Halleluiah! Here comes March!! I’m sure there’s a good number of you out there who are frantically preparing for the Mid-America Trucking Show. Someday, I hope to make it out there again to attend that show. I’ve been there twice, but never as a participant – only as a spectator. Here’s to hoping for no snow on the show! While I was thinking about the upcoming show season, I was considering the newer generation of drivers who are just entering this industry. How vastly different the trucking industry is for them than it was for my generation. It’s no secret that I have my heart rooted deeply in the former generations of trucking. My dad’s generation of drivers, from the late 60s to the early 90s, are the generation that inspired me, and so I enjoy maintaining certain styles and mannerisms that I learned from them. But, as everyone knows, all things experience change. Some for the better, some for the worse. I just hope to inspire some of the newer generations with the things they may learn from me. Let’s not get bogged down in any debates about one way being better than the others, because every generation has its pros and cons. Let’s just keep in mind that we’re all out here in one form or the other, doing the same thing – driving for a living – and keeping this country’s economy going. So, the following poem here isn’t aimed directly at the older generations. Rather, it is a little humorous tip of the hat to the juxtaposition between stereotypes of the older and younger breeds of drivers. For better or worse, we’re just different demographics, and it takes all kinds.
A DEMOGRAPHIC SHIFT
By Trevor Hardwick
The following poem,
Is for a certain demographic.
Not the generation,
Who’ve spent 30 years in traffic.
It ain’t for the:
Wrinkled-hand, old man,
Timber-totin’ curtain van,
Toothpick-suckin’, chicken-truckin’,
“I think I can… I think I can!”
It sure ain’t for the:
Pack-rat, kinda fat,
Cowboy in a trucker-hat,
Tell-you-what, kick-yer-butt,
Walk-yer-dog and kick-yer-cat.
It’s also not intended for the:
Ratchet-jawin’, cud-gnawin’,
Line-drawin’ scale dodger.
The echo-mic’n, lizard-likin’,
Conex, with a beepin’-roger.
All I’m tryin’ to say,
Is there’s another generation.
A group of younger drivers,
Are the backbone of our nation.
I dedicate this poem to the:
Right-lanin’, paid-for-trainin’,
Ain’t complainin’… out forever,
Super-nervous, lease-to-purchase,
Rookie on a new endeavor.
Hat tip to the:
Drivin’-gloves, parked-at-Loves,
Sleepin’ with yer headlights on.
Herd-bumper, tire-thumper,
Haulin’ ass for Amazon.
Shout-out to the:
All-season, fuel-squeezin’,
Boss-pleasin’ money maker.
The hot-doggin’, E-loggin’,
Flip-flop wearin’ freight-shakers.
Someday in the future,
You may look back and recall,
The years that you’ve devoted,
To the highway, and the haul.
Things will seem much different,
Than they were when you began.
Rolling with the changes,
Is the measure of a man.
Back when you just started as a:
Truck-drivin’, sleep-deprivin’,
Late-arrivin’, wheel-holder.
A payment-makin’, parts-breakin’,
Fixin’ somethin’ on the shoulder.
A pavement-chasin’, clock-racin’,
Parts-replacin’ knuckle-buster.
A seat-ridin’, food-providin’,
Theoretic throttle-thruster.
Young or old… new or not,
Draggin’ down the line.
This one’s dedicated to,
Those truckin’ friends of mine.