Transcription
Around the Cosmic Campfire by Tony Wright
Chapter 26: Summer of the Big Truck
It was amazingly hot and wet for early July in the Midwest. It was thick and sticky, with a light steam rising off the scorching asphalt street in front of the homestead on 56th Street. It was another blazing summer in Iowa. I remembered launching out to flag down the ice cream truck and hopping from one bare foot to the other on that hot asphalt as a kid, all those years ago, and all for a beloved Dreamsicle.
It was almost amazing, bordering on phenomenal, that I still had the key to the front door of my childhood house, and that it worked as perfectly as the day I had been entrusted with it in the fourth grade. That was back when the front door still had the half-circle glass cut into three pie wedges at the top. The door had been replaced by a less interesting, solid, and more contemporary door. The pie-glass door had gone to the graveyard where dead doors go a long, long time ago, and I really missed it. The new door, however, had inherited the still operable original handle and lock, and my key was still user-friendly after 25 years.
Also interesting to me, as I reminisced, was that in this transient culture, the telephone number to my childhood homestead had been the same since the day I was born. That was back sometime ago when Truman was president, and telephones were heavy and black and stuck in one place with umbilical cords, and also had party lines. That was back there between World War II and the Korean War, which seemed like light years away now.
I had always considered myself lucky to have come from such a stable and firmly planted family: one house, one key, one phone number forever. However, this week was challenged by the drudgery task of cleaning 40 years of senseless accumulation by my parents out of the house. If only the folks had moved, gotten a condo like other retirees in the nation; if only they had gotten this stuff sorted out themselves. It was 30 years of Popular Mechanics stuffed in the basement rafters, and that was just the beginning. I was pretty sure it was not going to be fun, as just my older sister and I found ourselves scrounging through the seemingly endless past of our own in the summer heat. Both parents were now tragically gone, with only one and a half years apart from each other in their big demises.
“What the heck is this stuff? Pitch this.”
“No, it’s Dad’s high school—Dad’s high school memorabilia. Okay, save it.”
“Who are these people in these photos? Anyway, I don’t know. Okay, pitch them.”
And someone went on and on, day after day, for two weeks: headache after headache, allergy after allergy, from the musty bowels of the basement rafters to the dust-fluff of the heat-stroke attic. And there it was: another headache—a mother raccoon with a litter nesting in the attic.
“Call the animal control center.”
“Oh, yes, Dad said he heard something there, scratching up there months ago. Get them out. Goodbye to the little critters.”
“What is all this stuff?”
Oh, dearest Mother, who did you save all this junk for? My sister and I were four and a half years apart and worked well together, yet we just groaned, unwrapped, tossed, reviewed, and stuffed content into old cigar boxes, old canisters, and toolboxes under the stairwell—one full of pennies. Then there were a barrel full of nails, the linen closet full of toiletries too, too far gone to be useful—expiration dates a few decades ago; old end pieces of bars of soap stuffed into cans. Why were Mom and Dad going to cook them down and make one large bar of soap in an emergency? God bless those men and women raised in the Great Depression—never enough space to keep what may someday be needed.
“Here, freeze this one bread heel; I might need it for stuffing next Thanksgiving.”
Oh, dear Mother of God. The research task went on and on. We both exposed old childhood artwork: finger-painted pictures, photos, campfire grill trinkets—just items designed specifically to absolutely bring on tears. We were experiencing grief once again—that our parents were too young to die, to leave two grown kids behind—us orphans now. We were feeling like children in our thirties, rummaging through the past in the smoldering heat in July. There was no conflict, surprisingly enough, on who got what; neither of us really cared. Most of the collectibles had been stolen a decade earlier in the burglary when the folks had retreated to Florida for a quiet piece of winter—two retired, hardworking, middle-class war vets stripped of any little piece of their family heritage and courtship. It was a violation neither of them ever quite got over.
Ever.
The inside of the two-bedroom ranch started to expand into usable space. Junk grew into mountains and piles of capables that lived temporarily here and there until being boxed to go south. I had a home in Tennessee and planned to take some sizable pieces not needed or desired by my sister back home for safekeeping. Dad had only been dead for three months, and it was hard to pitch and throw, but it had to be done to get the property spiffed up enough to be rented out. The yard took shape with snipping, mowing, and raking, as our little kids were employed to help out. The ladder was out to wash the front picture window, leaning against the house. We remembered it was only a year ago that Dad had been up there and fallen, luckily only injuring his ego and self-esteem. He couldn’t understand his loss of balance but was glad Mother wasn’t alive to see it. Dad found that brain tumors can move so fast, but not as fast as Mom dying on the operating table during a heart procedure.
The back shed was a private collection of the most useless mishmash and arrest dust this side of the Mississippi River. Who would ever know why cracked, holy garden hoses or one shoe were kept there? There was also someone else’s “For Sale” house sign, empty Pennzoil cans, and the favorite childhood table fan that was removed from the house because it was an unfixable fire hazard. Maybe it was simply the memories Mother had of me, the baby of the family, being unable to fall asleep without the hollow, hollow whining the fan made on the dresser top. It was my necessary part of summer vacation, year after year, but the whole lot was donated to the kind junk man who hauled it off from the backyard for a very good price.
“So much stuff he would like to keep, if that was all right.”
“Yes, whatever you need, take it—garden tools, old tires, etc.”
He was delighted and was a very nice guy who was so sympathetic to the loss of our parents. He shared his story of following his own parents home one day near Boone from a lovely family gathering, only to watch them get hit head-on and killed instantly by an out-of-control semi-truck. Our story of grief felt so powerless and gentle suddenly. It is true that there’s always someone out there with a story worse off than your own.
In the shed inventory, we found a 5-gallon bucket of white gypsum sand. We knew it was for filling in the cracks of the stone patio squares to help keep the weeds out—probably it kept cigarette butts out too. It just couldn’t keep cigarettes out of Mom’s mouth, though. A lifetime of smoking had eventually taken her. Dad did the sand and the patio every year when we were growing up. It always looked quite amazing and was a great sunbathing and picnicking spot for everyone. It was decided we would take half a day and pull patio weeds, put the sand in the cracks, get it looking as great as it could for being outdated, and get a renter in there fast. We worked on this all morning, but then discovered, about 20 feet short of completion, we were out of sand. We called all over the city of Des Moines for any type of white sand or something similar. It was the kind of sand used by posh hotels—the floor ashtrays and the lobby that they sometimes embossed their names into. It shouldn’t be too hard to find, but there was none. No one had any idea where to guide us. Although I wished and prayed for white chips and sand to show up, it did not. I decided I would just go sit down and will it. After all, I had definitely willed the space between my front teeth to grow together in record time when I was in my 20s. That was impossible—that was what my dentist friend in California told me. He said there was no way at my age those teeth would have grown together without something extraordinary occurring. I simply willed my teeth to go together, and quickly the proof was just a glance away, and even my parents were in disbelief back then. As the day moved forward, I had to give up. I had always been able to make anything happen if I put my mind to it, but time was running out. We moved on to cleaning, Lysol, vacuuming, and the next day we let a renter move in. It was a quick business deal, and in just two weeks, start to finish, we had discarded an entire collection of four people’s memorabilia of their lives gone by. It seems like a dream to us both.
The Ryder truck bound for Tennessee was being filled with appliances, mattresses, a table and chairs in dire need of refinishing, boxes of pink Depression glass from a great-aunt Irene I’d never met, photos, and so much more. There were Nazi armbands and uniform buttons (as Dad was in the Army stationed in Germany), a leather whiskey flask, an Army hat, Mom’s WAVE Navy uniform, and an old Scotch tape dispenser. Much of it was ridiculous.
“Oh, let it go, kid,” I kept saying to myself. I just couldn’t. It all had some meaning, and it was like throwing my parents away. So much had been tossed, and I was keeping all I could get away with. I had planned to make the drive back to Tennessee with just my six-year-old daughter, Emily. I had never even driven such a large truck, and out on the interstate as well. I hated driving on the interstate, but it was time to just do what had to be done, and I was going to take all that junk back, come hell or high water. I once and for all had to be grown up now because I now was one of the two elders.
The night before the departure, my big sis worried and tossed and turned all night about me—a little squirt of a woman trying to drive a 17-foot Ryder truck 700 miles to Tennessee alone, with a huge fear of driving on the interstate. She was aware of my fear of that big rig and of my tension headache that had developed the night before. The morning of departure, I saw that an extra suitcase was out the door. Yes, her suitcase spoke to me.
“I’m coming too, kiddo,” the suitcase seemed to say.
It was a deal. Before we left, we took the truck to the gas station and sweet-talked a greasy man into installing our Dad’s CB radio under the dash. We wondered if he might be too greasy to even get his hands inside the truck. Trouble on the road at night would be aided by this CB. I argued just to defend the installation. There were no cell phones back then. My sis was appalled but okayed it. Little did my sis know it was sometimes a hell of a lot of fun.
“Coming back to the good buddies on the boring stretch through… In God’s… God’s name, where are we?”
“Illinois.”
Illinois was almost as boring as Kansas to drive through, but not quite. It was 10 a.m., and past time to leave. Kisses to the city cousins by my six-year-old, and it was time to be going home to find her daddy, loaded down with her mom’s childhood memories and junk in tow. I figured these were things she, as an adult, would probably never give a hoot about. The poor kid was having to sit on a folding lawn chair between the truck’s captain’s chairs. The lawn chair was tied into the other seat frames very admirably with heavy ropes using clove hitches and Prusik knots. It was a good thing I had done some repelling and climbing in the old days, learning about tying knots, and no way would that chair hit the windshield on impact if stopped. We hoped the highway patrolman would see it my way too. We were off like a very large turtle. I’d never driven anything so heavy, and of course, there were the mirrors—I would have to use the mirrors. The hydraulic brakes made it sound like I was driving a semi with a retinue, and it was actually kind of a fascinating thing. I felt powerful, never mind the pillow I had to sit on just to see over the steering wheel. I was ready to go.
“Goodbye, Des Moines. Kissed the homeground away.”
We slowly chugged. The three of us were prepared for the long haul. Some snacks were packed and resting by our feet, back pillows, a heating pad for the night’s motel stop for the aching sciaticas. We both agreed we would not drive the whole way; that seemed ridiculous. I wondered if we would even get there in 30 days at this rate, but I smiled at myself, and we moved forward, being optimistic. The interstate south was yet unclogged, and we relaxed into the realization that we’d be hydraulic-braking our way through monotony and hot weather, getting hotter as we went south. It was okay; we were together. We two sisters have become like two peas in a family pod since our folks’ departure, for the most part. What we had of our youth now was each other. It surprised me that my sister marveled so much at my grit for being such a rookie behind the big wheel. We were both laughing, listening to old rock and roll on the radio, and each station’s statically crackling out of range. She had no idea that her little sis was silently feeling like a frightened and helpless cat with a hairball stuck in its throat, but as more miles would pass, tensions would all pass as our sweet home turf of Iowa and its ebony soil faded before our eyes and out of sight.
“Goodbye, Iowa. We love you in all of your homespun glory.”
Hours passed, and although I was a novice and sort of a miniature driver, I started to feel like I was officially a pro. Of course, backing up was a different challenge. We had spent the night somewhere in Illinois, left the motel, and the blinding rain in the morning. Somehow, I hooked the back bumper on a concrete post, and the motel owner was stodgy about it but helped lift the truck off, and in the rain for our getaway. He was shaking his head in disgust as we drove away. We speculated he was saying, “Jeez, woman drivers,” but I was no typical woman; I was secretly Annie Oakley. We were on the road again.
“Just can’t wait to get on the road again.”
And indeed, Willie Nelson must have been nuts. We were starting to have enough.
“Mommy, are we there yet?”
What’s the first inquiry? Our fannies retired from bad seats, and the wallet was tired of stopping every hour for gas. The tank was like a starving alien and was insatiable. I have a reputation for this, but I never needed a pit stop; I wasn’t. It was an amazing miracle, and it had become unclear to everyone I traveled with, as if I had no bladder or if I was wearing a drain bag hidden under my clothing. Truth be known, I’d always been like that on the road, even as a kid. I just wanted to get to where I was going, pit stops be damned. My sister, however, needed to continually stop due to her irritable bowel and tiny bladder, and so I’m sure we were quite a pair. Halfway through the second and final day, the weather ahead was dark, and boredom had found our board abode, but voilà—ammunition against boredom not yet called upon: Dad’s CB radio. I turned it on and found the frequency of my choice—I’d used to be on years ago in my 20s while traveling and entertaining on the road with my music group. My sister, however, had never really heard one in action. We listened for a moment through the static for a break in the chatter. My tiny woman driver voice broke in.
“Hey, good buddy, this is the Snow Bunny. Come back.”
You could feel the excitement on the channel as the lonely truckers got hit with a pretty voice from nowhere. Suddenly everyone wanted to talk.
“What’s your twenty, Snow Bunny? What you driving, Snow Bunny? Snow Bunny, I wanna get your back door.”
Well, of course he did—to a long-haul trucker, it must have been sounding like Marilyn Monroe through the highway ethers. On and on it went. I, the beloved Snow Bunny, knew the ropes; I was one of that lonely highway crew in the past. It took a few minutes for my language to become easy jargon, but I found my lost habit in a few moments and clicked it on. They all introduced themselves. The Ryder truck was no longer alone in the universe.
“Hey there, Old Film Flam Man. My twenty is about 145-mile marker heading south on towards Paducah town. Some good old 18-wheeler just got—just about blew off my front door. Got some weaving cargo; must be doing 90. Come back.”
“Yup, yup, yup, little lady. He’s going to hit Smokey at about 160 marker. Don’t you know you and the old yellow truck back there? Come back.”
“That’s a big 10-4. Yeah, you got that, Snow Bunny. Here, darling, be going down on down to the Music City on home with a load of furniture. Got your ears on, Northbounder? Looking for a little weather info. Come back.”
Suddenly everybody was northbound. Banter was flying. Lonely Joe would be throwing a kiss as he went by. The Donut Man said it was raining cats and dogs down south. Traffic, including 18-wheelers, pulled over. My big sister’s eyes had never been so big.
“Close your mouth, Big Sis; it’s on the floor. Everything’s okay. This is just a little piece of me you’ve never seen.”
We were flying then. Slim Jim broke in and introduced himself.
“Got your twenty still, Bunny?”
He was sweet-sounding; didn’t have a familiar trucker’s twang. Sounded nice, soft, actually. I felt he was different. He wanted to tell the story of his life, of his new baby in Clarksville.
“You can follow me to almost Nashville; take my back door,” he offered.
Then Emily even got to say hello to him on the CB. I, the Snow Bunny, with all of my ancient CB-ing experience, made a snap judgment: he was definitely all right. We chatted for some time. It was about lunchtime, and stomachs were growling, and nerves needed a definite pit stop. I trusted him by now to know the route and asked him where to stop and eat.
“Gotcha. Good old McDonald’s up at the 95 exit, Snow Bunny, for that little one there. I always stopped there; got the petrol there too. Come back.”
There were dreaded squeals of delight from Emily from McDonald’s, so just how could anyone say no to a sack of McBurgers and fries? My little girl deserved whatever she wanted, anyway. She had been roped into a lawn chair for many hours, wondering how in the heck long it could go on. She had been an incredibly good sport, and whatever she wanted, she was going to get.
“That’s a big 10-4. Slim Jim, want to join us? Come back.”
My sister was having a Big Sis coronary by now. I knew she was thinking: us lunching with a complete stranger, a trucker at that. Surely you just… God, no! But it was done. The kind of adventure was nothing new to me, as I had a habit of stepping over far too many logical lines in my younger days. It was always harmless but fun adventure meeting new people. Besides, what could happen to the three of us in McDonald’s in broad daylight? I had followed my instincts.
“Yup, guess I could use it, Snow Bunny. I’ll meet you inside in about 10 minutes.”
I smiled for the heck of it.
“That’s a big 10-4.”
The airwaves had gotten pretty silent. The other truckers settled into the fact that Slim Jim and the sweet Snow Bunny were a CB item now, but I didn’t even know what he looked like. To find him at the Golden Arches, we pulled the Ryder and found the biggest space available and one with plenty of room for reversing with no concrete posts this time. After untying Emily from the lawn chair, we three climbed down from the giant truck cab and hobbled on creaking butt bones inside the Mickey D’s—to the fountain, to the restroom, to the order line. Only one rig in the distance was visible, and it was a huge, shining stainless steel cylinder behind the cab with nothing written on it. It looked like a shiny bullet on wheels. There were no hazardous material signs or flammable warnings.
“Must not be gas, oil, or nuclear waste,” I thought. “But what is it?”
Maybe it wasn’t his rig; maybe he wouldn’t even be able to find him; maybe he wouldn’t even show up. The three of us got burgers and a famous some sort of fish-like sandwich with gooey white pickle goop and fries, drinks—the whole works. We were apologizing to our bodies when a 30ish man, medium weight and build, pleasant and clean, approached our table.
“Snow Bunny,” he said. He knew it was us—from the six-year-old, two women, and a six-year-old; it was obvious. We invited him to join us, and we chatted a while about destinations, the weather, his baby, and the tepid food. At last, we asked him where his rig was. He pointed out the old steel rig in the far gas station lot—the one we had spotted on our own. But what could be in there? I had never seen a rig quite like that in my extensive trucking career. Innocently, he explained he had quite a few tons of white gypsum sand. I choked on my fish sandwich; my sister spit pop, and we both screamed and squealed as the entire restaurant patronage quietly wondered what we were laughing about.
“No, it can’t be true!”
Of all the truckers on the road, I had chosen to dine with the one carrying a semi full of white gypsum sand. We told him of our desperate search for the white sand to finish our project in Des Moines and of our squelched hopes for finding any, but only wanted just one more bucket. He offered us as much as we could carry.
“Just said, help yourselves, ladies.”
But we had left home when the moment had passed for our project; no way to get it home, but thanks. It was just so much fun to talk about our wishes being heard in a higher place, and everyone laughed through lunch until it was consumed. We shook hands. He took us further on down the road to Clarksville, pulling our Ryder behind his rig with his suction of air as a barrier from the old Smokey patrol on the hunt. He said goodbye and put his hammer down, leaving us in the worst rainstorm in the history of anyone’s life on Planet Earth. We pulled over twice; we were ready to be there, to be anywhere. Colons were flaring; tiredness found us, but at least we were together. The deluge would end, and our overloaded rig would at last get us to Music City, to my place of rest. Insanity. We would be home to the place where the Ryder would be emptied and set free. It would once again be violated and abused by someone else who would travel too fast by the grist mills and silos of the constant landscape of the heartland. It had been quite an experience, the whole thing—from cleaning the bowels of the house to keeping the focus and blinding rain on the thrill, fair, and even funny moments in between for two sisters raised with a solid background of “Don’t rock the boat.” It had actually been shock therapy, but some growing up had happened during that time; some growing free had occurred as well. As we walked, blurry-eyed, into the warm house, damp but happy to be in one piece, my sister could not stop laughing at me, her little sibling, with a collection of antics which, in the end, turned out all right. I was smiling inside of myself, kvelling once again with the higher realms. They were always playing tricks on me, sending me little lessons to decipher, experiences to keep me flexing, and also laughing in my life. This time I had gotten a gold star for sure. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that 20 tons of white gypsum sand later, I had to be careful, very careful, about what I asked for. A person has to be able to handle it when it comes. I was continuing to learn about manifesting; I was relearning about tuning onto the God station and to transmit, to receive, to everyone around; I was learning about trusting myself; I was also learning about being grateful for everything that would come along; I was learning that as I went down life’s interesting road, every single minute of every…
Single day. Whatever it was, I was asking for, I was certainly, without a doubt, going to get it.