Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Don’t let ‘em pick guitars and drive them ol’ trucks. Make ‘em be doctors and lawyers and such. - Willie Nelson
Cape Girardeau, MO: Perhaps the best time to be a trucker is between the hours of 1 and 7 in the morning. At least that’s when I enjoy it most, when it’s peaceful and you can be alone with your thoughts. Leaving West Memphis, Arkansas at 1AM this morning, I wound through all 10 gears before putting The Beast on cruise control on a long stretch of two-lane highway.
The darkness, made thicker by a light fog, was broken only by a red moon floating just above the tree line. Aside from a brief exchange of greetings on the CB with another trucker headed the opposite direction, it was just me and the darkness on the highway. After what seemed like an extended time of seeing only the silhouettes of trees and the rapid-passing highway lines, the blackness that seemed to nearly engulf me was pierced by the lights of a nearby little town. Driving into the place, I felt a strange comfort at the fact that I was again around other people. There is something about being utterly alone that makes the eventual presence of others, even when they are unseen, reassuring somehow. That is, until one of the local specimens pulled out in front of me. I was the only other vehicle around for 15 miles, yet this dunderhead had to pull right out in front of my semi. That was when I remembered Mark Twain’s observation that, after all, Man was made at the end of the work week, when The Almighty was tired.
After my 3AM “live load” appointment was complete, I began making my way north and decided to try some classical music via the smart phone, but I fell short again. Another baritone opera singer, only this one sang with a twang, and just sat there on the melody, barely able to move a note or two without hurting himself. Imagine Tennessee Ernie Ford on valium. My taste in classical music can now be summed up as, “If it ain’t Baroque, fix it.”
The sun was like a red ball of fire peaking over the horizon as I switched to country music and heard Willie Nelson’s song, quoted above. I’ve often wondered if truckers are basically modern-day versions of cowboys, moving goods from one end of the country to the other. As a breed, we’re a restless lot, an independent and cantankerous group from all walks of life. Some of the truck stops have an almost “wild west” kind of atmosphere. Inside the restaurants, drivers refer to the waitresses as “ma’am,” they hold the door open for ladies, and often times address each other as “sir.” But outside the truck stop, any number of questionable professions might be pursued even as the more rowdy ones get on the CB radio and try their best to start fights in the parking lot.
If you think the conversation on Ricochet has been a bit raucous of late, tune in to a CB radio sometime. At a dizzying speed, the conversation goes from highway updates, to jokes, to fights, and back again. In the midst of a traffic jam a few weeks ago, I heard the following exchange:
“Did anyone see that little lady in the red car?”
“You mean the red Toyota?”
“Yep.”
“The girl with the green skirt?”
“Yep.”
“With the skirt hiked up a little on one leg?”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“No, I ain’t seen her.”
“[expletive, expletive, expletive, and expletive some more]”
One old Red Simpson song describes us as a bunch of, “…double clutching gear jamming coffee drinking nuts” and I’d be hard pressed to argue the point. But the one constant that I notice as I travel across the country, is the presence of patriotic themes on the rigs. James Lileks noted the same phenomenon recently. Part of that is due, I think, to the preponderance of veterans in the industry. But a sizeable portion of it is due to the simple fact that many of these hard working men and women just love their country. For those of us in the industry, America is our office. The fiery rising sun, the jutting mountains, the cities that sparkle like jewels in the night, …it never grows old.
Perhaps it’s the fact that we get to see so much of the country that inspires the patriotism. Perhaps it’s the reward of an honest day’s labor and the expectation (though dwindling) that we will be able to build a better life for our children and grandchildren. Many of us can’t make it to Tea Parties. We’re always on the move, and truck parking is scarce anyway. But many of us are there in spirit, working and praying for the success of the American Dream; the idea that we really can take care of ourselves. Perhaps on just this one song, Willie got it wrong. Mamas, there are worse things your babies could do than grow up to be cowboys.