10-4 Magazine - For Today's Trucker

AUGUST 2006 TRUCKER TALK
A POETIC SPIN
By Writers and Owner Operators Rod & Kim Grimm

Trevor Hardwick is one very talented young man. Before he was old enough to drive a truck, he was already in love with them. He would drive his mom nuts, drawing pictures of trucks and writing about them, too. “Home is Where the Chrome Is” was written when he was only 15 years old. The words he wrote back then sounded like he had a lot of miles under his belt. Later, I realized that he DID have a lot of miles on him – they were miles of riding along with his mom and dad.

We’d like to dedicate this column to Trevor’s mom and dad, Cheryl and Mike (Smokey) Hardwick. Trevor gives his dad credit for his artistic ability and his love of trucks. Another driver once told Smokey, “I never thought I’d meet someone who loves trucks more than you, but I just did” (it was Trevor). His mom is his inspiration – a mother of six (three boys and three girls). Trevor was third born and says it was like growing up in the Brady Bunch. His imagination was his escape.

I would like to thank Darian Stephens for introducing us to Trevor. Darian read us one of Trevor’s poems and told us about the “kid” that wrote it. I thought Trevor’s story would make a great article. We called him and talked for about half an hour and worked it out so that our paths would cross the very next week at the Petro in Wheeler Ridge, California.

For her birthday, Trevor’s beautiful wife Alicia had come along with him. I wish we’d had more time that night at the Petro. After taking some pictures, reading his poems and looking at some drawings he’d brought along, he read “Grimm But True” to us. Apparently, after only that short thirty minute talk we had on the phone, he scratched out a poem for us (and about us) on a napkin while he waited at the truck stop.

Trevor’s rig, owned by Steve Chandler, is a 1999 dark blue Ultra Cab Pete with a 550 Cat that pulls a 1997 Utility dry van. Trevor says that Steve is a great guy and that he keeps his truck looking so good. Trevor runs up and down I-5 from Washington to California and back every week.

Talking with Smokey and Cheryl, they shared some stories about Trevor in his pre-driver days. When he was really little, some of the other kids couldn’t pronounce Trevor’s name, so his nickname became Mack. And on the playground, “Mack” would be the leader of the “convoy” at recess. Cheryl added, “At one point, he wanted to put a sleeper up to his bedroom window.”

One time, when Trevor and his younger brother rode along with mom, they pulled a prank. It was just mom and the two boys. Cheryl had been talking with another driver for nearly half an hour when he started telling her things about them that another driver shouldn’t know. The boys couldn’t help laughing. Trevor had hooked up another CB back in the bunk – she’d been talking to him the whole time! Stopping at the next truck stop, she was telling the manager about her “rotten” sons and the trick they’d pulled. When they left, the manager came after them and told the boys he was stopping them for shoplifting. They hadn’t taken anything, but were still horrified. That’s when mom started laughing and said, “Payback!”

Alicia told us about “Trevorisms” and how they came about. A “Trevorism” is when you do something like look for your phone when you’re talking on it. Trevor was riding along with Alicia’s step-dad and twirling a flashlight with a strap on his finger. As expected, it fell to the floor. Being thoughtful, he didn’t turn on the dome light to help find it, but instead he turned on the flashlight when he found it to look for the flashlight he’d already found. From that, “Trevorisms” were born.

When he was 18, Trevor went to the truck show in Louisville for the first time – he was like a chocoholic in a candy store. Cheryl said, “He was just gone.” Talking to drivers of trucks he’d seen pictures of and getting to see inside many others, it was just like Christmas morning for Trevor!
Trevor not only likes to write poems, but he also likes to draw – trucks, of course. Smokey told us that if Trevor overhears a driver talking in a restaurant about a truck he dreams of, he will quickly draw it on a napkin or piece of paper and give it to them and ask, “Like this?”

He could easily be a writer or an artist, but if he had to do that for a living, it would be work. I once read, “If you have a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.” The job that isn’t work for Trevor is driving a truck. And his very special wife understands that. She knows that the man she married is totally truck crazy.

Following are a few examples of Trevor’s trucker poems. Enjoy – and thank you, Trevor, for the beautiful tribute you wrote about us. We’re pretty “truck crazy” too!

DIRTY SHOW TRUCKS
Home is where the chrome is,
That’s what some truckers say.
I traded a dumptruck load of dimes,
to get my truck this way.
I wash and wax and polish too,
I guess it’s my tough luck.
I curse the rainstorm I ran through,
that dirtied up my show truck.
It’s just a dirty show truck,
The shimmer lost it’s shine.
I hate to think some other truck,
is shinier than mine.
Make no mistake the steps I take,
or rainstorms that I duck.
But all you see, to look at me,
is just a dirty show truck.
I sold the family mini-van,
gave the dough to Dyna-Flex.
I pawned a golden wedding ring,
who knows what I’ll do next!
I know you think I’m crazy,
and I swear to you, I ain’t.
But I think I’d sell my soul to get,
the perfect color paint!
I used my children’s college fund,
‘cause my tax return was small.
I got my brand-new Dura-Brites,
and bought stock in Armor-All.
I take the time to make it shine,
A cut above the rest.
Then bugs and dust and bird poop,
make the whole damn thing a mess!
It’s such a pain, sometimes in vain,
to keep that winning look.
To be another fancy truck,
in Bette Garber’s book.
But out here on the highway,
it’s not always squeaky clean.
Just don’t you call it dirty, man,
‘cause that would just be mean!
Remember, that I’m just like you,
I’m just tryin’ to make a buck.
But your home’s probably not,
a cotton pickin’ dirty show truck.

HOME IS WHERE THE CHROME IS
Living life out on the road,
is talked about quite often.
“How hard it is in just 3 days
to make my way to Boston.”
We’ve heard the stories far and wide,
of trucker’s favorite places.
But I believe that in these tales,
there lies some empty spaces.
The truck is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,
with its pearly paint and chrome.
Lets not forget to talk about,
the machines that we call home.
Oh, my truck is mighty fine,
it ain’t no piece of junk!
It’s got the tallest stacks around,
and a big ol’ walk-in bunk.
My Texas bumper shines and shines,
I buffed it so it would.
It sits in front of - and below,
a long extended hood.
On either side of this big ol’ hood,
two big ol’ breathers rest.
And the kitten underneath the hood,
just proves that mine’s the best.
The gears, they say, I have too much,
for any place I’ll go.
But I challenge them to run with me,
when I put ‘er in the “big hole”!
My wheels dazzle peoples’ eyes,
they shine like mirrored glass.
You should see the faces of the folks,
as I speed up to pass.
My truck’s a work of art, you see,
the color’s out of sight.
If you can’t see me you must be blind,
when I’m “lit-up” at night.
It’s long and tall, it beats ‘em all,
at truckstops and at shows.
It always gets a lot of looks,
anywhere it goes!
Inside my truck is twice as nice,
‘cause beauty ain’t skin deep.
I’ve got a phone, my gauges chromed,
and a low ridin’ drivers’ seat.
And up on top, the buck don’t stop,
my “chicken wing” is flyin’.
There ain’t a living soul around,
who can say my truck ain’t stylin’.
I must admit, I brag a bit,
that my truck is custom tailored.
If you think this is cool - you’re right,
but you should see my trailer!
I drive alone, this truck’s my home,
I don’t have children in my lap.
In fact, the only women I know,
are the ones on my mudflaps!
People always ask me,
“hey kid, why a job like this?”
I just look at them, smile and say,
that home is where the chrome is.

GRIMM BUT TRUE
So it starts, the dispatch call,
the beginning of a wonder haul.
Our team, they say, is all they’ve got,
I dunno if I believe that or not.
But, anywho, it’s time to scoot,
like bovines from a cattle chute.
Multi picks in Windy City,
not much time and that’s a pity.
But that’s the way it goes these days,
and then we bust-ass for L.A.
Drop it here, drop it there,
unrealistic but they don’t care.
Meetin’ folks along the way,
is almost better than the pay.
L.T.L’s an endless grind,
before we start we’re way behind.
We’ll drive ourselves to near delusion,
behind the wheel of ol’ Illusion.
18-wheels caress the road,
on another crazy west coast load.
The words I write upon these pages,
are examples of the many stages.
Trucking takes our lives around,
north south east and westward bound.
So waitress fill my coffee cup,
and fill it to the brim.
I’ve got lots of miles to write about,
or my name isn’t Grimm.