Out of the blue the telephone rings. My grandson on the other end. The first one that my son and daughter-in-law presented me with. And believe me she protected him like a mother hen.

So you can imagine knowing my profession was driving truck (I drove them from coast to coast) more skill than any luck. I spent many years driving flatbed trucks. You know semi's with a big flat trailer. With machines and boxes and things that didn't fit inside the regular boxes of the trailers. Then I changed jobs and went to work hauling meat that hung from the roof. Halves of beef and lamb and pork from the rockies to the east coast. The swinging meat was one of the dangerous loads that you can haul, because we are all familiar with the point we call the center of gravity. When things start to tip just a little bit there is nothing that stops them from tipping all the way over. So with all of the 48,000 pounds of meat hanging on hooks from the ceiling, it put the point of gravity 13 feet above the ground. This type of load paid much better money than most freight that came in boxes, because it was inherently dangerous. These were the types of loads I hauled.

I wasn't in the business just for the fun that it was. Though I enjoy driving truck so much, it was one of my loves. I got to watch the county change from coast to coast. The more exciting the job I had the more I liked it the most. I got a chance to advance to what some considered the most dangerous. It paid the best that the rest and to me it was like going to an amusement park. It was like driving a giant roller coaster. To put it in technical terms, it was what we called "triples". You've seen them going down the road from Salt Lake through Nevada the only places they are allowed to run are Salt Lake to Reno and Salt Lake To Los Angeles. I'll toot my own horn, like I always do,  because no one can play it like I can. But on these trucks they had bigger horns because they were the biggest ones on the road. The most powerful diesel tractors pulling the longest and heaviest load. We drove them from Salt Lake to Reno everyone called the "wiggle wagons" on the road. When you hook three semi-trailers together you're 125 feet long. Your gross weight varies from 100,000 to 130,000 pounds, that includes truck, trailer, and load. Only the best drivers earn the certificates and the right to haul these monstrous, dangerous machines, both day and the dark of the night.

I hadn't given much thought to this. Though to me it was always an accomplishment to have mastered the largest machine on the road and never having an accident. Now only two states allow you to hook three trailers and go down the road. Utah and Nevada. So we'd pick up three trailers in Salt Lake City. Me and my partner Frank. A short little man who came from Japan. Who gambled but never drank. We drove in teams and when it was my turn to drive I'd always wake up in a parking lot, usually a casino, but just as often one of the many whore houses that dot the state of Nevada.

Frank drove truck for only two things, to gamble and to f - - - . He didn't need to work for a living, his family was set up pretty well. Franks wife said if he was going to indulge himself in things to which she disagreed it would have to pay him to get there and back, otherwise he could straight go to hell. I never understood his wifes way of thinking because Frank lost more money each trip than both of us made together. He was addicted to gambling and wild women and Raman noodles in the cup. After waking several times in various parking lots we made the first stop on our trip. It was our terminal in Reno where we would leave one of our trailers because we were only allowed to haul two trailers across California.

So after we dropped our trailer it was over Donner Summit we went. Over the hill, down the other side, Sacramento a lot of times was just a blur. We were trying to make up time you see to make up for time to make up for the blackjack table or one of Frank's favorite hers. Our final destination was our terminal in Oakland California, sometimes they had two trailers all loaded and ready for us to hook up and go. Other times we got to spend a few hours in a local motel. I don't know if you have ever been there, but I consider myself a manly man. But staying in a motel in Oakland can test you metal and your courage. There wasn't a time that we visited there (and we went there four times a week). Whether it was from the terminal or from the motel there were gunshots that rang out each night. We never looked to see where they came from. God never created a fool. But I think if there was a casino or a whore house in the vicinity old Frank would be there, devil may care. And he had many flaws but here's the good parts about Frank. My little Japanese four foot nine co-driver was a damn good driver. I trusted him with my life about 5000 miles a week. It's hard to find someone that you can sleep while they drive. Especially the monsters we drove. Now I have justified the qualifications so you will understand how I could trust this man with the precious cargo (other than me).

My number one grandson whose father had a wry sense of humor named his son with a name out of fun kinda like Johnny Cash and a girl named Sue.

Now my son is from my wife's previous marriage, so his last name is different than mine. Instead of Aaron, his name is Fausett. I am sure he gave a lot of thought of just how funny it would be to give his son a name that would stick and be the brunt of a joke or two as he grew up. His first name is Russell, his second name is Tyler, and his last name is Fausett. To abbreviate, it is RussT Fausett. If this isn't cruel enough, he gave him his red hair. As he did my second grandson, whose name was also picked with care. Not quite as clever as RussT Fausett, he settled for something that took a little more thought. He named him Sterling Fausett. Thank God he never had any girls.

I got a telephone call today from RussT saying, "Grandpa, I have some questions to ask you. I went to lunch with my dad today and as we both went our ways when we were done I  passed a truck with a big round circle with red and blue writing for its logo. It said GI Trucking and my mind snapped alert. I knew that name and it bugged me all day. And it was like I was in a dream with little bits and pieces. Like eating a whole bag, and we're talking a big bag, of Starburst Fruit Chewies. Gorging myself on soda pop and candy, chips and Slim Jims. There may have been a meal or two, I think I remember them. But I remember seeing things from way in the sky. I thought for a minute that I was flying. I remember the bouncing and crawling back into a hole and going to sleep along with you. And I remember the biggest truck I had ever seen and flashed on pictures of me and you. So I thought I would give you a call today to fill in some of the blanks. Could you tell me what the GI meant? And where these daytime dreams come from."

I told you I had a daughter-in-law who was so protective, controlling and such. And some wild hair that struck me somewhere with a thought of an adventure that me and my grandson would remember for life. To this day I don't know how I talked her into it and convinced her it was the right thing to do . To let her firstborn, five or six year old son, climb in to this dangerous truck and ride to Oakland with me.  And assured her somehow that he would be safe because he would be with his grandpa. That's me. I am sure that I told her that this was something that he'd remember for all of his life. And I am sure to this day he is the only one that at six years old could say, "I went to Oakland in the biggest truck that you ever did see. It had three trailers and wiggled all over and bounced and bumped. We went through big cities and stopped a lot of paring lots while grandpa found his co-driver. It was usually time for little Frank, grandpa's foreign truck driver friend to take his turn and drive the truck while grandpa and I crawled back in the back, pulled down the curtain and went to sleep." But it just made me feel how truly real this trip with my grandson turned out to be and that I was right when I told his mother that night, "this is a memory my grandson will remember for the rest of his life about a truck, a funny little man, and me."

It wasn't until today that I explained to my poor innocent grandson who is 23 years old now, that seventeen years ago, when we'd stop at the parking lots and he would wait in the truck that the parking lot where we were parked belonged to a whore house or some other place Frank was trying his luck. I think he was old enough to finally know the truth. Why every parking lot we stopped at was so brightly lit with flashing lights and all kinds of trucks galore parked in the lots because some of those, while it was my turn to drive I stopped at and actually got fuel and something to eat. Little mementos and a bagful of treats while my grandson Rusty made history with me. Thank you God for the memories - Thank you Russ for the phone call. And thank you Wendy and Terry too for trusting me with my grandson, and for helping create a memory that neither of us will ever forget.  My wife keep asking me, "is that it now?" Which kind of tells me in her subtle way that I may have spoke a little too long and the big ones are eating the little ones away. She just got home and is starving away. Those of you know her know of what I speak. When this womans tummy is empty her hints are all but weak. 

God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger