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.

Principles.

As a truck driver, I get paid for one thing and one thing only.  I am paid for every mile that I move the truck.  Nothing more. As a flatbed driver, there are things that must be done to that truck before and after I drive it to make sure that things are legal and safe.  Those things are activities for which I do not get paid, yet they must be done.  Vehicle inspections, maintenance, minor repairs and securing and unsecuring loads on the trailer.  Some of these things are a downright pain to do, such as putting a tarp on, or taking it off of a load.  Tarps can weigh up to 150 pounds and are a struggle to manage during the most favorable conditions.  But you do it because it is part of the job.

Recently I was consigned to deliver a load of drywall and sand (sand is drywall mud) to a construction supply outfit near my home.  Upon arrival at the drop off, I waited in line for the three trucks in front of me to load or unload accordingly, then I pulled into the driveway and unloading area to prepare to unload.  There were three forklift operators driving around me as I loosened the straps.  I carefully stowed the straps, pulled the bungee cords off the tarps and stowed them.  I then started to tackle the hard part of unloading, pulling and folding the tarps.  Working by yourself, it can take 30 minutes to pull a tarp off a load, spread it out, fold it and roll it up for stowage and transport.  With another person, it takes about 5 minutes.  I performed this task solo without complaining despite the two forklift operators sitting in their seats and watching me work.  After all, it is my responsibility and not theirs. They don't have to help, but it sure would have made things easier and faster.  The two men who were sitting on machines which are designed and built for the sole purpose of lifting heavy things off the ground in order to move them to another location, then watched me struggle to lift each tarp up to eye level in order to put them on the trailer and secure them for transport. Neither one moved or offered to lift the tarps to the trailer.  Again, it was not their responsibility to help, it's my job to move the tarps.

Flatbed Tarps.

I was now sweating and dirty and a bit irritated as I climbed back into the cab of my truck.  I started the air conditioning and cleaned myself off as I waited for the forklift drivers to start pulling the load off the truck so I could leave. I knew what was coming next and I was ready for it.  Before I continue, I need to explain a bit about drywall and how it is transported.  Drywall is stacked in sheets of about 50 sheets.  Any more on the stack and it becomes too heavy and unwieldy.  The stacks are separated by something called dunnage. Dunnage for drywall is simply four strips of the same kind of drywall cut into three inch strips and glued together.

Drywall Dunnage.

So what you end up with is basically a 3 by 3 inch piece of material that is 4 feet long.  you put 5 or 6 of these between each stack to stack the drywall on top of itself so it can be moved and handled with ease. Dunnage is also placed on the deck of the trailer so thast the drywall can be lifted off the trailer.  In order to be able to stack the drywall once it is off the truck, the stack is pulled off by the forklift operator, then the dunnage on the deck is transferred to the top of that stack so you can store it and place more drywall on top of it in the warehouse.  The responsibility of transferring the dunnage is somewhat of a grey area.  Almost invariably, the truck driver will hop out and do it as the truck is being unloaded in order to expedite the process.  But some places forbid the driver from exiting the truck while it is being unloaded. Long story short, transferring drywall dunnage is most certainly NOT part of my job.  I will sometimes offer to help do it to speed things up, but today....well...

Stacked Drywall With Dunnage.

The forklift operators pulled the sand off the trailer first. They got to the first stack of drywall and I heard a forklift horn beeping from behind me.  I opened the door and looked back at the operator.  I said "Can I help you"?  He said "You gotta pull the dunnage".  I simply said "No I don't" and closed the door.  This move absolutely shocked and confused the forklift driver.  He put down the load of drywall and talked with the other operators.  I sat back and started playing a video game in my bunk and watched the three forklifts circle my truck for over a half hour as they tried to figure out what the hell I was thinking. Usually truck drivers are in a pretty big hurry.  They will tolerate any amount of abuse and crap in order to get the wheels moving again so they are making money. Today was a unique circumstance.  I had four and a half hours left on the clock and I was one hour from the house.  I was heading home after this load and I was not in a hurry.  So I sat back and enjoyed my game.

My cousin Sean tells me that as  a truck driver, if you really want to get some attention, then get in the way.  Boy is he right.  After 45 minutes of sitting in the driveway not getting unloaded, I heard a knock at my door. I opened the door and saw a line of five trucks waiting behind me.  Four of them belonged to this business and were waiting to get loaded to deliver product.  However, my truck, which was still loaded down with drywall was blocking the entire loading area.  I looked at the man standing on the gound and he said "Is there a problem"?  I replied "I don't have a problem.  I'm just waiting to get unloaded".  He said "The forklift operator said something about dunnage".  I climbed down out of the truck and politely explained my situation to the man.  I told him about his operators sitting around for 30 minutes watching me work.  Watching me as I struggled with the dirty tarps and not offering a shred of assistance.  I acknowledged that these tasks were indeed my responsibility and under no circumstances were they required to even offer to assist me.  I then pointed out that the act of pulling dunnage was not my responsibility but that of the forklift operator. And I in turn was under no obligation to so much as offer to help them either. I said "I am in no hurry.  I have air conditioning, food and drinks in the truck and I am fully prepared to spend the night right here".

By this point, I had learned that this man was CJ.  He was the man in charge of this particular location.  He said "If you had a problem why didn't you come inside and tell someone"?  I replied "I don't have a problem.  I did my job, I am just waiting for your guys to do theirs so I can leave".  CJ apologized to me profusely for the behavior of his employees and then very politely asked me if I could help with the transfer of dunnage because he had four trucks waiting to get loaded.  Since this man had actually asked me politely to help out, I was willing to lend some assistance and put on my gloves.  As we were walking back to the trailer CJ said "If you ever have another problem come see me first".  As I pulled the dunnage, I became aware that the next time I deliver to this location, my problem will probably be waiting for 6 hours to get unloaded. I shrugged off that thought as I climbed back into the cab of my truck because I was leaving with my principles intact, and right now that mattered to me more than any amount of time.

Legacy

We all reach a point in our young lives when we are able to process and comprehend what death truly is.  For most of us, at that moment, or sometime after, it dawns on us that one day; we will have to deal with the death of our parents.   Before it happens, it is a very difficult and surreal thing to have to swallow.    We don’t focus on it.  We push it to the back of our minds and try to believe that we have all the time in the world.   This month, I finally had to make that long trip back home to Missouri, to deal with the death of one of my parents.   My father was 71.  He had been pretty sick for the last 3 years from illnesses brought on from over 50 years of tobacco use.  He succumbed to it on July 11, 2014.

I was en route to dads when I got the news that he had passed in the middle of the night before I could get there.  It is worth noting, that nothing remained unsaid between my father and myself.  I knew in my head that I had already told him everything I had wanted too.  Because of this, I was not saddened by the lack of ability to say goodbye, but by the fact that I was not able to be there to hold his hand as he passed.   However, it was the emotions and thoughts that would happen over the next seven days that would surprise me.

The first emotion that washed over me like a blanket, almost at once, was relief.  I was so glad that my father was no longer suffering.  Then immediately, I was stricken with a sense of liberation.  I have spent so much emotional energy over the last few years worrying about Joe, that I had not realized how heavy it was weighing on my soul.  I no longer had to worry about when or where, because I had the answer now.   In just such emotional times, Dad was always my go-to guy for advice.  My instinct at that point was to immediately think to call him for advice.  I reached for my phone before I was hit with it.  Then the emptiness came when I realized I would never again have his shoulder to lean on.

Over the next several days, I did a lot of driving through Missouri and Iowa, mostly running errands for the estate, but sometimes for soul searching.  One such trip was to the Grace family gravesite in Kahoka Missouri where my grandparents lay, so that I could scout a location for Dad.  I had not visited with my Grandparents in over 20 years.  I spent an hour there, talking, crying and listening.  When I left Kahoka, I was flooded with a new sense of emptiness: spiritual.  My family is a God fearing one.  My whole life I had heard about the need for spiritual fulfillment and I never understood it, until now.  I had spent my life working to achieve fulfillment on a physical, emotional and financial level.  But now, talking to God seemed to fill a void for me that I never noticed before.

After the service, we had a little wake in the basement of the Church.  It was at this point where I got to hold my Grandson Eryx for the first time.  It was at the very moment where it was really sinking in that I was a grandfather that my daughter Nicole pointed out to me that I was now “Grandpa Grace”.  That notion hit me like a ton of bricks.  As the oldest son, of the oldest son, of the oldest son, the mantle was now mine to carry.  It had never dawned on me that one day it would be mine to guard.  I was suddenly stricken with an urgent sense of responsibility to my kin.  A lot of people ask me why I live in Florida, so far away from my family.  The answer was always simple: because I ran out of ground.  When I hit the water I had to stop running or buy a boat.   Now I suddenly feel like I should be making more effort to be attending family reunions and being more connected with the Grace clan.  I have a sneaking suspicion that in doing so, the spiritual void I am feeling may start to fill.

Grandpa Grace with Eryx.

I owe a great deal of thanks at this point to a lot of people.  First and foremost to my sister Annette and her husband Allen who repeatedly helped me financially when I lacked the means myself.  To my brother Robert who saw it in his heart to forgive me and let us bury a 20 year old hatchet.  To all of my friends who sent me messages of support.  And to the entire Grace family who showed in a Podunk town in the middle of Missouri to say help us say goodbye to one of the most influential men in all of our lives.  I write all of this with another emotion: A renewed sense of self, of who I want to be and of the changes I want to make in my life to take advantage of the time I have left on this earth.  I will make no promises, but I am definitely going to make an effort.

Grandpa Grace