of you helps me get through another mile, past another landmark, helps me get to the next truck stop. While I may not keep in touch with everyone as often as I should, I keep each of you close. So many have helped me in so many ways over the years, I cannot possibly begin to thank you all for all that you do. When I have nothing left in the tanks except pride, your spirit, your friendship, your love reach out and get me over that last hill, around that last bend, and up that last exit ramp.
This is a poem to thank a special lady for helping me one night, but in actuality, it is an ode to all of you, to say thank you - for riding with me, for getting me through, for allowing me to be a friend, and most importantly, for being a friend to me.
I wrote this line for a dear friend some time ago, but the truth rings out for each of you:
"And if my final sunset comes before the road brings me back to you, I shall not weep, for I have known heaven"

On to the main event:

I'm tired baby, too tired for this God-damned town.
Six hundred miles today on these broken roads.
Been following those dotted lines
From coast to coast,
east to west, south to north.
Long days, short nights
They're coming to an end, but it's still out of sight
I just have to make the next forty miles
Then I can set the brakes
Shut it down
Turn it off
But now I gotta hold it together
On these five narrow lanes filled
With people hurrying, scurrying
I'm still working but I have nothing left
To give.
Body bruised, spirit spent
I call you, ask you to just talk
About anything. Nothing. Just talk.
The road is unending, the lines continue
The longest twenty miles of my life
Each turn of the wheel brings me closer
Closer to the end of the day which
Is as long as the road.
As forever as time.
But you talk me down, you get me through
Ten more miles, then five
Finally,
You and I, we wheel into the stop
Me, the driver, you, riding shotgun
In my ear and in
My heart
Now I can set the brakes,
Shut it down,
Turn it off.

And as I lay my head down,
I say a prayer of thanks
For getting me through
And for an Angel like you.

Sometimes at night, you're alone on the road
Alone but not lonely
The pavement scrolls under your tires
Solid line to the right
Dashed to the left.
Sometimes at night, shadows roll past
Of hills and trees
More felt than seen
You drive past towns, nameless, faceless, asleep
Sometimes at night, you listen to the sounds
Tires ceaselessly humming
Engine rumbling
Wind whistling
Night creatures talking
Sometimes at night, all is dark except
For the stippling of the stars
The light of the moon
Warning lights on tall antennae
The occasional flash of lightning
Sometimes at night, you think of
Family, friends, lovers
Past and present
And smile in fond rememberance
A quiet joy
Sometimes at night, you feel as if
You are flying, gliding
Soaring above the Earth
Gazing down
Lord and master of all in your purview
Then
Sometimes at night, there are headlights
In front or behind
Intrusive
Invading
Obtrusive
A note discordant
A sales call at mealtime
The sudden pain of a headache
A stone breaking the surface stillness
Of a pond
Crashing
Splashing
Ripples of discontent
Reverie broken
Peace shattered
Then receding, retreating
Lights fade into the distance
The ripples disperse
The pain quells
The pond of our mind quiets
Then
Sometimes at night, you regain
All that was yours
And you are alone, but not lonely
Just you
Your thoughts
The quiet
The dark
The Night

It was a Monday, a day like any other day, a sad, sad day and I'm a long, long way from home.
Well, not really, not yet. I was still close to home. But soon, the days and the miles would run together. The only concern I would have with a calendar would be arrivals and departures at various shippers and receivers. My main reading material would be an atlas and various truck stop guides. But not just yet.
I had just left my home truck stop after a wonderful four day weekend with my daughter. We spent a couple of days fishing – the first day we were shut out, but the second day, both of us got to feel the pull on our lines. She garnered the most fish, but I took honors for largest and smallest. The wind was strong all weekend, but the sun was strong too – we were both wind burnt and sun burnt by the end.
But now, they are back home and I am ready to roll. The laundry is done and put away, the windows and floors cleaned; all is in order. I am headed for the southwest corner of Houston, TX to make my first pick up of a seven week run. The load delivers in Council Bluffs, IA on Wednesday morning. A long, long way from home
All goes well in Houston, and I am soon headed north to Dallas. The traffic there is the usual mess, compounded by a couple of accidents. I finally get clear and stand tall on the go, go, git 'em pedal and aim the Freebird north. Before long, I am cruising through the north Texas prairie - green grassland pockmarked with Red Angus and Black Angus cattle, feeding placidly. Soon, the roadway falls away, down into the Red River Valley. The river is running brown and strong, the leftovers of the recent rains in the area. Usually, the river is a rich red, carrying with it the color and silt of the red clay in the area, but not today.
There are many rivers named Red in this country – the Red River that comes out of Manitoba, Canada and delineates the border between the Dakotas and Minnesota before merging with the Missouri; there is a Red River in Tennessee north of Nashville, and a Vermillion River in Illinois; I'm sure there are many others. But only one Red River was important enough for Howard Hawks to direct a movie about, and it is the one I am crossing now.
When passing from one state to another, there is always a different feel; a difference in tempo, in texture. The topography is the same, the trees, the fields, but a different feel nonetheless. Mainly, this feeling can be ascribed to the difference in the way the road is built – changing from macadam to concrete, different grades of macadam, the way the lines are painted, the number of potholes and cracks in the road. When only crossing an invisible line in the dirt, one can feel this change, but it is more pronounced when crossing a river that divides two states. And even more so today, for Oklahoma and Texas have been rivals for years – in oil production, cattle, and most importantly, college football. And besides, all good Texans know that anything north of THEIR Red River (and east of the Sabine) is nothing but damned Yankees anyway (wink, wink).
Rolling north on I-35 and in 35 miles, I'll be stopping in Ardmore, OK for fuel. Once I slake the Freebird's thirst, I walk inside and top of my coffee and grab a burger to go. I leave the parking lot and start grabbing gears. I ease onto the ramp and go down and around, dropping back down onto the big four lane heading north. The Arbuckle Mountains stand tall between us and Oklahoma City. They rise up off the plains with no preamble. They are steep enough that downshifting is not an option but a necessity. They are long enough that a cautious driver keeps an eye on the temperature gauge. I get over the first, then the second, dropping into ninth gear and setting the cruise so the Freebird can easily snarl her way to the top. Coming down, the engine brakes growl and the foot goes lightly down then up on the brake pedal. Yeah, they are long enough on this side that I have seen other rigs burn a set of brakes off by the time they get through. On top of the third ridge is a state scale house, so I wheel in. As I sit on the platform, I acknowledge the fact that OKDOT was smart enough to put this on top of the mountain, instead of the bottom. Not all states are that far thinking. I get the green light, ease off the platform, and start walking my gears up the ladder. Hitting the entrance back onto the highway, we are pointed downhill and I use gravity to accelerate and up-shift. The top of the next hill has a rest area and scenic overlook; this lets the tourists look into the farm valley below. I cruise on past and, after a couple more hills, am soon shuffling along the prairie again, next stop, Oklahoma City.
I pass into Norman, home of the University of Oklahoma (excuse me while I use the hand sanitizer) and then Moore. Today is the one year anniversary of the tornado that tore this town up by the roots. There is a memorial service up in the parking lot of the mall, and I doff my hat and say a quick prayer as I pass. Then it is into Oklahoma City and the spaghetti bowl that is the interstate system here – three major interstates and a couple of loops around town all come together at one point. I get through this mess and am soon waving good bye to the truck stops in Edmond, on the north side of town.
I pick up speed as the traffic fades and am once again cruising the northern plains of Oklahoma. Small towns slide past as the Freebird keeps motoring north. In another 90 miles or so, I will be shutting down for the night, and am looking forward to the break. Stillwater, home to Okalhoma State University, is over there to the east a bit (where did I put that damn sanitizer), then Enid goes by to the west. I finally get to Tonkawa and roll into the parking lot. I back into a space and do what needs to be done to officially finish off the day. I grab my gear and head inside to wait in line for a shower, then I stop at the counter and get a foot long Italian BMT with spinach, tomatoes, bell peppers, and cucumbers – throw a dash of honey mustard on please, and wrap it to go. I chow down, do a little reading, then off to bed I go.
My 10 hour break over, I roll out of the rack and do the whole cold coffee and cigarette thing as I get dressed. Fresh coffee, breakfast sandwich, pre-trip and back out to the blue route headed north. I cross into Kansas, the land fairly flat, but not like a pool table as I had been told for years. I am looking forward to this part of the run, for after I pass Wichita, the highway bends north-east toward Kansas City. From Wichita to Emporia, I will be running the Flint Hills. These hills are interesting to see. They are an anachronism out here on the plains, just like the Arbuckles in Oklahoma. While tall, the road was engineered to be a little kinder to trucks, so the highway follows a path with broad sweeping turns up and down the hills. There are few trees at all, just a pale green, short-cropped grass. Bits and pieces of rock are visible through the grass. The hills to the side of the roadbed are steep; like a mussed blanket on a bed. There are creeks coursing through here, but not many, for this is an arid land. But not too arid; gullies cut down the sides of the hills attest to the power of the flash floods that occur when it rains. The edges of the creeks that do flow are dug deep, as if by a backhoe. And when one tops the hills and looks across the relatively flat areas on top, the meandering streams are steeply walled, especially the outside of the curves, where the flood waters have gouged into the sides. It does not take much imagination to visualize a wall of water blasting around them, widening the creekbeds.
The land here is cattle land. The soil here is good for nothing but the grass that grows and the grass is so poor in quality that cattlemen here figure on how many acres it takes to feed and fatten one head, as opposed to other areas where they figure out how many head one acre will support. The land is wide open, with, as I said, few if any trees. The few that do grow are mainly cottonwoods, lining the lower creekbeds, where there is almost always water. When one comes over the top of one of these hills and looks around, you might be lucky to see the roof of the big house a few miles away; never more than two houses are visible at any one time. For the 80 miles along this path, there are only five exits, and that includes the easternmost Wichita exit and the only Emporia exit. There is a gap of 50 miles with no exits at all, except for the roads that go to the pens where the cattle trucks stop to pick up a load of beeves for slaughter. Traffic is generally light through here, mainly trucks running from Topeka or Kansas City to Wichita and back. It is a visual treat to see an oncoming truck come over the top of a hill and round the turn going into the downhill; I would love to be able to stop on the side of the road with some good cameras and photograph and film the spectacle. I also wonder if I look as good cruising through here as those other trucks look to me. It's too fine a place to look like a rookie.
When I get to Emporia, I stay on the road to Topeka; I'm not going east to Kansas City. The 'Bird and I are still cruising the wide open area of the Flint Hills; they taper off as we get closer to Kansas' capitol. I wind my way through town and pick up US75 north, toward Nebraska. It's a wide open run for a few miles, then a four lane divided highway going through towns. Not too much longer, it narrows to a two lane. The topography has eased off and there are trees and creeks through here, along with more farms. I'll be on this road for a while, into Nebraska, before turning east and picking up I-29 north into Council Bluffs. Other than the road signs, not much is different as I cross the state line. I keep running north, now busy calculating time versus distance as I head for the truck stop I have chosen for the night. I make it to where I need to be and once again, go through the late afternoon ritual before getting a shower and a foot long Italian BMT with spinach, etc., etc., etc. It will be a fairly early night, for I need to be up early in the morning.
I roll out of the rack with the squawking of the alarm and get dressed, yada yada yada. I double check my route into the consignee for this load and roll onto I-29 north. After about 40 miles, I pick up I-80 west and work my way across three lanes of morning traffic. I get in the right lane just before reaching my exit and drop off the Madness and Mayhem Highway. I start to work my way through, and realize that the maps did not disclose one important fact. This area is the eastern yard for the Union Pacific Railroad and my path is criss-crossed with tracks. There are gates going down, going up, lights flashing, trains – both manned and remote controlled – passing. Even though the UP is not one of my favorite railroads, I am still enthralled watching all the activity. I pull my head out before I become a statistic or, worse, miss a turn. I get to the receiver, check in, back up to the dock, and wait to get unloaded.
I already have my marching orders for the day, so, after bein g unloaded, I ease back out to I-80 and point the Freebird west to Omaha, Nebraska. I cross the mighty Missouri River and, looking at the bluff ahead, see Union Pacific's headquarters, guarded by a 4-8-8-4 Big Boy articulated, compound cylinder steam engine and a DD40X – a custom job for UP that is basically two GP-40's welded together. Both of these immense and powerful engines were designed and built specifically for UP to more efficiently haul more freight across the Plains and over the foothills of the Rockies. Both designs are retired and stand guard at the entrance to Union Pacific's headquarters and visitor center. Oh, if only I had the time.
I make my pick up in Omaha and head back east, long before the sick, lame, and lazy even think about brunch. I pass UP again, waving at the sentinels at the gate, then drop down to the Missouri. Crossing back into Iowa, we climb hard to get out of the valley. This western side of the state does not have the gentle rolling hills of southern or eastern Iowa. Instead, the terrain here is as steep as any encountered so far. Once out of town, the ubiquitous Iowa cornfields line the interstate, with one exception. The land here is so steep that the farms are terraced to trap the soil and water washed down from the top, and to keep the corn in place, instead of all being washed into the valley. The 'Bird and I grumble up one side and glide like a raptor down the other as the big Bridgestones chew up the highway. After an hour or so, the hills mellow to the normal Iowa rolling landscape. Des Moines comes and goes, and still ever eastward we roll.
I cannot remember where this load was headed, nor can I remember where I stopped that night. I do know that this was a fine trip to open up a seven week run with, and that I would need something extraordinary to top it.

After almost seven years behind the wheel, it still amazes me how, in a couple of days of driving, all of one's surroundings can change. Dramatically.
I am sitting in a truck stop outside Lafayette, LA on a Sunday afternoon. It is overcast today, but warm and humid. My air conditioner is on, as much for drying the air in my truck as it is to keep things cool. The last couple of weeks have been spent east of the Mississippi. I've been driving around the many winter storms when I could, or been sitting waiting for the roads to be cleared. It seems that, over the years, most of my time has been spent zigzagging north and south along east-west freight lanes. This year, the reverse seems to be the case – I am working my way east and west along northbound or southbound freight lanes. Winter's icy grip has taken hold almost everywhere this winter; just a day ago, I saw snow decorating Mississippi's famous mangolia trees. By all accounts, this winter has been a harsh one, even compared to last year's, maybe harsher. Even though I haven't been called to go to Boston and I was able to get out of the Buffalo region before their huge storm, I have been deviled by the snow and ice since the middle of November and am ready for spring to burst forth in all its glory. But I am here in Louisiana now, where the trees are starting to green, the sego lilies are starting to bloom, and the crappie and channel catfish will soon be moving to the shallows to spawn.
As I sit here, I reflect back on how, just a few days ago, I was struggling with unplowed roads, icy slush, and biting cold. And I remember a trip I took, just shy of two months ago.

Back in January, I was parked in Marion, Illinois with a load headed for one of the southern suburbs of Chicago. When I awoke and started driving early that day, the temperature was 21 degrees, with a stiff breeze blowing from the northwest. The temperature stayed steady for a while, as I drove through the hills of southern Illinois. I did hit a couple of snow squalls that reduced visibility to mere feet and my speed to just a few miles an hour. After a mile or so, the weather cleared, and I dropped the hammer. I knew that cold air was somewhere to my north, so I was keeping an eye on my thermometer. After travelling about 120 miles, the temperature had fallen to 7 degrees; 60 miles after that, it was zero. The wind was really moving through here too, pushing the Freebird around on a whim.
The wind can be a tricky thing to deal with. Back in the hills, driving through the cuts, the wind swirls – there is no telling which way it is going to push your truck. Many is the time that I have been steering into the wind going through a place like this when suddenly, the wind changes direction and hits the 'Bird from the other side. Quick reactions are needed to keep from being shoved too far in the direction we are now drifting, whether off the road or into the next lane. Other times, while driving, I will be countersteering into the wind and a hill, a line of trees, an overpass, or even a passing truck will block the wind and then those same reactions are necessary to maintain lane integrity. Of course, as soon as the wind block is gone, the wind broadsides the truck again and the countersteering begins anew.
Another thing that is a bit of a hazard is the snow. Even if the snow isn't falling, when the winds are this strong, they pick up the loose snow laying on the ground and blow it across the road. Where there are wind breaks, the snow swirls across the pavement, serpentines of white powder, silent sirens mesmerizing the driver, calling to him to watch their dance and not the road. When a car or a truck drives through these places, the effect is magnified, as the wake of the passing vehicle intensifies the dance. And sometimes, the swirling snow is thick enough to cause vertigo, for the eye will follow the strongest signal it receives. And if the snow blots out the lines on the road, the mind will follow the eye; it takes a lot of concentration to find the visual clues from the highway and ignore the sirens' death song.
Although I love the Freebird and have praised the work Freightliner has done over the years to improve their product, I do have to complain about the fit of the doors, to a degree. As the wind was blowing from my left, I could feel the wind coming in between the door and the frame; this kept the temperature inside a little colder than I wanted, even with both heaters running hard. And when there was snow in the air, I could feel it coming in with the wind, hitting me on the arm and the side of my face.
As I drove north, and the thermometer kept falling, the land flattened out into the huge cornfields of northern Illinois. The wind was straight out of the west, the snow blowing straight across the highway. In some places, it did manage to stick to the road, making small patches of ice. In others, it just blew into the fields to the east. Looking across these fields, I could see billowing clouds of snow that were being driven by the wind. Where there were trees lining the fields, I watched as snow devils whirled their dervish way across the white landscape.
I arrived in Elwood, Illinois to make my drop off and, even parked, the wind continued to torment me. Snow from a previous storm was piled high on the roofs of the warehouses and trailers parked there. That devil wind was taking this snow and blowing it across the parking lot causing a near white out. I had on my heaviest coat and gloves, but the wind cut through them like a scythe. The snow froze to my beard, my exhalations froze to my mustache, and the snow blew inside my collar to freeze against my neck. By now, the temperature was -5 degrees and the wind was blowing about 35 miles per hour. This old southern boy was miserable.
I dropped my loaded trailer where told and went to grab an empty. The sub-zero temperatures thickened the grease, making it difficult to crank the landing gear up and down. The handle to pull the release pin on the fifth wheel did not want to budge and the icy air clawed and burned at the inside of my lungs.
I finally left Elwood and drove up to Romeoville to make my pick up. After waiting four hours, my trailer was ready and I rolled out of there, headed even further north to Minnesota. Three more days like this were ahead of me as I made my delivery north and west of St. Paul/Minneapolis, continued to my pick up, and finally drove south, through Wisconsin, out of this icy hell.
One night in particular stands out. I was in central Minnesota, about an hour west of Minneapolis. I had parked for the night and walked inside to get a shower. As I walked back to my truck, to drop my my kit bag off, I realized that I had not done a good job of drying my beard. Halfway across the parking lot, my chin spinach was a solid mass of ice. After tossing my kit into the 'Bird, I walked to the other side of the lot, where there was a bistro I wanted to try. By the time I got there, the wind blown snow had clung to the ice. The hostess had to wait a few minutes for my beard to melt and my face to thaw before I could ask for a table. And I needed extra napkins to mop up the menu because I was still drip drying.
Fast forward a couple of days. I had worked my way south to Fort Smith, Arkansas. The air was still chilly, especially in the evening, but the days were sunny and almost warm. I had a 9pm delivery scheduled on Tuesday, so I swung by the yard for a few hours to visit with my manager and a couple other people. I ate supper, then headed over to my customer. I arrived half an hour early and was told to wait in the staging area, that someone would call me soon. After sitting for nearly six hours, I finally bumped the dock about 2:30 in the morning. The unloading did not take long and by 3:15, I was back at the yard. Two and a half hours of sleep later, I reported to maintenance to give them my keys and run down a list of minor problems I had with the Freebird. I then grabbed some coffee and headed over to see my manager for a bit. In addition to getting my truck serviced, she had also scheduled me for my annual physical. When all the business of my physical and the service call on my truck was done, I lay down to get some much needed sleep. The next day, I prepped the 'Bird for leaving and rolled out of the yard at about 1:30 in the afternoon; this completed a 34 hour break and I now had a clean log book to run with for the next few weeks.
The Freebird and I boogied east through Arkansas, rolled around the south side of Memphis, and cruised into a truck stop south of Birmingham, Alabama, where I had a spot reserved for us. The next morning, it was east again to Atlanta, then south through Macon, heading for Lake Park, Georgia, at the Florida line. The day was again bright and warm; the windows were down, the music was loud. Somewhere in the area of Tifton, I noticed that there were still lily pads on the surface of the ponds and small lakes on the sides of the road. Turtles were sitting on logs, sunning themselves. Feeding fish dimpled the surface of the water and herons stood still in the shallows, waiting for their next meal. Long before I got to Valdosta, Spanish moss was hanging from the live oak trees. The trees that were bare sported clumps of mistletoe, lending color here. Green was almost everywhere, and I could feel spring starting to stir and awaken.
When I arrived at my delivery, the sun was starting to set. The sky was still a bright blue, bright enough to hurt the eyes and there were just enough clouds for the sun to reflect all its colors. As I came to a stop at the guardhouse, a chorus of tree frogs could be heard in the woods on the other side of the fence line; a sure harbinger of spring and, after running through the northlands, a most welcome sound.
I rolled out of the warehouse half an hour later with an empty trailer, headed west through southern Georgia. I was due at a paper mill on the Georgia/Alabama line that night to be reloaded. The highway was a four lane, running through towns and cotton fields. I was chasing the last light of day as it slowly, reluctantly released its hold to the encroaching night. The first town was a fairly large one, the main street lined with manor homes, probably built after the Civil War. Live oak trees arched overhead, creating a green tunnel to drive through. More Spanish moss hung from their branches, swaying gently in the spring-like breeze. My windows were still open wide, to take advantage of the soft evening air. I turned down the stereo; somehow, Foghat echoing between the old brick homes seemed incongruous in this sleepy southern town. The gentle folks were probably sitting down to supper, soon to move to the veranda with glasses of sweet iced tea, or bourbon, to enjoy a warm evening out of doors before bedding down for the night.
As I continued west, the sun finally set for the night and darkness enveloped the land. Insects, large and small, speckled my windshield; they joined the layers of road salt that had not been completely scrubbed off the edges of the front glass. Tree frogs, spring peepers, could still be heard in the stands of trees off the road; a large, dark shape glided past, an owl searching for its evening hunting grounds. The shrill cries of killdeers and nightjars could be heard over the humming of the tires. Traffic faded away as the time grew later; soon, only myself and a few other trucks shared the road.
A couple hours from my earlier delivery, I arrived at the mill and went through the entry procedures. I was soon backed up to the loading dock and sat as seven rolls of Georgia-Pacific's finest were forklifted into my trailer. Then it was back out across the scales and time to check out with security. When all the paperwork was complete, and the proper notifications made that I had indeed picked up the load, I worked my way back to the main highway along ten miles of winding Georgia backroads. I hit the four lane and backtracked east to a small truckstop I had noticed on my way to the mill. I rolled in and parked the 'Bird for the night. There was a restaurant there, that was closed by this time, but the stop held the most important thing for me – coffee service that would be available to me when I awoke in the morning.
With the rising sun, I struck back out on the highway and then turned left onto another four lane that would take me north and west to Columbus, GA, where I would then connect with the interstate system. From there I continued north to the Midwest, back into the snowbelt and the biting cold. But I had the chance to spend a few days down south, where the air was as warm and soft as a Georgia belle's drawl. And I carried this warmth with me, an inner fire to help me through the next few thousand miles of winter.

Another Valentine's Day is approaching. Yay. I won't be celebrating it this year. I haven't celebrated it for 17 years. One reason is personal, a couple of other reasons are because of what the day has become.
Personally, an event happened on Valentine's Day that foretold of a another problem a few years later. It was a minor event, as it turned out, but at the time was fairly tragic. So the day holds bad feelings to me.
More importantly though, is what has happened over the years to this minor holiday. The rampant commercialism of this, and any other, holiday has pretty well ruined the “holiday spirit”. Billboards, flyers, advertisements, newspaper inserts all exhort us to buy the biggest, the shiniest, the best we cannot afford to prove our love to someone else. Even the heart shaped boxes of candy now come in 5- or 10-lb packages. People confide in their friends that the gift they received was not what they wanted, was not as exorbitant or showy enough for them; I have been told these things after giving a gift too. The price of roses quadruples, or more, in the week leading up to 14 February, only to return overnight to normal levels. It has turned into another day for retailers to extort money from the masses. And, although Hallmark Cards had nothing at all to do with the implementation of this day, it is the ultimate manifestation of a string of “Hallmark Holidays” that span the year. Which brings me to point number two.
There are many Days that are supposed to be used to celebrate family, friends, and co-workers. Bosses's Day, Secretaries' Day, Mother-in-Law Day, Grandparents' Day, the list goes on and on. These are supposed the days we honor these folks and show them some appreciation. If you need a day on the calendar outlined in red to remind you to show a little appreciation for these people, along with mothers, fathers, and lovers, then you have failed as a human being. You might not be able to tell everyone every day how you feel about them, but you should still make the effort throughout the year. A simple “thank you” or “You're doing a helluva job, thanks” or “I love you” costs nothing and yet reaps large rewards.
When I ran an office and warehouse, my co-workers knew how I felt – because I told them. One year, the corporation decided to implement a series of training that dealt with inter-personal interactions. After one class, the branch manager came to me and told me that he never realized how important and easy it was to say “Thank you for a job well done.” I told him it was something I learned in the sandbox in kindergarten and had been thanking my crew for years. I guess I missed the class that taught us how do deal with the ignorant. And not a week goes by that I don't tell my manager now that I appreciate all the hard work she puts in to keep me running.
A line from the book Belles on Their Toes, the sequel to Cheaper by the Dozen, rings in my head. On Mothers' Day, the mother of the family told all her children not to bother buying her anything. She felt the day was set up to give children a way to atone for 364 days of neglect and forgetfulness. Or, to put it another way, an excuse to be neglectful for 364 days and then atone for it on one special day. To me, that is what Valentine's Day, and a host of others, has become - a minor league day of atonement for a year of neglect.
My family and friends and especially my daughter all know how I feel about them because I tell them. Not out of a sense of obligation, but because I want them to know. We never know what the morrow will bring, it is not our place to know if we will see another Valentine's Day, or Mothers' Day. And if something were to happen to a friend or family member and I hadn't told them lately how I feel about them, I would have to carry that burden the rest of my life.
In conclusion, I say to all my friends Happy Thursday the 12th, Happy Friday the 13th. I love you all and appreciate everything you do for me.

I`m sitting in the parking lot of a truck stop in western Arkansas this morning; dawn is breaking over my right shoulder. I am in no rush today. The load I have delivers in Houston tomorrow morning and I am less than 400 miles away.
I got out of the northeast before the latest storm of the century hit that area. Once again, this year, I`ve been damn lucky - most of my runs have gotten me out of the affected areas before these major storms have hit. I have driven through a fair bit of bad weather, but with some judicious planning, I have been driving on dry roads. No truck sledding for this old concrete cowboy.
The last shadows of the night are fading in the west. It was a pleasant night; my windows were open a bit and I slept under just a sheet. Although there are no indicators yet, one can feel spring gathering its strength down in these parts. Just a couple of weeks ago, along the Georgia/Florida border, I heard tree frogs singing their love songs to each other. Yes, spring is coming.
The power cord on my computer broke. I have been fighting with it for a few weeks; the wires finally separated for good. I`m typing this from my phone-my finger is worn out already. I don`t see how some of y`all use your phones for keeping up with everything here. It seems to be the equivalent of running Windows 3.1 to get any office work done. So I haven`t even been lurking, as I have been known to do on occasion.
Where am I going with all this? I`m going to Houston, then this run is done. A certain young lady I know is celebrating her Sweet Sixteen on Friday. Sweet, Sassy Sixteen. Wow. I have so many emotions running through me about this. At every stage of her life, I have said "This is the best, most special". And I say it now. And yet, I worry. Have I taught her well enough to make good decisions in her life? How has the estrangement between her mother and I affected her? Will she have a good life, or will she have to scratch and claw her way through adulthood? And selfishly, I wonder how she will remember me- will I be Daddy? Or will I just be an absentee father who showed up once in a while when he needed a fishing partner?
No matter our station in life, no matter the power we wield, no matter how much wealth we accumulate, the only real legacy we leave our children is.....ourselves. What we have taught them, how they view the world, how they act in it, and how they remember us, their parents. These questions weigh heavier on my mind these days. I know now that my days are numbered. Whether that number is large or small is not mine to know. And this young lady will carry my legacy, good or bad, with her. Sixteen years ago, she was a small helpless, squirming armful. And now she is a beautiful young lady. It has been a wonderful trip to this point; I guess I will just have to hang on and see what the rest of the journey brings.
So anyway, I`m coming to the end of another run. And she and I will have a blast over the next few days. And this too, will be part of our legacy.
You and God in Heaven above know I love what I do for a living, I do. But Houston, Houston means that I`m one day closer to you.

Here's the story, of a lovely lady
As I left the cold and snow of Syracuse, NY behind, I headed south through Pennsylvania and knew my delivery and pick up would be near a fellow NN friend. I had my next load planned already and knew I had some time on my schedule, so I texted said lovely lady and asked if we could get together for coffee at a nearby truck stop. She said YES!!! Woo hoo!!!
As I stood inside the truck stop, nervous as a high school senior waiting for his prom date, across the floor walked .... wait for it.... RedVS4U!!!
We all know just how attractive Red is, eyes a man could drown in and a smile that lights up whatever place she happens to be. But this young lady has an inner beauty that shines through and makes her twice as gorgeous than her photos indicate.
We sat at a table, ordered a small lunch each, and chatted. She is intelligent, charming, quick witted and witty. The hours flew by like minutes as we ate and talked. After, I walked her outside to introduce her to the Freebird, and these two wonderful ladies hit it right off. The 'Bird is a great judge of character We talked some more, about our lives, our work, our thoughts on various subjects. All too soon, though, it was time to part.
I escorted her back to her car, her arm in mine. My feet stayed dry through the snowy parking lot because I was walking 5 feet off the ground.
Red, I want to thank you for a great afternoon. You put this old boy at ease with your charming manner. Your smile is infectious, and even now, my smile is as big as a Montana sky as I think back on our conversations. You are a true beauty in every sense of the word and I am honored to have your friendship.

As I travel around, I love to see the names of places, whether towns, parks, stores, what-have-you. And, being a bit of a wordsmith, sometimes the wording of these signs makes me wonder and conjures up thoughts that probably were not intended by the originators. Here are a few examples.


Withlacoochee River:
Many rivers still carry the names the Amercian Indians gave them. Unfortunately, the translation to English from the original (probably Cherokee in this case) sometimes lends itself to a chuckle. This one is in Georgia. Maybe this is where the local tribe held fertility ceremonies. Or maybe you can't go fishing here unless you have a woman of questionable morals with you.

Semi Accessible:

I saw a billboard for a travel plaza along I-90 in Minnesota. On the billboard were listed all the amenities that one could find there. At the bottom were the words Semi-Accessible. What??? Does this mean half the driveway is blocked? You can get in the driveway and park, but not walk into the store? Only half the doors to the store are open? I mean really now, what good is a travel plaza like that?

David Weekley Homes:

David Weekley Homes, rated best home builder in 2013. I'm sorry, but I think I want a house that is a built a little stronger than a Weekley built home. And he got an award for this?

De Bone Stuffed Chicken:

This billboard is located on I-10 westbound in Louisiana. It is advertising a local truck stop/restaurant along the highway and lists some of the local specialities offered. I know there has to be a couple of letters missing, but – De Bone Stuffed Chicken? Chickens have enough bones in them, no need to add to that. I can see Crab Meat Stuffed Chicken, all kinds of other good possibilities, but stuffing a chicken with bones? Is this maybe some kind of voodoo ritual? Think I'll pass on this and get some alligator etouffee.

Toad Suck State Park:

This state park can be found in Arkansas, north and west of Little Rock. Toad Suck? How this name came about is potentially disturbing, to say the least, even for Arkansas. It must have been named by a side of the family that named Lizard Lick, North Carolina. Yeah, the side of the family even THEY won't acknowledge.

Big Bone Lick State Park:

This state park is located in Kentucky. Big Bone Lick – need I say more?


Paradise and Intercourse:

These two little towns are located in southeastern Pennsylvania. And, as you can well imagine, the local joke is that, to get to Paradise, you have to go through Intercourse first.

Hot Coffee:

I left a paper mill in Monticello, Mississippi one day and was headed east on US84, where I was going to get on an interstate in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. As I was driving along, I saw a sign that said “Hot Coffee – Next Left”. Hell yeah, I could use some fresh java in my thermos. When I got to the intersection, another sign said “Hot Coffee – 7 miles”. Well, that's just too far out of the way for me and the coffee would be cold by the time I got back to the main drag anyway. On further investigation, it is the name of a small town there. GuitarTxn, I found your retirement home.


Kum and Go:
In Missouri and Iowa, this is the name of a chain of convenience stores, some of which are truck stops too. I guess that “The Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am Travel Stop” is just too long to put on a lighted sign.

What do C. W. McCall and Mannheim Steamroller have in common? A gentleman named Chip Davis.
Mr. Davis is best known for his Christmas albums with the Mannheim Steamroller orchestra. These albums combine traditional instruments, such as the harpsichord, with modern electronic instruments, such as synthesizers. His arrangements impart a fresh take on the traditional carols. He is the founder, arranger, composer, and producer (under the American Gramaphone label) for Mannheim Steamroller, as well as the quasi-New Age group Fresh Aire. His arrangements have a distinctive sound, much like John Williams or Lalo Schiffrin. Mr. Davis' arrangements rely heavily on the horn and percussion sections to set the mood and tempo of his music; this was evident even in his collaboration with C. W. McCall, especially on this song, Won't Be No Country Music, Won't Be No Rock and Roll, written ten years before his Fresh Aire/Mannheim Steamroller efforts.


Chip Davis wrote the music for the C. W. McCall franchise while William (Bill) Fries wrote the lyrics and sang as C. W. McCall. Together, they released six country albums in the 1970's, and then reunited to release two more albums after 1990.

His work with Mannheim Steamroller continued his tradition of featuring horns and percussion. Toss in a little guitar work by Mason Williams, and you have this version of Classical Gas.



Oh hell, let's do one more. Climb up in the cab with C.W. and Earl, and let's take those 400 head of Rhode Island reds and a couple of burnt out roosters down Wolf Creek Pass.

A little traveling music, maestro, if you please:



Knoxville Girl




Waterhole




And who better to pilot the Freebird, than a

Freeborn Man