Truck Stop

Another lesson from my father

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

My great runaway to Lake Tahoe contained several drives back home to Orange County. My dad was a long distance trucker and taught me how to take advantage of their wisdom of the road. I could judge when a semi needed to switch from the slow lane, how to flash my lights to indicate I was letting them over, and to accept their gratitude-flash in return.

I worked in a casino at Stateline, Nevada. My 6pm to 2am shift allowed me to take advantage of my annual pass at Heavenly Valley ski resort. When I got homesick I would drive down the mountain, make a left at Sacramento and head south. Before I started my shift at Harvey’s Resort and Casino as a keno runner, I would fill the tank of my 1966 VW bug, pack my overnight bag and be ready to hit the road when my shift ended. Staying awake was not a problem. I swallowed a quarter piece of one of those tiny white cross uppers and had a plan. Somewhere down Highway 99, as the effects faded, I put my pea coat on backwards, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and pulled the wind-wings inward blasting cold air directly upon me. Another trick was to eat sunflower seeds to stay awake. The downside is the aftereffect of a dry tongue the size of a giant dill pickle.

Highway 99 through California’s Central Valley was the Land of 1,000 smells -oranges, almonds, grapes, stone fruit, and miles and miles of cotton. Wafts of rotting fruit, pesticides, crude oil from nearby pumps, and Lord knows what else blew through. It was also the Land of 1,000 bugs requiring me to carry a squeegee, a bottle of Windex and plenty of towels.

None of my tricks could keep me awake through that bewitching hour of predawn. That time of other-worldly light that fades from black and starry into full morning light is the most dangerous time to drive, my dad used to say. Time to pull off the road for a stretch.

The Turlock truck stop provided the best place for a bathroom break and a brisk walk in between the rows of semis. I enjoyed watching truckers in black jeans and boots check each tire of their eighteen-wheelers. I smiled at the familiar sound - the right pitch of “bonk” as the ball-peen hammer strikes, indicating proper pressure.

With my thermos full of freshly brewed truck stop coffee, I zipped back onto the highway in full morning light, joining the parade of trucks. Rolling down my window I gave the full arm-pump salute, assured the driver would reach up and give the air horn cord a couple of tugs - Toot toot.

You have a safe drive as well, Mr. Trucker.