Where men drive trucks and so do the women

This is the inside of my Dad's truck.
How many gears do you think there are?

Six thirty in the morning is too early for human habitation. Especially in the Midwest when this time of existence is dark and cold for most of the year. And I like dark and cold because that's me, but still, I like it better in bed.

You'd think I would have inherited a more hearty genetic personal time clock. My Dad's wake-up time is 3 a.m. or so when he's on the road. Sometimes 4 or 5 a.m. if he's sleeping in. He's a coast to coast truck driver and the best time to drive 18-wheels and umpteen gears is during the early morning before all the crazy car people come out. I suppose he's had this wake up time as long as he's been driving, more than 50 years. He vacations that way too. (I'm not sure his out-of-truck trips can really be called a vacation, per say, my family didn't do vacations, perhaps vacaTION, singular, but for simplicity sakes, let's go with the general concept of vacations.) Up and out before dawn. He's got places to go even with no delivery deadlines.

Even at 70 years old he still drives a grueling route: Minnesota - Iowa - Utah - California - Oregon - Washington - Minnesota. Over the mountains, over and over and over again. Retirement doesn't come easy. And whenever I mention his route there's a voice inside my head that wonders why I don't know what he's carrying. I really should know because that's the point. Wait, I remember. I believe this route it's windows. Big glass windows. I have no idea how they are loaded, secured, and unloaded. I keep thinking I should.

In this line of work, it really is about the destination not the journey, to flip over a perfectly flat spiritual adage, "It's not the destination, it's the journey." No, for a truck driver it's all about getting where you have to be, and getting there on time. That's it. My Dad does it even better. He gets there 24 hours early to add a buffer for the unexpected.

There ain't no journey. It's the arrival, stupid.

I have a saying about my family: Where men drive trucks and so do the women. There's a lot of truck drivers among my people, menfolk and womenfolk alike, including my Mom. (I was a sissy who didn't dig motors but I did at least learn to drive a four-speed stick shift via the anti-truck, a Ford Pinto.) When my youngest brother graduated high school and went on to vocational school, so did my Mom. At about 46 years old, she got her commercial driver's licence and hit the road with my Dad, like a constant honeymoon. (Actually, they did go in the truck for their honeymoon, for real. Destination Oneida, South Dakota. Population 80. But what did they haul?) When my mother learned how to drive a semi, at five foot zero she couldn't reach the peddles so my dad concocted wooden block extensions and clamped them to the brake and accelerator. These days my Mom focuses more on the book keeping and navigation. If you're ever lost, no matter where you are just call her and she'll find you a route.

I wish she could figure out how to get me out of my daily 6:30 a.m. rude awakening. Or at least muster me some of that road trip grit to persevere through my powder puff eight-hours at the office. It's January and I need some inspiration.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

P.S. My Mom's a much better blogger than me. She, Dad, and their favorite child are heading south. Check it out. Although it's always a bummer when you're parents are sick.