A life on the road
Cheryl Unruh
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
In the centuries following the Reformation, my Mennonite ancestors migrated across Europe and Asia — from The Netherlands to Prussia to Russia.
They arrived on the Kansas prairie in 1874, the same year as the grasshopper invasion (a mere coincidence, as far as I know.)
Perhaps it was this latent nomadic history in my blood that inspired childhood thoughts of becoming a truck driver (in addition to dreams of being a meteorologist and a novelist.)
Well heck, who doesn’t love the freedom of being on the road? The gypsy life would be fun — a fresh state every day and always a new view through the windshield.
Now, there are reasons I’ve never become a truck driver, one of which is that I have backing issues. Backing a trailer is absolutely
counter-intuitive; I cannot do it.
Eighteen-wheelers are big, awkward machines. But have you ever watched a skilled trucker back up his vehicle? He can bend a 53-foot trailer, slipping it into the narrowest of alleyways.
Last week, my truck-driving cousin, Doug, called. Doug crosses the country endlessly in his Freightliner, but he seldom passes through the Sunflower State. His westbound routes usually take him through Nebraska or Oklahoma.
He called from Des Moines, Iowa — on his way to Kingman, Ariz. That evening, Dave and I picked him up from the Flying J truck stop. We went out to dinner, showed him the town and then stopped at our house to talk.
When Doug and I were kids, I rarely saw him and his siblings. They grew up in Florida and Southern Missouri. Doug and I have a bond — we share a birthday, although he is younger (40, this month).
When he’s not driving, Doug lives in Springfield, Mo. I only see him about every five years, so we had some catching up to do. He showed photos from his wedding in The Philippines and told about the slaughter of a goat for the wedding meal.
Doug described downtown Manila, the crowds, and the ox-drawn wagons in the streets. He told about being stuck in a traffic jam while riding in an open-air bus. A vehicle next to him was an open-air ambulance hauling a man who was yelling in pain.
The dialogue turned to Doug’s time in the Coast Guard, much of which he spent in the Bering Sea where the crew often searched for crab fishing boats that were lost in the icy waters.
Great stories, all of them, but ever since Doug phoned that morning, I have had the song lyrics to “I’m a Truck” running through my head. I kept veering the conversation to truck driving topics, inquiring about his 10 years on the road (with 1.5 million safe miles).
“When I take you back to your truck, can I see the inside of your cab?” I asked, sounding like an 8-year-old.
In the parking lot behind Flying J, Doug and I passed semi after semi, each one backed in neatly.
Because I seldom (OK, never) hang around truck stops after dark, it surprised me at just how many 18-wheelers were roosting for the night at the Flying J — dozens and dozens of them.
Three steps up and I was in the cab of Doug’s truck. Oh — a spring-loaded driver’s seat — I want one. The cab ceiling was about 12’ high, which allowed room for the bunk bed. He had a microwave, a small refrigerator, a TV and his laptop. I even saw a collapsible home gym — but he has to use that outside the cab.
I could envision a truck as home — for a short time anyway.
Yeah, it’ll never happen. (backing issues.) Still, I like to imagine the nomadic delight of sliding across the country while listening to satellite radio.
The next morning Doug would head for Arizona. “After that,” he said, “Who knows where? Maybe L.A.”
“Flyover People” is online at www.flyoverpeople.net.
• Cheryl Unruh can be reached at cheryl@flyoverpeople.net.