.
EARLY ON
Dad’s H-63 Mack
I feel fortunate to have been raised around the trucking industry. Dad (W.T. Haynie), influenced me early to appreciate the mechanical aspects of the ‘rigs’ while I inadvertently learned their importance to our society. Over the years I began a family of my own and wondered if my son (playing his ‘game-boy’) could ever share a similar understanding of the actual nature of ‘trucking.’
- Dad’s ride 1950′s
In the 1960’s when I was ten or so, Dad owned several trucks that he leased to a freight company, it was a secondary income for our family. I accompanied him on many of his monthly reviews and maintenance visits standing by his side as he deciphered the newest bends, nicks, and scratches to his small ‘fleet.’ I absorbed his motions as he methodically checked the well being of each truck. It was my job to anticipate and ‘fetch’ the correct wrench necessary for that maintenance aspect – looking back at that time; it was indeed a father/son ‘thing.’
- Dad’s 1960′s – at Terminal Transport, Venice, Fl
To say the least, my future leaned towards being mechanically independent – once old enough to drive, the knowledge and abilities that I had unwittingly attained at his side supported me through adulthood.
As a seventeen year old (@1970) Dad got me a job preparing and loading semi-trailers for the ‘team-drivers’ (over-the-road) to deliver. During the South Florida growing season (out of the Ft Myers Farmer’s Market) I prepared and loaded three to five 40-foot semi trailers, six nights a week, with boxes of Gladiolus bound to the Northeast or Midwest.
Preparation, was the work part. The trailers of this era were ‘refrigerated’ by ice. Air was circulated through ice stored in the ‘bulkhead,’ the front 3 ft section of the trailer – by a ‘blower,’ and this blower was driven by a lawn-mower sized ‘Briggs and Stratton’ motor mounted on the front ‘nose’ of the trailer. The common term for this motor was a ‘put-put.’
It was my duty after school to service those “put-puts,” checking and filling gas/oil while making sure that all was greased and worked properly. The trailer had to be swept out, tar-paper attached to the bulkhead (so the load (boxes) would not get wet from the condensation of ice) and then pulled to the ‘ice-house.’ At the ice-house it was necessary maneuver the trailer at a right-angle (‘jack-knife) to the dock so that ten-300 pound blocks of ice could be carved and thrown into the small doors on the front of the trailer (the ‘bulkhead’). ‘Block’ ice worked for this type of load, lasted longer – as a note; crushed or ‘blown’ ice was used directly on some produce loads (field corn) where quicker cooling and the water from the melting ice wouldn’t damage anything.
The skills acquired in preparing those 2 to 4 trailers a day only added to my experience and knowledge base. I learned quickly and liked it. As a bonus there were occasions when it was necessary to deliver a loaded trailer to the drivers 300 miles north (Sanford), sometimes Dad drove one too.
SINCE THEN
With most of my Dad’s friends lingering around the Farmer’s Market Restaurant, it wasn’t long before someone asked me to drive longer distance (Jack Williams and Bill Millican), Why not? So from 1970 until 1976, I delivered produce throughout the Midwest and east coast, pretty much following the growing seasons crop northward while living in the truck. The DOT was a nuisance, return loads were a hassle, sleeping in cold and unusual settings was regular, but I loved it.
As my friends attended college, my education was 24/7 from the seat of a ‘semi.’
.
MARRIED / FAMILY
I met my wife while delivering produce in Delaware and that was my reason for stepping out of the truck, one month before marriage.
Over the following years the sound of trucks idling, the smell of diesel, the amber lights against the midnight darkness and the myriad of experiences from ‘trucking’ never completely left this drivers thoughts and senses.
I raised a family (two girls and a son) in the Carolina mountains and ‘lucked-out’ with a ‘normal’ job, a city fireman for Asheville. During the eighties I owned and leased a couple of my own trucks to a local freight company, much like my father had once done -
- and on several maintenance trips my son Gray followed along too.
.
COUCH-POTATO
A few years later I searched for a way to pull my then 13 year old son away from his ever consuming video games; I could think of no better place than to be ‘stuck together’ in the cab of a truck somewhere – it could also be an opportunity for me to review some of those familiar places that had remained in my thoughts from years past.
Thirty years ago I encouraged friends to ride with me on long trips, several did. One of those friends who took the ride was Bruce Dewey, our fathers were acquaintances and both ‘Mack” men and over many years our friendship has been an easy one. Bruce succeeded in the trucking industry and in 97 owned a fleet of more than thirty trucks.
After a phone call to see if Bruce could use a driver, I took a month of vacation from work and drove to Florida with my son.
.
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
Bruce had prepared one of his Pete’s along with a Great Dane trailer, and at 8:30 in the evening, thirty years later – I was in the drivers seat once again, this time my son accompanied me as we ‘dead-headed’ north from south Florida to South Carolina for a load of Tomatoes.
Gray 97
Making my way up the interstate it was all coming back – the hum of the engine, the feel that comes with the constant of scanning the gauges, the mirrors, and then ‘defaulting’ back to the windshield; diligently aware of my surroundings and the overall pulse of the iron beast beneath.
But years later there was indeed something different – ‘air-ride’ suspension, a lack of engine noise and vibrations, while at a casual 72-mph – this truck seemed at ease. I felt air-conditioning, could hear the radio, all while the new Cummings ran with a quiet hum, heck we even had a cooler with refreshments in the cab. The only thing similar with this truck from those I had experienced more than twenty years earlier – were those juicy southern bugs that continued to slam against my windshield.
You have to understand the difference, the old mack that I began driving was a ‘sweat-box’ struggling to maintain 55 mph. It’s doors rattled, the steering wheel shook, and the air roared through the open windows – a radio was useless. The fuel in my truck years back had been ‘turned-up’ for more power and when running wide open through the dark nights you could actually see a flame (from the ‘spot-mirror’) curling out of the ‘stack’ against the midnight sky – once again I wondered if could I ever share these things with my son.
I suppose it didn’t really matter, for he was now fast asleep behind me in the spacious bunk – here I was, this was for him, my hands gripping the large steering wheel as I continued through dense patches of fog. All night and into the wee hours – all as my son slept!
.
AND I THOUGHT I COULD SLEEP
.
Son position
Hours later I arrived near my destination and rolled back in the sleeper for a few hours sleep, it was then that I learned that sleeping with my son was like sleeping while an angry forklift driver was loading your trailer – after several hours of this punishment, I wearily climbed from the sleeper and onto the driver’s seat. My son remained undisturbed.
On this dusty little truck stop parking lot I gazed wearily through the wall of dried bugs on my windshield and as the melody of idling trucks surrounded me I reminded myself – this was for that guy in the back, my son.
In a short while we found the packing house and backed the trailer up against the loading dock; now, once again I would try for some rest.
After all the rest the boy had, he felt just fine and decided to explore. The area was rural and I felt that it wouldn’t be much different than I had done years before, so after reminding him to be careful and to remain close I settled back into the sleeper for some much needed sleep.
Through-out the hours he continually pulled his 150 pound frame up and down the cab getting in, slamming the door, just to climb out again and repeat the motion all over again – sleep was a loosing battle. Again I reminded myself that this time was for him, I just laid there.
Soon the truck lurched with the feel of a real fork-lift, loading the trailer – so much for any rest.
.
THIS MIGHT JUST WORK
In no time at all there were 20 pallets of tomatoes on the truck, 1600 individual boxes of palletized tomatoes, thirty years prior a load was 1225 boxes stacked directly onto the floor. Birmingham was our destination and with paperwork completed and the cooling unit (modern) set at 58 degrees – we set out at 5:30 in the afternoon – I wondered if the Birmingham Market was anything like it was twenty five years earlier.
The 450 miles was a short hop across two states on the interstate, a simple task as compared to the 22-hour ‘overnighters’ that as a young man I had once driven regularly from south Florida to Boston, Chicago, Detroit, or New York City. Those trips were on partial interstates, now somehow it all seemed easier – the ease of the truck, the higher speed, the only things similar at the moment were the bugs and the ‘thumps’ of the pavement.
- 97 Trip
I had once driven a truck for two years with no wipers simply keeping the windshield waxed, the rain just bounced off as quickly as it struck and it never seemed to present a hazard. Unlike this truck, the trucks I first drove were a lesson in adapting and humility, for some reason it was important to my Dad that I learned this.
In this late model truck, we were able to maintain a steady pace into the Georgia night. At one period we had fallen in with a group of freight-haulers; these drivers to Atlanta run hard and steady and they had helped me to maintain a rigid pace towards the big-city, I noticed too during this period that my son was no longer sleeping or playing his ‘game-boy’ in the sleeper; he was actually sitting in the other seat observing! I began to think that he might actually get something out of this ‘vacation’ after all.
I worked the truck up and through another pack of freight haulers and as I broke ahead of this group I asked my son if all those ‘chicken-lights’ were bothering him, “No-sir” he replied, but he sure would like to “stop and pee”….. !!#!!*&$#
I felt fine, and with all those freight haulers bearing down from behind I wasn’t about to stop and loose what little highway I had just earned. I told him that he may want to seriously consider one of those plastic 20 oz tea bottles that he had been so eagerly ‘downing’ all day (and discarding so casually on the floor) – he rejected the idea and I told him that was fine, but for the moment that was the only reasonable choice that he had.
After a few more bumpy interstate miles he must have reconsidered because an arm soon came from the sleeper curtain and the boy asked if I could hand him a second bottle – we never had that conversation again, he adapted.
Another thing that I had learned from my father that ‘eating-on-the-road’ didn’t always mean dining out, it could very well mean that ‘crackers and peanut-butter’ were in the “glove-box,” humility shared – somehow, this just might work.
.
THE BIRMINGHAM MARKET
Four am, the Birmingham market on Findley Street; I had been there a number of times many years earlier, Would I recognize it and would it be the same? Out of the morning darkness appeared the image that was etched in my memory, the place indeed had remained fundamentally the same, except now many years later – I had returned with a son.
Birmingham Market
I paid the guard and backed my trailer against the dock, worn out from driving and without sentiment I shoved my sleeping son against the wall as he slept, and settled into a head-to-toe sleeping arraignment. My mind wandered as I searched for comfort on a cramped mattress, but once again I found similarities.
Trucking, needing a shower, dirty teeth, an engine running beneath me, area lights shinning through the windows, and here I lay. I’d been here before, Why in the world am I here now? I continued to settle and as I shoved my son’s size 12 feet away from me, I was reminded of the reason – it was for this guy. When I was twenty it was my job, and I accepted trucking as a paid adventure, now at 45 it was a father/son thing. I felt lucky for this opportunity to share my adventure and past with him.
Unloading was quick and painless, that was different – we then drove to Tuscaloosa for a load of roofing material.
.
TRUCK-STOPS / HIGHWAYS / MORE DEAD BUGS
Years ago Union 76 was the ‘king’ of truck stops, what I was about to learn was that modern truck-stops have much higher standards. The facilities we visited now were clean, organized, and offered friendly service – ‘travel-centers.’ After a much needed, sh-shower- and shave, it was time to head for North Carolina. As we pulled back onto interstate-20 towards Atlanta I felt much better. The boy was a bit happier too after spending a few bucks at the truck-stop arcade.
The next few hours went quickly chatting on the CB and darkness fell, nearing Charlotte; more freight haulers and more ‘chicken-lights’ surrounded us. Then at three am and after 600 miles I find my delivery point out; open my rear doors and park just outside the business – once again I shove the sleeping boy against the rear of the cab and squeeze in.
Sleep was elusive, in the wee morning hours the businesses delivery trucks came and went, each one stopping alongside and each slamming their doors as the drivers returned to lock the business gate – thank goodness for 7 a.m., the knock on our door finally came, “back your truck to the dock.”
My son was up when the forklift began unloading and once again I was in that all too familiar position; the driver’s seat, elbows on the steering wheel, dirty teeth, and gazing wearily through the smashed bugs on the windshield. I thought about home, those bugs, and my own bed, even the thought of the wife snoring didn’t deter my desire to be with her – but again I reminded myself of the father/son thing and exactly why I was doing this.
We were soon off to Williamsburg, Virginia for a load of beverage, load time 30 hours away, wonderful, no hurry.
The rest of the afternoon we eased through eastern North Carolina along highway 258, I had driven this road many times years earlier and was curious of any changes; it seemed like the perfect opportunity. My son was actually sitting up and watching the fields and rural life style of Eastern NC pass before us (I found later that the batteries were dead in his game boy!). It turned into a pleasant ride; the small towns remained as I recalled, each one a “Mayberry” in its own right.
As evening fell we came into the traffic frenzy of Portsmouth, Virginia. My son was commenting on the shipyards, the ships and of the world that he was seeing – he even made the analogy that like “Dad, this windshield is like a big TV set,” and that he was really enjoying what he witnessing.
That comment sure helped to ease the fact that I had missed my shower for the day – just maybe these weeks were going to be worthwhile, and just maybe sooner or later I will get rested up.
.
FRANKS TRUCK-STOP
I had heard that there was a truck stop near the load point, so that was my destination. A I pulled into this dusty little dump of a truck stop, my heart sank, it was a time-warp. The facilities were horrid, leaving me no viable options, I was in a zone of too close to leave and too far to go; I would remain nearby. I investigated further confirming my worst assumptions and gave up on the shower. I utilized my spare gallon of water (a keepsake from Dad), washed my face (birdbath), brushed my teeth, and left the dusty lot to find parking. I located a shopping center nearby, and again the boy browsed the stores. As night fell I was direct when I stated that there would be NO in-and-out of the cab routine, there would be sleep.
The next day we were up early and returned to the dusty little truck stop, by this time I had it all figured out how to manage a shower. I wouldn’t touch anything. I propped the door open to vent the stench, flushed the johns, did some minor clean-up, and ran the hot water to run the critters out. “Wet, soap, rinse, and remove thyself” were my instructions – I made it through, and so did my son – like the 20 oz plastic tea bottle, there are times that we must adapt and on this day we adapted together.
‘Frank’s Truck-Stop,’ the place was despicable, and I think you may have already noticed that my standards are not that high.
We spent the rest of the day working crossword puzzles, cleaning the cab of the truck, talking, and sitting with our doors open while observing the world outside – this was quality father/son time.
Our load was beer from Anheiser-Busch to Miami, once loaded we proceeded over to and then down interstate-95 south into the Carolina night. I drove for hours, my four a.m. stop at the Brunswick Georgia truck-stop was to be a 20-minute nap but four hours later I awoke. We entered the truck-stop to find a wonderfully clean shower and a down home country breakfast, once again I felt clean, refreshed, and rejuvenated for another day.
.
VISITING DAD
Having a Monday delivery and being in no hurry for Miami we headed towards Sanford to visit my father. Dad had retired years earlier from trucking, and with great pleasure I pulled unannounced onto his large yard; and with two graceful motions – backed that shinny 48 foot trailer in-line with his long-idle fleet. The smooth evolution never broke a rut in his manicured lot, and as he walked from the shade of a nearby tree, I yelled “guess who taught me that?” It was a nice grin, and the first time I had seen his new teeth.
Father, son, and grandson spent the day walking this ‘bone-yard’ together; Dad took pride in showing us his long-idled fleet of Macks, Autocars, ‘Emeryville’s,” and ‘Cracker-boxes,’ – a rusted ‘bone-yard’ of once proud trucks, tractors, and related parts – his own ‘field of dreams.
As we wandered through he would share elaborate plans for each of the trucks – for each piece held special value or history to him. Dad never hesitated to stop, unzip his britches, and tuck his tobacco scarred shirt back into his pants – and then it was time to roll another Prince Albert cigarette.
For being such a young man, my son must have understood the importance of this rare visit with his grandfather because he showed a great deal of patience and seemed to enjoy the time, as did I.
T.G. and W.T. Haynie
When the darkness fell, we said our good-byes – Dad had driven for years and understood our need to move on through the lighter traffic of the night, bitter sweet were the feelings as I drove away – we don’t see him enough.
The highways now were the ones that I had traveled as a boy with my father; so I intentionally avoided the convenience of the interstate and pursued the ‘old routes. Through the small towns and familiar highways, the lonesome stretches of road where my father once came to my rescue many years prior. The truck I was driving at the time was overloaded and had two flat tires, almost turning over – Dad came alone in the middle of the night to get the rig going – he always succeeded. It was night time now, as and as I passed the area of highway I retold the story to my son.
Bruce Dewey, downsized but still at it in 2011
To shorten this long story we unloaded the truck in Miami and made another trip or two for Dewey, the truck and trailer were returned undamaged and we felt privileged to have had this rare father/son opportunity.
.
BACK TO THE MOUNTAINS
On our drive back to the Carolina mountains, I reflected on what we may have accomplished. It didn’t have a thing to do with the changes that I had noticed with the trucks, bugs, bumps and highways, but it did have a lot to do with the similarities of what fathers want and like to share with their son’s.
99 trip
- It was a special time, in just a few short weeks of three summers my son was able to live and touch a very important part of his father and Grandfather’s past, a ‘vacation’ that hopefully he will never forget.
.
.gif){kind=logo}
