Still in Nebraska, after being sent three hundred miles west into Colorado to pick up a load going to Memphis. At least it is in the right direction. I will not be able to get home on Thursday, probably, but if my good fortune prevails, I might be able to spend Friday night at home in Georgia. Last night the roads got a little slick with ice, but nothing major. I pray that I have missed the worst part of this small winter storm marching across the plains. I am in the warm part of Nebraska, getting down to 14 degrees tonight. West of here the temperature will plummett to below 0 in many places. I know I am rambling, but this is what I do when I am exhausted, so I fear I must retire to my bunk so I will not be a menace on the highways tomorrow.

As I write this message, I am sitting at one of my favorite truckstops in America, the Bosselman's in Grand Island, Nebraska, quite a ways from Fairfield, Maine where I last posted a message. I started driving again the morning after Thanksgiving, after spending a lonely day alone, mostly feeling sorry for myself, and here I sit, twenty-two hundred miles later, waiting on a load sending me home.
Maine was beautiful, perhaps my new favorite state, as last week was my first visit there. I was especially struck by the beauty of her lakes as I drove down a winding, two-lane road toward my destination Friday. The poem I wrote follows.


THE LAKES OF MAINE

The Lakes of Maine sparkle
in the early morning light.
Floating in a sea of mist,
rising 'neath the splendor
of mountains' majestic heights.

The Lakes of Maine sparkle
reflecting nature's mural
of snow-covered peeks
shadowing peaceful valleys
shrouded in morning fog.

The Lakes of Maine sparkle
soaking up the clear, pure air.
Crystal clean water,
whose depths have no end,
created by the hand of God.

I just read a blog written by a Canadian lady from Nova Scotia who obviously has a deep-seeded contempt, or possibly even hatred, for Americans as well as the capitalist system. I will not refer to her site directly, as I don't want to give her unwarranted attention. She referred to "reforming our capitalist system" because of our unequal distribution of wealth. Well, that would not be reform, but would indeed be communism. Certainly our system is not perfect, and hard work does not always help a person prevail in our society. I know for a fact that I have worked hard all my life, and I am not even close to being at the top of the economic spectrum. However, is it fair for the money I work hard for to be taken away and given to someone who is unwilling to work just because they have less than I do? Perhaps my friend from Canada would be willing to give up half of her wealth and give it to me because I might not have as much as she does. Oh, by the way, I am in Maine at the moment, and very close to Nova Scotia. Perhaps she would be willing to drive down to this little truck stop and buy me a nice Thanksgiving meal, since I am hundreds of miles away from my family, working to support them, while many folks in my home town, as well as across this country, who are more able than I to go to work every day, are sitting around a table purchased with wellfare dollars stolen from hard-working Americans like myself, eating a Turkey dinner paid for with food stamps, in a government owned apartment requiring little or no rent, with other family members who are also too sorry to work and provide for their family. If fathers in our society would be responsible for supporting the children they bring into this world, as well as the mothers of those children, both economically and emotionally, our society would need no reformation.
It is very easy for me to feel sorry for myself. I drive a truck thousands of miles a week, with a bad back and an aching heart from being away from the family I love so deeply. However, I realize that I have so much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving day. I am thankful that God has given me this job so I can provide for my wife and children. I am thankful for a loving, understanding, devoted wife. I am thankful for three beautiful, healthy children. Most of all, I am thankful that God sent his Son, Jesus Christ, to save me even though I am undeserving. He did this willingly because He loves me and knew that I was incapable of saving myself.

I'm sorry I haven't published a post recently, but I found out that a laptop doesn't fair very well when dropped six feet from the cab of a freightliner. Not to worry, however. I now have a brand new replacement, and will be posting again on a more consistant basis.
Today is Thanksgiving, 2006. I am, as you might imagine, spending it alone several hundred miles away from my family in Georgia. Fairfield, Maine, to be exact. All is not lost, however, since this is my first trip to this state. To date, I have now visited 46 of the 50 states. I only have North Dakota and Rhode Island, and of course Alaska and Hawaii, left. I imagine I will see them all before I die.
New England is possibly my favorite region of our fine country, with New Hampshire being the most beautiful in my humble opinion. Maine and Vermont rank a close second, though. I believe I could live here and grow to love it, but I fear my Southern drawl would attract undesired attention.
The first of the two poems I am posting today was written on my last trip to Salt Lake City, and the last was composed one night as I pondered the romantic attitude many in my chosen profession have about trucking. I hope you enjoy these offerings.



I walk along a shore of salt,
Waves lick my feet.
Rays of sun beat upon my back,
Relentless heat.
A voice calls from the salty air,
Come swim with me.
I ignore the soft, sultry voice,
That calls gently.
For if I dive into the deep,
I'll not return.
For the voice I have heard before,
In my ears burn.
Promising all my heart's desires,
Yet in the end,
If I heed the seducer's voice,
Death will I spend.



Big Rig Thunder

Big Rigs thunder,
Into the night,
Flames shoot from their stacks,
Shaking the earth,
Beneath their rubber feet,
Lit by a thousand amber light,
Running the length of their sides,
Reflecting off chrome so polished,
Sparking in the full moonlight,
Their roar is deafening,
And can be heard from miles away,
As the Big Rigs go athundering,
Into the cold, lonesome night.