Hiding Ants
A tale of lost innocence, tough lessons, and conscience confronted by reality.
When I was ten years old, my father invited me to go on a trip with him in his 18-wheeler. It was a rare opportunity for me to spend time with him as he typically was away from home for weeks at a stretch. I couldn’t stop grinning after he asked me to go. I was young and innocent and the idea of trucking seemed so exciting. I felt like a grownup, which was something I was anxious to be.
Dad was a long-haul truck driver, which means he delivered large trailer-loads of goods around the country. It seemed like a glamorous profession in my young mind. Dad had muscular arms and shoulders, dressed in western shirts and cowboy boots, and combed his hair with Brylcreem like Johnny Cash. But it wasn’t just his cool presence that made me want to be around him. Dad had a way of making me feel loved whenever we were together.
We left for our three-day trip, long enough for me to get a feel for the trucker’s lifestyle but not so long as to miss much school. The first thing I noticed within a couple hours was how hard it was to stay awake while riding.
This story is no longer available. It has been published in a new book titled: Insight from Hindsight: Stories that reveal what life is trying to teach you
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HTanx for the article bob enjoyed it.Iremember some of those days. Been trking 35yrs,alot has changed,but still a tough job.Take care bob,looking forward to your next article.Lost my wife 6 months ago it has been rough on me.Contemplated suicide the first month,obviously did not happen.I believe in the after life.
Interesting to understand the side of a truck driver's life we never see. I’m glad you had the opportunity to take that trip with him and to understand his job and him to a greater degree.
We were farmers, so we were on the job daily with my parents. But my father had a 2nd job of taking care of two cemeteries—opening graves prior to burial, waiting until the service was over to close the grave and then just days of lawn care. We kids often went along because (I hope I’m not offending anyone) cemeteries were great playgrounds for the children of the caretakers. These were old cemeteries with some really interesting monuments. Our favorite was one made to look like a tall tree stump with thick branch stumps sticking out. It just begged to be climbed! The barrel headstones made great horses for riding. We were also given 5 cents for every headstone that we trimmed around with hedge clippers. (No weed wackers back then.) An interesting thing that probably no one thinks about is how they open a grave midwinter when the ground is rock solid. I don’t know what they do today, but back then they used propane burners called grave warmers. At the time this was a big, metal, domed contraption that completely covered a gravesite and had to sit atop the earth for several hours before digging could commence. I remember once when it was lit, my mother was too close and her nylons went up in flames and disintegrated within a second. (She was fine, albeit shook up.) Another time my Grandfather was helping dig a grave. When it was completely dug he fell in! His shoulder popped out of its socket and my Dad popped it right back in. And my last story was when my father’s cantankerous boss died and it was my Dad’s unique position to bury him. I will leave it to your imagination the mileage he got out of telling that story!