Daddys Hand

"They really need to outlaw these fucking campers"!  I was listening to a truck driver in Ocala Florida run on over the CB radio about all the recreational vehicles on the road this Friday.  It was a moment that started back in July of last year. My father drove a truck for the last 20 years of his life.  He loved everything about being a truck driver.  When he died in July of last year, I went home to bury him.  At his wake, my mother revealed that my father had held on to my grandfathers thermos for his whole life.  She said that dad once confided in her that when he carried that thermos, he felt like he was holding his own fathers hand.  We had dad cremated and we buried him in that thermos right next to his father. At the time I was looking for a new path in life.  After much soul searching, I came home and announced to Melissa:  "I think I want to get my CDL and drive a truck like my father".  I am sure she thought me a lunatic.  But after two years of fruitless job searching, I think she was ready to let me try anything to bring home a paycheck.

After going back to School and getting my CDL, I set off on one of the hardest journeys of my life.  I left home for Tulsa Oklahoma to continue my training.  I was on a three day bus trip when my sister Annie called and told me that my fathers sister Theresa Voyles and her husband Ron had heard that I was going through Saint Louis.  They wanted to meet me at the bus station to give me some suport.  I agreed and called my aunt.  Ron Voyles was someone with whom I may have had two entire conversations over the last two decades. I have a lot of kin and I just had not taken the time to get to know him.  When my father had fallen ill, Ron had purchased dads Volvo truck and made it his own.  He too was a truck driver and I knew that he really wanted to give me some of his sage advice. I met with my aunt and uncle in the bus stop in St. Louis at midnight.  Theresa had brought me an Imos Pizza and I discovered that I was suddenly starving.  As I wolfed down that cold delicious pie, I barely noticed that Ron had brought something with him in a brown paper bag. On the phone earlier, I had asked him to buy me a pint of whiskey to smuggle back on to the bus to make the journey a bit more tolerable.  But when he slid the bag across to me and I peered inside, I was disappointed and perplexed.

The Galaxy DX 949 CB radio that was in the bag was an absolute disaster.  It was coated with some sticky residue and looked like it had been rolling around in a clothes dryer for a couple days. The knobs were yellow from years of cigarette smoke blowing at them and the letters above them were illegible.  I looked at my uncle Ron.  He said: "It was your fathers radio.  I really think he would want you to have it".  I was suddenly blown away.  Dad had left precious little behind and this awful looking device was a piece of him that I could take with me.  I promised myself that I would look into repairing it when I had the resources to do so.  I hugged my kin and I re-boarded the bus to Tulsa.  Over the next several months, Ron Voyles became something to me that I never could have imagined.  He was suddenly a source of advice that I would have once turned to my father for.  I called him almost every day.  He talked me through the bad times and reassured me when I needed it. I found myself calling him for the mundane things that I used to lean on Dad for.  His friendship became an incredible asset to me as I journeyed across the country attempting to learn the craft that he and my father shared. For thousands of miles, I also carried that Galaxy radio with me.  I knew that I would soon have my own truck and I was going to need a working radio.  I really hoped that the old girl still had some spark left in her.

The day came that I finally was assigned my own truck.  Truck number 51041 at Cypress in Jacksonville. A beat up International Eagle that was just about old enough to get it's own drivers license.   I ran right out and bought a CB antenna with my first paycheck.  After going through the steps to hook up dads CB.  The power came on alright, but there was obviously something wrong with the unit.  I was dismayed but not totally surprised to discover that it did not work.  Two weeks later, I was driving through a town in Florida that had a CB repair shop.  I parked the truck and carried dads radio inside.  The guy behind the counter fiddled around with it a bit and stated that the microphone relay switch was bad.  He informed me that it was a cheap radio and not worth fixing.  He then promptly offered to sell me a used radio from under the counter.  I left with dads radio under my arm and a smile evaporating from my face.

Along the way, I picked up another broken CB and this time I took it to a more reputable establishment, the 10-4 CB shop in Ocala Florida.  The proprietor Jacob took a 60 dollar CB and made it work like a 200 dollar model.  I was so pleased to finally have a working radio, but it was not dads radio. About a month later, on a whim, I picked up dads broken Galaxy and put it in the truck.  I was hoping that I could get back by this awesome shop that had set me straight once already.  I managed to finally get through Ocala on a Thursday afternoon.  I poked my head inside and Jacob immediately recognized me.  I laid dads radio on the counter.  I explained that this radio meant a whole lot to me. I said that the "other" CB shop had declared the relay switch to be destroyed.  I told them that if repair meant  buying a whole new radio of the same model and putting the main board in my dads radio, I was prepared to pay for that. By this point, money was not the object.   He assured me that they would do their best and took down my number before I left to deliver my load.

Later that day, I found out that I would be going back by the 10-4 CB shop in the morning.  I called Jacob to let him know and check on the prognosis.  "Your radio is ready". I was told.  I almost fell back.  "It was just dirty.  It needed a new meter installed and a good cleaning. The tech also says that the radio does not have a microphone relay switch, so it can't have been bad". In other words, the other shop had lied to me in an effort to sell me a cheaper used radio.  By the way, it was not such a "cheap" unit as they had declared.  Turns out, the Galaxy dad had left behind was a pretty good unit.  I then asked the owner "While you have it there, can you tweak it up and make it more powerful"?  My heart sank when Jacob said that he could not.  I asked why and he said "The previous owner of this radio already had it tweaked up as far as it can go.  My heart soared once again and I promised I would be back in the morning for the radio.

It was a long night in Ocala sitting at the truck stop across from the CB shop.  I was at the door when the opened at ten and I paid for my repairs.  Fifty dollars and change before I added a new mounting plate and some screws. I almost did not recognize the radio.  The tech had been told the story behind it and had spent several hours cleaning up the knobs and polishing the face.  I bounced all the way out to 51041 and my hands shook as I struggled to hook up the CB.  When I plugged in the power cord, there was a crack and a pop and suddenly there was that truck driver on the other end of the radio complaining about all the campers on the road today in Florida.  I grabbed the weather worn microphone.  As I did so, I suddenly felt that I was touching the hand of my father who had held this device so many thousands of times before me. I choked back a tear and pushed the talk button to
 agree that campers should be better regulated.... but that's a story for another blog.