This book sounds very interesting. Check it out!
It seems like it’s taken forever, but it’s finally here. I can now hold in my hand a copy of A Housefly in Autumn that doesn’t have the word PROOF stamped in bold letters across the last page. This is the real deal. The book is live.
Now all I have to do is sell it. There should be a richer reward for writing, editing, formatting, and generally coordinating the production of a novel than the big prize of having to persuade people to buy it. I mean, yeah, there’s the sense of accomplishment, but writers are dreamers. They have big, glorious dreams about their work. Rarely does the dream culminate with nobody buying the book. The reality may end that way, but not the dream.
So let’s not worry about reality for a minute; let’s focus on the dream. The dream is that all kinds of people, from all…
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The infamous Paul Curran has struck again at Cordelia’s Place! Check it out. He even has a new picture/look. Is it the same person? I don’t know. 😉
Today’s guest poster is Paul Curran. Yes, that’s right – Paul Curran. I know the photo looks like someone totally different, but personally I love his new “scruffy writer’s look.” Don’t you?
Comedy by Winter’s Moon
By Paul Curran
Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” was pounding loud on the stereo “It’s 2 am, the fear is gone…” as I crested the hill headed for Halifax. It was a full moon that was shining brightly in the bitter cold, clear February night sky at 2 am. The beat shaking the cab perfectly matched the center line dots as they sped past. Forty thousand pounds of pears from Medford, Oregon rested comfortably at 40 degrees F in the temperature controlled trailer (reefer) following closely behind – happy in their ignorance of the -30 F external temperatures.
The road between St. John New Brunswick and Sussex New Brunswick, was 2…
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I’m Julie, and Welcome to my No Blog. For those of you that are not aware, please allow me to catch you up to speed.
I fumbled upon the blogging world quite by accident. I started a new job, and took over the email of my predecessor. She got a daily email from “Mamapedia”. Not knowing if this was something to do with the business, I read them, because I am a good employee. I soon discovered there were some interesting stories. Some were funny, some serious, some sad, but for the most part, pretty good writing. Each post came with a link to the blog it was from. It didn’t take long before I wanted to comment; only I had to sign into something to comment…unless I went directly to the blog! (I also found I was less likely to get into it with someone who left a comment like their head was up their….never mind)
It took me a long time to figure out the etiquette and a long time to make a comment. Truth be told, I am still uncertain, however if I don’t have anything nice to say, I won’t say anything at all. At the beginning, I thought the comments were between the author and the individual commenter. I shied away from tossing my two cents in where it might not be well received, (Who was talking to you?!) as well as using great caution in speaking to the author.
Next I discovered that there are many “links” to other blogs! Oh My! A Whole New World! I found some very, very brilliant, quick-witted, funny, and wonderful people and I WAS EXCITED!! People who get me! People who I get! I remember relaying this information to my daughter, who said “you know mom, you can start your own blog if you wanted” What? No. No I can’t. Who would want to read anything I wrote? What would I write about? “Yes mom. Yes you could. I could help if you wanted/needed it” Well, ok. Lemme think about it.
Anyway, I continued on like an eager child! There are so many blogs! Then you see a comment that tickles you, and suddenly, you’re off to another blog! I fumbled upon one near the beginning and have kept up with her ever since. I found one that was so funny I felt like I had found my man version of me! I found one written by a cop, so heartfelt, so funny and at times, so sad. I found one that makes list’s, one that talks a lot about art, and culture, one that’s a little racy, one that speaks of how depression lies but that same blog also makes me laugh out loud! That author gets a lot of traffic, and lots and lots of comments, but she actually responded to one of my comments once! (Here’s my problem with naming the individual blogs. I think blog etiquette would be to link to each of them, however, in my never-ending quest for harmony, and no hurt feelings, I am afraid I will miss one, and risk hurting someone who I dearly enjoy reading) It’s also funny to me when I find the author of a blog I read commenting on another blog I read. I have to keep myself from saying “hi” to them when I see ‘em.
I feel that I have made some very real friends. I have even exchanged email with a handful. I have not “followed” many blogs at all, but I do visit them, sometimes multiple times a day, now that I think about it, the list is a little bit long, but I imagine I hardly scratch the surface of the amount that are out there. The ones I enjoy I can’t seem to stay away from. I check back to see if my comment has been read and if anyone has responded to me.
It wasn’t long before I would get comment’s back asking where I write. Um. I don’t have a blog. I am more of a professional commenter. I enjoy reading, and I enjoy the banter that comes in the comment section. I was soon being pestered to write something. One such individual was like a dog with a bone. I finally wrote a post for him. Then, he sat on it. I began to think he didn’t like it, and decided not to sully his blog with my drivel. Months went by. I had even put it out of my mind. Then, he posts it. It took me 2 or 3 days to even go by to take a look! I had forgotten much of what I wrote, and was nervous how it would be received. People were so very nice! (I should probably link that here too right?)
Anyway, somehow I became affectionately known as “Julie No Blog” and began being pelted with “when are you gonna start a blog” type questions. I then discovered we had a “No Blog” tribe, or a family of sorts. Not really misfits of the blogging community, but no place to call our own I guess, even though I feel right at home at all the blogs I visit with regularity.
It was in the comment section of one of those blogs that this blog was born, and it was the funniest thing I could imagine! Someone started a blog for me! Someone else stepped up and built on the foundation! One of my No Blog brothers has graced the space with his stories! Now Look! It looks like a real blog! (I should probably be naming all “the someone’s” too right?)
Anyway, that is the long-winded nutshell of how this came to be. I know I can do this. Sometimes it just seems I have nothing to say, (as this little piece clearly indicates!)
I hope you enjoy what you read here, and please, feel free to contribute. One of my blogging buddies thought it would be great if I started a blog where others could rant anonymously. Here it is! (see? I didn’t even say their name, so they can remain anonymous)
Thanks for stopping by!
Some years ago I was boarding at a private home where the sons of the owner were two rowdy boys of about 20 and 25 (John). So one hot weekend day, John came to visit – knocking on my door. He wanted a drinking buddy, so not wanting to disappoint him; I joined him on the back deck. We sat in lawn chairs with our shirts off drinking beer and soaking up the sun. After a half a dozen beer each, John jumped up and announced that he had something for me to check out and said he would be right back. Sure enough. Back he came with a five foot long sword, razor-sharp on both edges. He collected swords and had just acquired this one which looked very real and he was proud of it. He handed it to me, hilt first and sat back in his lawn chair.
I examined the sword and praised his taste, truly amazed at its authentic look. I passed it to him, again hilt first, being very careful with the super sharp edges. He checked it over briefly, then standing, he held the hilt with two fingers and dropped it point first into the wooden deck. There was a thunk and it sunk into the wood about 2 inches – very impressive. He sat back down it a grin and we watched as the sword quivered for a few minutes, then became still standing vertical between the two chairs. I admired this stance for a few minutes and then had the desire to look at it again up close, I asked if that was OK and he agreed. So, remaining in my chair I grabbed the hilt and pulled – nothing, it didn’t budge. So I started to wiggle it back and forth in line with the sword edges. After a few minutes, it popped out of the wood but I only had one hand on the hilt and it pivoted towards John. His arm elbow was protruding slightly over the chair arm and the sword blade hit it edge first, clean on. He let out a yelp and pulled his arm in to examine it. Because the elbow was still bent at 90 degrees, the skin was stretched and there was a gaping but clean-cut about 1 1/2 inches long and. about an inch deep and gaping about 3/4 inch wide. It was a beautiful cut and there was very little blood and we were looking at the fat tissue below the skin- it appeared like tapioca, except whiter. Neither of us was feeling any pain, cut or not.
After an examination, John stated: “This needs stitches; you’ll have to drive me to emergency.” I objected and said I had had too much to drink. I proposed a taxi, but neither of us had any money. John then said: “You’ll have to stitch it yourself.” I was flabbergasted, not having had any training at all. We discussed what would be needed and my biggest concern was infection. We decided to do this inside and he got the supplies we needed and met me at the kitchen table. We filled a Pyrex brownie pan with rubbing alcohol. I threw in a few lengths of thread that I figured were long enough – pink thread to match his skin tones, of course, we had to b fashion aware — and a sewing needle. I set his elbow in the pan as well and splashed alcohol up his arm while rinsing my hands thoroughly. Then I threaded the needle and started. I figured we needed two stitches so I left the appropriate spacing. I kept saying to John: “This is going to hurt, this is going to hurt” He eventually told me to shut up.
Pushing the needle though his skin using a sewing needle was very difficult and I felt like the dull end was going to pierce my thumb, I was pushing so hard. I used very pretty butterfly stitches, like I had seen doctors do when stitching me up upon occasion. Eventually we got ‘er done and it looked very good. I had pulled the stitches so the two sides were touching each other without any ridge. We put a breathing bandage over it and went our separate ways after I had washed it with alcohol one more time.
The next day I was sitting outside when John drove in the driveway. He walked over and I passed him a beer as he sat down. I snuck a look at the wound, as the bandage had been removed. I asked how it was going and he confessed that he had gone to visit his sister who was an emergency doc at the local hospital. She had examined the wound and declared it well taken care of. She also demanded to know who had stitched it. John originally told her that he had stitched it himself, but that was so obviously not possible that she pounded on him verbally until he confessed it was me. I was pleased as this would give me a chance to think up an excuse – as his sister, Joan was very authoritarian and we called her The General. At only about 5’2″ and less than 100 pounds, she attacked everything and everyone in sight – there was no hiding from her.
Then John said that he felt he should have a “real” doc look at it so he went to the clinic. (His sister was likely more qualified and experienced than many docs from working in emergency but you know how it goes – family is always suspect.). When it came time for him to see the doctor, the doc examined the stitching and asked who had done it. Knowing now that he couldn’t come up with a good lie, he confessed that a non-medical friend had done it. Then the doc did an odd thing: he stood up and opened the office door and shouted down the hallway: “Ladies come and see this!” Four nurses appeared and the doc showed them the stitching. Expecting to be chastised, John was surprised when the Doc said:” This young man and his friend are going to put us out of business!” The nurses Oohed and Aahed over the stitching and them left. John asked the Doc when he should come back to have the stitches removed. The Doc said: “They should be taken out in about 10 days, but you don’t have to come here. Your friend who put them in can easily take them out, so just go see him when they are ready.” At this he told John he was free to go and John wandered out of the office, surprised by the Doc’s response.
I listened to the story and we were discussing it when another car pulled up – The General. Oh My God, it was too late to flee as the driveway was between my current seat and the entrance to my unit – I was trapped. The General got out of the car and marched right over until she was in my face. She stared at me for a minute and said: “That was an excellent job stitching.” I was rattled as The General seldom if ever gave praise. Then she continued: “If you ever fucking do that again, I’m going to come over here and take a piece out of you – DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?!?!.” the General could be a bit foul mouthed when she was upset. I just nodded in fear and she said “God!” and went into the house too see her Mom.
Check out another great story from Paul Curran over at Cordelia’s Place!
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose: “Stinktier.”
I started to laugh: “Really? That’s cool. It’s ‘skunk’ in English but we say anything that smells bad ‘stinks’.”
“Sk –uuunk?” She looked at me for confirmation and I nodded.
“Skunk.” She said confidently. Then, with a grin: “Skunk stinks.”
I laughed again. “Yep, skunk stinks.”
We had just driven over an already dead skunk on the highway and the smell had permeated the truck.
Elizabeth was a German nurse visiting America with her best friend Ute. They had intended to tour mostly by bus and train but through some set of quirky circumstances had ended up in my truck headed for California. Sort of. Well, you see, Ute was in Mark’s truck ahead of us. They would often rearrange – sometimes two per truck, sometimes one in each. Elizabeth liked…
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Next week “Paul NoBlog” will have a couple more posts going up! You don’t want to miss them Does anyone else wonder why such a talent doesn’t have a blog?!
Runaway Truck Ramp
So, two uneventful days later we arrived back in Dartmouth with our load and dropped it n the terminal yard. It was about 8 pm and Mel’s husband was waiting to pick her up – we had called him with an ETA. After exchanging the usual amenities we transferred Mel’s luggage to Greg’s car and they were off.
About a week later I was back in the office after another trip when the owner, Mike, called out to me from Mel’s office.
“Paul. Can you come in here for a moment please?
I walked into Mel’s office, greeted her and said:
“What’s up Mike?”
He had a big grin on his face – something I had learned to associate with him receiving money in one form or another.
“Remember those 6 hours of waiting time you booked at Ingersoll Rand last week?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“Ingersoll is saying you had no waiting time and were loaded as soon as you arrived – and you were late, which is why the Bills of Lading were stamped late.” He paused, grinned, and before I could object, he continued:
“So, I called their North American Distribution Director and put him on speaker with Mel here in the office. She told him that she was personally in the truck when it was there loading and that we were there an hour early at 1 pm and didn’t get a dock until 8 pm and left at 10pm. She told him the names of the employees, what was on the dock, and described the buildings. And then she told him that she is the accountant and expects the bill to be paid. She added that she had taken pictures of the truck sitting in Ingersoll’s Kentucky parking lot that had time stamps on them and she would gladly e-mail them to him if he required it”
At this, Mike cracked up laughing.
“The poor bastard didn’t know what to say- that our accountant should be in the truck in Kentucky AND have photos of the truck time stamped, just blew him away. He said the bill would be paid in full and he apologized for his staff lying. Anyway, he called back later and told me that this was not the first problem he had had with the Kentucky shipping supervisor and as a result of our complaint he had fired the man. He said that was the last time he was going to be made a fool by a liar and that we shouldn’t have any problems in the future.”
Accounting – a Land of Mystery
About a month after that Melanie came out of the office one Friday afternoon as I was doing paperwork in the truck. She did not look happy as she opened the passenger’s door and hopped in. One look told me there was a problem;
“Are you OK Mel? You look really down.”
“Paul, can I ask you for a favor?
“Sure. What’s cookin’?”
“Greg and I are separating. I’m moving out this weekend with the kids while Greg is at work. Mike has said I can have a company truck to move and I have help but I need a company driver to drive the truck for insurance reasons. Can you drive the truck when I move tomorrow?”
Wow, this was a shocker.
“Sure Mel, what time do you want to meet/”
And so we spent that Saturday loading and unloading a tractor-trailer with all of Mel’s possessions and moving her and her two kids into her new apartment. I have often wondered since then what, if any, part the trip to Kentucky played in what was obviously a big life decision for Melanie. From the outside it was brow raising – the married accountant goes away for a week with a truck driver – not her husband – and then a few weeks later that same truck driver helped her move out when she left her husband. How do I innocently get into these situations?
*If you haven’t read part 1 you can find it HERE Then he began with the verbal abuse – accusing us of stealing jobs and union busting. Mel was taken aback but she stood close and said nothing. I knew what was happening here and had expected this treatment but not quite so vociferous. We were hauling European engines into GM – and by doing so were reducing the demand on their engine plants. The forklift operator started on how much he made ($80 per hour on overtime – which he was currently doing) and how that made him so much better than truck drivers and scabs. His operating skills were poor and he frequently dropped skids and ran one skid into another. He was also slow – likely deliberately. I just bit my tongue and let him ramble on with his abuse. My thought was that he sure wasn’t adding the value he was being paid and that if there were many more like him, they likely would cause the company to fail. This was some years before the industry reorganization – and turned out to be true. I still have a hard time feeling bad for auto workers who have lost their jobs – much of it was their own doing. We were empty in about 2 hours, got our paperwork signed and headed to Kentucky.
Crates Containing Engines http://www.reusabletransportpackaging.com/images/
After about three hours of driving – maxing out my log hours and enough to get us well away from Detroit- we found a hotel and had a good night’s sleep. I would normally sleep in the sleeper berth for the whole trip but it held only one person and the steering wheel was not comfortable. The next morning, after sleeping in and having a good breakfast we got on the road about 7 am.
We took our time and stopped for an early lunch – as I was sure there wouldn’t be food at Ingersoll Rand. We also picked up some sandwiches and some drinks to go. Along the way we passed a nuclear power plant which Mel had never seen before. At 1pm we arrived at Ingersoll Rand in Campbellsville, Kentucky. We were directed to the loading docks but told not to back in. Mel and I went up to the dispatch desk and announced ourselves. We were early and that was fine, so they told us we’d have to wait for our turn to load as dock space was limited. I inquired as to how the units were to be loaded, how many, what weight, etc. An escort took us out onto the dock and showed us flatbed trailers being loaded and the units we were going to load – which were staged on the dock along with about 10 or 12 other trailer loads. We had 9 two-wheeled air compressors – the type you often see being hauled behind contractors’ trucks. They would be staggered on the trailer so the nose of one would be beside the tail of the other, then wooden blocks would be nailed to the deck around the wheels and we would strap each compressor down individually.
Making sure that the IR dispatcher and the supervisor knew we would be waiting in the parking lot we went back to the truck. While we waited, I showed Mel how to disassemble the rack and tarp and build the pen in the front of the trailer – converting it to a regular flatbed. This is heavy work and takes about ¾ of an hour. These compressors would spend their lives out in the weather and so didn’t need any protection on the flat-bed deck. At 2 pm, we went back inside to see if our loading position was ready. It was not. At 3 pm we tried again – still not ready. This time I alerted the supervisor and IR dispatcher that our company charged for any time over 2 hours after the appointment time. Mel was standing listening as I did this. At 4pm we tried again and again they weren’t ready. I informed them that they were now on the clock. I got paid a chunk of any waiting time to the tune of $25 per hour for waiting, so I was fine and would have been happy to wait all night of necessary. We continued to do this until at 8 pm they asked us to back in. The loading went smooth and by the time all was secure and the paperwork done it was 10 pm. We had 1700 mile trip ahead of us – which was about 32 hours of driving or almost exactly 2 ½ days by the log book. I could squeeze a few hours out by paper logging but it would still be late the day after tomorrow when we arrived home. I called our dispatch and let them know our schedule and we set out for home.
I had logged the waiting time as off duty, so I still had enough log hours to get well into West Virginia before we had to shut down to sleep. West Virginia is very mountainous and as we drove in the dark I pointed out the truck runaway ramps to Mel and explained how they were used by trucks that had lost their brakes in the steep mountains. To underscore this we came to a part of the road where a landslide had covered the eastbound lanes and all the traffic was rerouted onto the west bound, making it a two lane road. All of this was in the dark and I couldn’t gauge what Mel was thinking as her face was just a shadow in the glow of the dash lights. Then I happened to glance over as we were going down a steep grade and she was leaning forward grasping the dash with both hands. She hadn’t said a word for quite some time. “Are you OK Mel – do you need to stop?” There was a pause before she answered. “I’m just concerned about how steep this hill is. Can we stop if we need to? Hmmm, I may have overstressed the danger somewhat. “I’m sorry, we are fine.” “Didn’t you have to disconnect some brakes yesterday?
I had actually backed off one brake because it was overheating. However, that left us with 9 brake drums – essentially 16 out of the 18 wheels with good brakes. The compressors only weighed 2,000 pounds each for a load total weight of 18,000 pounds. With the empty weight of the truck being about 35,000 pounds, we were grossing about 53,000 pounds. We were rated for much greater than that – at least 80,000 pounds, so we were running at less than 70% of rated weight and we had 90% of our brakes, so we were fine. I explained this to Mel, who, being an accountant, felt much more comfortable once she knew the numbers. It wasn’t long after that we found a motel in a truck stop and stopped for the night. I planned to sleep over the steering wheel the following night and push for home after that. There is a log exception that allows you to start 2 hours earlier on your last day.
*Stay tuned for Part three!
Guest Post by Paul Curran – May 15, 2015
“Hey Paul, you got a minute?”
“Yeah sure Greg, what’s up?”
We were in the company office in the Burnside Industrial park in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. Greg was a fireman who worked part-time for the heavy equipment hauler where I drove. He often did two or three-day trips during his off time from the station but didn’t take any of the longer runs. His wife, Melanie, was the company accountant.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.” This was getting quite drawn out, I felt a bad one coming on – but Greg was a good guy so I should be safe.
Exterior of R Model Mack (like our company trucks)
“Well, I had promised Melanie that we would take a trip together in the truck and she arranged her vacation for the next two weeks. I was supposed to be on vacation too, but one of the guys at the station broke his arm and the lieutenant told me I have to work in his place and take my vacation later.”
The conversation was stretching out and I still had no clue where it was going.
“She is really looking forward to the trip because she’s never been in a truck. She can’t change her vacation because other office workers have the time booked. Can you take her for a trip this week?”
“Greg, I’m going to Detroit tomorrow with an ACL [Atlantic Container Lines] RoRo [Roll-on Roll-off the ship flatbed trailer with the freight already loaded] – I have no clue where I’m going from there, I could be gone a week or more. They sent me to Toronto once and I ended up in Seattle.”
2200 Kms (1367 miles)
“That’s fine, I talked to Mel about this and she really wants to go for a trip. She said she would prefer to go with you if I couldn’t go.”
This was a bit awkward: take another man’s wife in a truck for a week? We would be within arms length 24/7 for 7 days or more. I didn’t doubt my ability to be a gentleman, but even the optics were bad and I had never done anything quite so suggestive looking before.
“Are you sure that you are OK with this Greg? I don’t mind taking her but I don’t want any flak. You know the other drivers are going to gossip.”
Interior of Mack Truck (not much space)
“Yeah, I know but Mel can handle herself.” No doubt about that. She saw every driver after every trip as she was responsible for the paperwork and she could easily deflect any inappropriate comments.
“All right then, she needs to be here for 4:30 am tomorrow morning. I’ll go talk to her now.” He thanked me and I walked down the corridor and into Mel’s office knocking on the door frame as I went through it. We greeted and I told her that I be happy to take her for a trip as long as the owner agreed. She explained that she already had Mike’s [the owner] blessing as he wanted her to understand what the drivers saw and did. Fair enough. She agreed to be in the yard at 4:30 am the next morning.
Melanie looked just like this
Melanie was about 5’ 8” with shoulder length jet black hair and a cupid face. She was 35 with two young children and was drop dead gorgeous. She was very smart and soft-spoken, preferring to sit quietly. One of the biggest issues when taking passengers is their bladder size. It turned out that she and I had about similar capacities, which was perfect. Stopping a tractor-trailer and finding a washroom was a time-consuming activity. I typically stopped every 4 hours and knew all the coffee shops and truck stops along the way – each about 4 hours from the last.
ACL’s Fairview Cove Container Pier (McKay Bridge in the upper left)
The next morning we crossed the McKay Bridge to Halifax and arrived at ACL’s Fairview Container Pier about 5:30 am. RoRo’s were used by customers who did not want their freight handled or cross docked. They loaded an ACL highway flatbed at the shipper’s and the trailer with the load was rolled onto the container ship, transported to the closest port to the destination and then hauled by truck to the end-user. This particular load was a trailer full of German-made Opal engines that were going to a GM plant in Detroit.
Rows of these stacked inside the trailer
By 6 am we had the trailer and were on our way, beating the morning traffic as it began to flow into the city. We had an R model Mack truck – which was fairly small inside with only a single sleeper berth. It was a workhorse, not very pretty but with a powerful engine and our load was light so we could make good time. The trailer was an ACL 4 foot rack and tarp – it had removable side panels (four feet high and about 4 feet wide) with a tarp over the top (including the bows this left about 6 feet of head room down the center). It could be converted to a flat-bed by removing and rolling the tarp taking out the aluminum bows over the top then removing and stacking the side panels. The area in the front of the trailer where all this was kept when disassembled was called the “pen”.
Assembled Rack and Tarp
We made excellent time as Mel and I chatted. I encouraged her to ask questions and told her stories of some of my experiences. There were some comfortable silences as the miles sped by. My goal was to make it to The Curry Hill Truck Stop in Ontario, just west of Montreal, where I could fuel and we would sleep. This was a bit past the half way point and would allow us to reach Detroit in time to unload on their night shift the following day and get out-of-town before resting. Detroit was not a good place to spend the night. Log book regulations, in theory, limited the number of driving hours, so it had to be planned carefully. Although our average speed would be a bit over 85 kmph, I could paper log it at 95 (this entailed accounting for the driving as if it were done at the higher speed and thus increasing the distance that could be travelled in a day while still maintaining a log that looked legal). At 95 kmph Detroit was 23 driving hours from Halifax which allowed me to log 13 driving hours per day and still have 3 left when done in Detroit to get out of the city after the rush hour.
We reached Curry Hill on schedule and had supper and watched some TV in the drivers’ lounge. I gave Mel the bunk and I slept across the steering wheel – a skill that I had perfected over the years. That was fine for one night; we’d have to get a motel the following night.
The following day went smooth as Toronto sped by and then the long drive through the farmlands between there and Windsor – where we would cross the international border on the Ambassador Bridge to Detroit. I called ahead to confirm our delivery appointment for 7 pm. I also spoke to dispatch to determine which direction to head when we were empty. They gave us a reload of commercial contractors’ air compressors from Ingersoll Rand in Campbellsville, Kentucky back to the dealer in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia. I called Ingersoll and made a pick up appointment for 2 pm the following day.
We arrived ½ hour ahead of schedule at General Motors in Detroit [note: this was some years ago – before the reorganization of the auto sector and the closing of plants]. I registered Mel as a trainee and we were assigned a dock which we found and backed into.
We walked up onto the dock and gave our paperwork to the supervisor and then proceeded down to our door where I removed the two rear racks, opening up the trailer for unloading. The forklift driver was very ignorant, at first refusing to speak to us at all.
*Stay tuned for part 2 tomorrow!