Can you believe it, December and the Holiday Season is here again. I’m not sure I have paid off all the credit cards from last year. Guess it doesn’t matter, that’s why I keep working around the clock. The things we drivers do to make a living should be against the law, and in some cases, it is. It’s also not very conducive for a long life. If it weren’t for pushing the limits of human endurance and stretching my physical capacity, I would have plenty of time to do all those family things my loved one’s desire. But no, I’m a long-haul owner operator, and most of my life is absorbed with chasing freight and/or repairing equipment.
I’m sure all of you have heard the story by Charles Dickens about his famous character, Ebenezer Scrooge, who is visited three times in his dream by a ghost who tries to convince him if he changes his ways and gives up his never-ending chase for money, he will not only become happier, but the people around him would, as well. That story played out at the turn of the 19th century in England. Much like today, everyone was pinching pennies when they could. This year’s story is more of a trucker’s tale, and it starts out like this…
I’ve been a driver since back in the 1970s, what some folks call the good old days. When I started, I was barely 20 years old, and back then I had more responsibilities than common sense. This made for a rocky start, with close calls and near misses being a regular occurrence. Somehow, I survived to live and drive another day. Through the years I have pushed the limits and went further than was expected by anyone, sometimes to the point of being careless, fearless to a fault, and then expecting others to live up to my high standards.
Not long ago I loaded a haul from Minnesota to Indiana with a tight time schedule. I’m always looking to get an extra load in and put more pennies in the bank. I arrived at the shipper on time and was promptly issued a door to load. They took their time loading all those Christmas goodies, and even though I had an appointment, they managed to use up six or seven hours before I was finished and had my bills in hand. The last thing the shipping clerk said was, “Don’t be late. This load has to be in the store before the 24th with no excuses!” Wow, I can do that, then pick up a short run before I head home for the holidays. That will surprise the family since I’ve missed so many other special days.
Off I go like a rocket, daydreaming about Christmas Day, at my own kitchen table, with loved ones all around. I roll down the interstate for a couple hours and watch the sun set in my mirrors. I decide to stop for coffee and a sweet roll to go. After paying the bill, I check my watch and calculate my ETA to Indiana. On my way back to the truck, an older driver stopped me to ask the time – said his pocket watch had stopped and he needed to check in with his boss.
As we spoke, he acted like he knew me, and even made mention of times past when he saw me do things I didn’t think anyone knew about. At first, I dismissed it as a confused old man, thinking maybe I just look like someone he knows. We talked a few minutes more and finally I stopped him and asked, “Who are you and how do you know me?” He said, “I’m an old friend who has run many miles with you.” This took me back a step or two since I have never run team with anyone other than my father-in-law “The Wagon Master” way back when I first started driving. I asked if he had a name or handle I might recognize? With a warm and gentle smile, he responded, “You can call me Old Timer. I work with Father Time, don’t you recognize me?” Now I’m the one who is confused. Many of my friends call me Father Time and, to the new drivers, I’m the old timer.
Once again, I check my watch and notice I’m running late, but to humor the old guy I ask him, “If we ran together, tell me a story no one else would know.” With a twinkle in his eyes, he says… “Remember the year the Detroit Tigers made the playoffs, and you followed all their games? That was the year you were running hams from Thornapple Valley in Detroit to Marricie Meats in New Jersey. You were making two rounds a week, and most weekends you slipped in a Syracuse turn and back for cash.”
“As I remember, we were running across Pennsylvania, listening to the game late in the evening and you were struggling to stay awake, so you rolled the window down and turned the radio up. I think it was station WJR.” I stood silent and stunned as he recounted the events, right down to me falling asleep at the wheel and then drifting off the road. I had run over three of those reflectors on the inside median strip. When he stopped to breathe, I asked again, who he was and how he would know that and remember it 45 years later?
I have never told anyone about that incident, but I’m reminded of it often because I still have that truck and there’s a dent just under the driver’s side windshield where the reflectors hit the cab. “Dennis, I was riding with you that night, and I grabbed the wheel before you drove into the rocks,” the old man said. “Another time you were hauling chemicals for Corder out of Belleville, Michigan, when you were returning to the yard from Texas, and you fell asleep again, this time just north of Monroe, Michigan, on I-75. We took a ride down through the grass right there where 275 goes north, remember? It took both of us that night, gripping the wheel, to keep it from turning over, but it didn’t, and we kept it upright.”
I stood there unable to move, not comprehending what was happening. Once again, he spoke, and this time he started with… “How about that time in Wisconsin when you got your first new truck, the red one called Spirit Chaser. It wasn’t more than a couple weeks old when we ran into a snowstorm. You were so sure of yourself you hung it out in the left lane and pushed down on the throttle. To the devil, be damned, I’m gonna deliver this load on time, you said. Well, we were damned, and as the snow got deeper you continued to push the limits of man and machine,” he said.
“You didn’t see the drift until it was too late, and the truck was sucked off into the ditch. Fortunately, it wasn’t as deep in the center of the road, and I hit the gas, sending us up onto the other side of the road and up the westbound side entrance ramp. As I remember it, you lost all your confidence that night, and had to change your clothes, too, before we started out again, at a much slower pace,” he said. “Old Timer, how can you know these things, I’ve never seen you before?” I asked with a puzzled look.
Once again, I check my watch and politely tell the old timer I have to go or I will be late and have to reschedule, and there’s no money in that. He waves goodbye and starts off into the night, walking down the row of parked trucks, then stops and turns to remark, “Dennis, don’t drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.” He then disappeared into the darkness. Needless to say, I was more than a little shaken by that crazy old man, but I just chalked it up to a trucker’s tale and hit the pavement.
Rolling through the gears, I took inventory of the cab, making sure I’m the only one in it. The miles roll past my window and I making good time, but I hadn’t eaten all day, so I headed into the nearest mom-and-pop diner and sat at the counter. The waitress called out, “What will it be, Sweetheart?” Since the night had turned cold, I was not felling my best, and thought maybe I had a fever coming on. I asked if the soup was any good, and she said she didn’t know, but to ask the customer on the end of the bar. Sitting there was a man that looked like a traveling salesman, eating a bowl of soup and a sandwich, quietly by himself. When he looked up, I nearly passed out, as it was that crazy old man again, except this time he looked much younger, but it was still his face.
Once again, this man called me by name, saying, “Dennis, try the bean soup, it will be good for what ails you and it will really warm you up.” I must have looked a sight, as even the waitress asked if I was feeling alright. I shrugged it off and told her to forget the soup, just get me a bologna sandwich and coffee to go. I didn’t have time to get into another long conversation with that traveler who seemed to be following me.
Back on the road, I was upset, and maybe even shook up. I couldn’t have slept if I found a place to stop or had the time, so onward I went. As the hours ticked away, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to me back there at the fuel stop and again at the diner. Am I so stressed out and exhausted that I am losing it! Have I become so consumed with making money that I no longer have any life? Could it be time for me to hang up the keys for good? I don’t want to retire, but I’m no longer young, and this truckin’ game is a young man’s sport.
Maybe it’s time for me to rethink how hard I run. I feel strong, and all through my life, there has never been any task I couldn’t accomplish. Could it be that old man is right – I’m careless? My whole life I have counted in dollars and cents. I do find myself taking chances that I would not expect from men half my age. I tell myself, “Now is no time to stop, I still have things I want to do before my days are finished behind the wheel. Someday, I hope to make a run from Miami, Florida, to Dead Horse, Alaska. I have been most of the way already, but there is still the northern most leg that remains to be completed. Maybe next year.
My old truck has completed yet another haul, and I find myself parked in the holding lot, waiting for them to get my trailer unloaded. The bunk heater is on and my cab is warm and toasty, so I decide to settle down for a long winter’s nap. As my eyes close and the muscles of my cramped legs relax, there’s a knock on the door. I know there hasn’t been enough time to off-load that trailer yet, so I drag myself out of the bunk expecting to be insulted, injured, or instructed to do something more for the receiver.
As I sit in the driver’s seat, rubbing the confusion from my eyes, I open the door to once again be confronted by that crazy old man, but this time he was the receiving agent with my bills. “Dennis, your load is complete, and I have your paperwork right here.” I just sat there unable to move, with my thoughts all jumbled up in my head. “I don’t know you, but each time you appear you are someone else, and you still call me by name. I’ve never seen you before today, but now this is the third time. Who are you and why are you following me?” His appearance slowly changed back to the first old driver who stopped me in the fuel stop. When I looked closer, I saw he was dressed as an old-time union driver from before my day. He wore a nice uniform with polished shoes and a driver’s cap, sporting his safety pins, that dated back to the 1940s. Again, he spoke with a gentle voice, a reassuring tone that I could not rebuff.
“Dennis, I’m your guardian angel. I’ve been with you every day since your first day driving a rig. Never have you been alone when I wasn’t on the job protecting you. You don’t recognize me, but all through the years we have talked. Each time I have been someone different who you have interacted with, but still I was there. Now, I’m a very old angel, and I fear my ability to help you may not be as sharp as it once was. You too are aging, and have had health troubles, too. Remember when you couldn’t get home from that charity run to Paintsville, Kentucky? You became too tired and weak to drive those last few miles. It was me who steered us back to the house. Sure, you were in the seat, but I drove the truck. Someday when you hang up the keys and pass onto the next life, I will get my wings and, like me, you will be the next guardian angel.”
“Driver, you know I have seen your past and we are in the present, but I need to show you your future before it’s too late. This, my friend, is my gift to you.” He placed his withered hand on my shoulder and then pointed to the windshield. As if watching television, I could see a hospital room with people milling around, but no one was paying any attention to the crippled old man who lay quietly in the bed. “Old timer, what’s happening? Why are we here,” I asked. “Dennis, remember how you wanted to drive from the southernmost point in the United States to the top of the world in Dead Horse, Alaska? Well, you finally got that dispatch. And we were doing great until that moose ran onto the road and there was no place to go.”
“You were warned to get a heavy-duty bumper that could withstand a collision with 2,000 pounds of wild animal, but you said it cost too much, and there wasn’t enough money to buy one. The front axle was ripped loose, and we crashed into the ravine. The tractor turned over and you were pinned under the cab. Your truck was totaled, the trailer broke open, and the cargo was destroyed. Everything was a loss.”
“While you were laying in this hospital bed fighting for your life, your insurance company contested the claim, and your wife had to pay the damages. She was forced to sell your company and the family home, and now she lives with your son in Arizona. This pains me to show you this, but if you don’t stop pushing yourself so hard, this will be your future. The money isn’t worth all the pain you will cause. Your family loves you and needs you. Driver, for you, it was always about the money, but for them, it was about sharing your life. You must know that love cannot be purchased at any price.”
As my guardian angel continued to talk, he said, “This is the time of year when we do acts of kindness for others. The giving of gifts is all too often valued not by the person who gives it, but by the one receiving it. Please accept my gift of your future. Dennis, we are getting too old for you to keep acting young.” The old gentleman looked me straight in the eye and said, “You need to go home to those who love you for Christmas this year and give them all your time. Spend every waking moment sharing their lives. This freight isn’t that important, and all the money in this world can’t buy their love. Remember, driver, after all these years, I can no longer fly fast.”
I was awakened by the ringing of my phone. When I answered it, the voice on the other end said, “Driver, your bills are ready in the office, and you are okay to hook back up to your trailer.” Feeling somewhat bewildered, I looked around for the old timer, but he was not there. I called out several times, but no one answered me. I finished hooking up to my trailer, and then the receiver signed my bills and said, “Have a wonderful holiday,” then closed the window.
I hit the highway and pointed the hood towards home. The weather was turning colder by the mile, and it had started spitting snow by the time I reached Fort Wayne. I fumbled around for a good weather station, but couldn’t get a local one, so I settled for the Detroit station that was reporting that a blizzard was arriving in the next 12 hours. The announcer gave some safe driving tips, and then signed off with, “If you are out in this weather, never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.” I pushed on, determined to make it home, to help my wife wrap presents and decorate the tree before Christmas.
The further I drove, the worse the storm got. The snow was piling up fast, and drifts began covering the road, making it impossible to navigate the shortcut using county roads, since there wouldn’t be any plow trucks running after midnight. As the minutes ticked off, I continued to roll into the night, with my only thought being I had to get home. The miles faded into a blur of snowflakes and fog. My head hurt, my eyes burned, and the muscles in my shoulders and back screamed from the tension, but somehow, I still rolled on.
I awakened to sunshine peeking through the bedroom curtains. There I was, I had been sleeping in my own bed. Grabbing my robe, I stumbled into the front room, then headed toward our kitchen. The aroma of turkey baking in the oven and fresh baked bread assaulted my scents. I was greeted by my wife, who looked concerned, as she rushed to greet me with hugs and asking a ton of questions. Looking out the window I could see someone had plowed the yard, but my truck was gone. Excitedly, I asked, “What happened to my truck? Where is it? Is something wrong? Why isn’t it parked in the driveway? I said, “There is so much I have to do before the dinner tomorrow night.” The faster I talked the more she smiled. At some point, I asked her what was so funny, and she explained that dinner isn’t tomorrow, it’s in two hours. “I hope you are feeling rested. You have been sleeping for more than 30 hours since you got home.”
As she scurried around the kitchen, pouring me coffee, I got a scolding about “that old Peterbilt” and how she is always worried about that darned truck. “Your truck is just fine. Once again, it brought you home without a scratch. Somehow you piloted it through another horrible snowstorm. The boys stopped earlier to check on you and plowed the drive so you wouldn’t have to. They have taken it to the shop so they could mount your new Christmas present. It’s a surprise, so don’t tell them I told you. All of them chipped in and bought you a shiny new moose guard just in case you ever get that dispatch to the top of the world. They wouldn’t want you to end up overturned in a ravine out in the middle of nowhere!”
She went on to explain the storm had ended, but not before I had pushed through 18 inches of snow, drifts that were waist high, and ice under that. She had half the county out looking for me. Once they crossed my tracks up at the highway, they followed them right to the driveway. Somebody said the tracks were as straight as if the hand of God was driving. “It’s a wonder you could even see the road as sick as you were,” my wife said. She told me when I got to the house early yesterday morning I was shaking like a leaf and my fever was out of control. My strength was all but gone, and I could barely make my way from the truck into the house.
After a struggle, they got me to eat some bean soup and a bologna sandwich before I fell asleep. Apparently, all day and most of the night, I kept babbling something about a watch and chain. My wife asked, “By the way Father Time, who is the old timer you were calling for, is he a friend? If not, he must be your guardian angel,” then, after a long pause, she turned and winked. Well, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
The last couple months have been tiring for me now that I’m back to work. I am slowing down some on my truckin’ and taking more time to enjoy family and friends. If this year has taught me anything, it is that a person’s wealth is not measured in money or monetary things. It’s the love and respect you have from those closest to you that is a true measure. I’m not sure of many things, but I do know Barb and I will be going to Arizona for a few months this winter for some rest and relaxation. But it’s a Christmas present to my wife, so don’t tell her… besides, my guardian angel needs a rest, too. Merry Christmas from Father Time, Aunt Barb, Penny the Pooch, and of course my guardian angel (The Old Timer). From all of us here in the Mitchell house to yours, may you have a joyous Holiday Season and a prosperous New Year, 10-4.
