My Trusty Old Freightliner

If you've ever seen a semi with a coating of black oil down the side of the trailer, the whole way from nose to tail, you can be fairly certain that someone who recently pulled that trailer experienced a failure of their turbocharger. As the seals in the bearings failed, the oil that was being pumped through as lubricant escaped into the truck's intake, traveled through the engine and partially unburnt, out the exhaust, where it dripped out the stacks, turning to a mist and coating anything behind.

I arrived as early as possible that Monday to load a heavy load of plywood from the Plum Creek mill in Columbia Falls, MT. No matter, by the time I got through the mill's safety class, collected my reward (a pink ball cap with their logo), actually got my truck loaded, tied it down and took my turn latching into the overhead fall prevention system to throw my tarps, the sun was high in the Rocky Mountain sky. The people, who lived with the constant threat that their mill would be the next one mothballed if lumber prices went a little too far in the wrong direction, were very friendly, and soon had my paperwork ready. I gave them my driver's license number and my John Hancock, and was on my way.

The drive south, around Flathead Lake was breathtaking, and the day and the miles passed quickly. Presently the sun set, and I began to tire.  I found a gravel parking lot on the edge of a small Wyoming farm town and parked for the night. The late summer air was brisk but not cold. I'd sleep under the blankets with the engine off to save fuel and wear and tear on an engine approaching a million miles in service. I turned the key. The engine grumbled and shook to a halt. All was quiet...or should have been. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...a quiet, sharp, metallic tapping that continued for a minute or so, then slowly tailed off to nothing. A quick mental checklist and I reached an initial conclusion. Only one part of the engine continues to move after it's shut down. I pulled out the flashlight and a screwdriver, pulled the hood open and unscrewed the clamp on an intake duct to gain access to the pressure side of the turbo. Sure enough, there was enough play in the shaft for the vanes to touch the housing. Do a quick mental picture of a turbine wheel with 30 or 40 precisely machined vanes coming into contact with its metal housing at speeds over 1,000 revolutions per SECOND. The coming failure would be ugly and could throw pieces down the intake converting the engine from exquisite machinery to scrap metal in less time than it takes the thought to cross your mind. There was nothing to do but sleep and worry about repairs in the morning.

The sound of tires crunching gravel. I brushed the sleep from my eyes, and pulled aside the sleeper curtain. Ugh! The sun was not even over the horizon. With my problems, I knew I'd never get back to sleep, so I pulled on some clothes and made my way to the building where all the pick-ups were parked. Someone was nursing a fire to life in an old woodstove, while farmers poked fun at each other and ordered their breakfasts, some of them downing shots of whiskey while they waited. I might well have been invisible, "Any diesel mechanics here?". The room went quiet, as all eyes turned to the interloper. It felt like I was on stage, "Any diesel mechanics here? My turbo's shot." Convinced there was nothing to see, conversations renewed and someone gave me the name of a local guy who worked on tractors. After a phone call it was apparent that if he were to do the job, he'd drive 80 miles to Casper to get the part, then back before he could even start the job, and that was after he dealt with the local work to which he'd already committed. "Let me get back to you." I borrowed a Yellow Pages, found a Casper towing company and made the call, "I have some emergency repairs to make. Are there any local mechanics you especially trust or distrust?" He recommended the Peterbilt dealer. Another call. A short hold, and I was talking to a mechanic.

I described my problem.

"Any visible damage to the compressor vanes?"

"No. That's the first thing I checked."

"Is the ticking only when you turn the truck off?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Is it safe for me to try?"

"Not necessarily, but it worked 'til now and it'll help know how bad of a fix you're really in."

"Ok, hold on." I start the truck, let it idle for a few seconds, rev it just a hair, then turn it off. "Yep, it only starts tapping a few seconds after I shut down the engine."

"Here's the deal. The oil pressure when the engine is running is enough to hold the shaft in place, at least for now, so the tapping you hear is the vanes scraping the housing after the oil stops pumping. You can either get a tow truck if you want to be absolutely safe, or you can take what I think is a pretty good chance. Start the truck and drive it to our shop, but don't turn it off again 'til we get you in a bay. Chances are if it's lasted this long, it'll make it one more start/stop cycle."

"If it were your truck?"

"No question, I'd take the chance before I paid a couple grand to a tow truck company, but it's your truck, and I can't make any promises."

His advice was good, and I made it to Casper uneventfully. Though I was lucky enough not to spray oil from my exhaust and ruin my tarps, it had leaked into the intercooler, so I had to have that removed and steam cleaned, but they had me repaired and on my way with a new turbo by mid afternoon. The price was very reasonable. 

Just a couple hours later, in Colorado, I blew a tire. I was approaching an exit, and just off the ramp was a tire shop, so I had it replaced quickly.

The next exit was a DOT check, but they waved me by.

Not fifty miles later, my almost new, chrome, smoke stack fell off.  The clamp hadn't been properly tightened.  I walked back a quarter mile, found it only a few scratches worse for the wear, replaced it on the side of the road, and made the rest of my trip uneventfully.

I can't even remember my destination.   I think it was in Texas, but I did beat my deadline.  The customer got their load early and never even knew there had been trouble on the way.

Or "Generous Face - Stingy Heart"

Years ago, when my family was much smaller,  I was driving them home from the grocery store one bitterly cold, rainy night when I saw a forty something black lady standing on the side of the road.  I didn't know her, but I'd seen her around, so I asked my wife if she'd have an issue stopping to give her a ride.  The response I got was less than happy agreement, "Yeah, I would hate to be stuck out in this nasty weather. "   We turned around and offered her a ride.  She eagerly agreed, then stepped over to the bushes as if to pick up her bags, and out stepped another person I recognized: her boyfriend, a local drunk.  "You're ok with him, too?" Now it was my turn to be less than thrilled, "I guess so.  You know that's not the most honest way to get a ride. Next time I may be just as likely to drive by knowing you'll pull a trick like that."   Of course, I also knew that she knew she'd have never gotten a ride at all if both of them were walking together.

I knew where he lived.   It was in the opposite direction a couple miles, but by the time we dropped them off, my car retained his distinct odor of unwashed body and malt liquor.  I vaguely remember the conversation that followed the click of the door shutting after they thanked us and got out, but I clearly remember it was not pleasant.

In the ensuing years,  there have been multiple occasions when my wife and I have come across either of the two asking for some favor or the other, and though more times than not, we've politely declined, we've helped out on a number of occasions.   It's just what you do in a small town.  Some people are less fortunate, and even if it's because of their own choices or the demons they haven't tamed, you take your turn.  Yes, he's one of those people who is monetarily a net loss to society, but he is, after all, a human being.

When he feels the initiative, he does odd jobs at a mechanic shop a couple doors down  from the place we now live, and he has to pass our new place to get into town or go home.  I don't remember how it started, but the kids, for lack of any other name, call him Dude.  So we'll be out in the yard, and he'll come by on his scooter, and the kids'll holler out, "Hey, Dude!" , and he'll wave and be on his way.  Of course, a good portion of the time, I assume there's no money, even for gas for the scooter, so he'll be afoot.

This morning, I went down to the 7eleven a couple hundred yards down from our house, eager to fill my Double Gulp and avoid the impending caffeine withdrawal headache.  There he stood.   As I walked in, he asked how I was doing.  I stopped for a few seconds, and  we discussed how chilly it has been the last couple mornings.  I was pretty sure, I was getting the leadup to a, "Hey man, can you spare a buck?"   Sure enough, as I came out with my  soda, he let loose with the exact question, but being the good salesman he is, and having seen the purpose of my visit, he added, "...so I can get a soda to drink."  The conversation in my head, starting with, "Who's he think he's fooling? I'm not wasting my hard earned money funding Dude's next 40 0z."  involved my opinions on able people who leech off the labors of those who actually drag themselves out of bed at ungodly hours of the morning to give of their blood, sweat and tears to EARN their soda money, but I hadn't helped him in a while, and I mean, really, as tight as money is, I'm not one to deny a thirsty man a drink.   I showed him my empty wallet, and reluctantly said, "Come on..."   I had noticed he has been hobbling with a cane the last couple months.  "What happened to your foot?"  "Got hit by a car."  "Walking home drunk again in the dark?", but  the last sentence got caught in the filter before it exited my brain.

He picked the cheapest thing in the cooler.  I paid.  He thanked me effusively.  I told him it was no problem, though the words falling from my lips did not mirror the sentiments brooding inside.   I, earnestly now, wished him a good day and was off, hurrying home so my daughter could have the car for work.

So my brother, David, and I were out on a ride. As we passed Brownsville road, heading east on 304, we built speed to try for a record on the segment from there to the short bridge just before Doc's (that's the restaurant in the building where the old beer joint used to be, down by the wharf, for you who don't live here any more). He led out, picking up some serious speed on the first downhill, and as the road bent upwards, I began to push into the pain zone, knowing that if I passed him and didn't let up, he'd up his effort to catch up on the next flat. We topped the hill, still getting the job done, over 20 mph., headed down the next hill in a big gear picking up speed and it began to look as if we might beat our best time yet, until out from a field on the side of the road, about 300 yards ahead, a huge, yellow, New Holland combine harvester. Ugh!!! We sat up and soft pedaled, our record run ruined. While we followed the huge machine, we made a new plan. We'd ride up into town and take 213 north to Island Creek road to try and get a good time on the segment from there back in to Spaniard's Neck road. Me, "Ok, we'll take it easy on the way out, so we have something left on the way back." David, "Sounds good." That worked 'til the first downhill, 25 mph, then we soft pedaled the uphill and flat. Of course, then came the downhill and all pretension of neutrality was out the window. 23,24,25,26,27,28,29 clink, squeal, huh? I sat up, and listened...not my bike. "Hey David, slow down...easy." Sounded like something was caught between his brake and his rim. We came to a stop. The noise continued. That could only mean one thing. David flatted at almost 30 mph while his front wheel was almost touching my rear wheel, and we both lived to tell the story. We would not be getting any new spots on the STRAVA leaderboard, though, and it would be a long, very slow ride home. At least we have a good new story to tell.

Well, Hello friends.  I suppose it's time to commence posting on the new Xanga.  I think I like it, but the jury's still out.  At least I can still read the writing of the friends I've made here over the years.  Now's time for you to help me out.  This thing is switching fonts and only posting the pictures super small.  It's also putting a laundry list of numbers and letters at the top of the visible post. Any ideas? 

Did this summer fly by or was it just me?  We had a scorching June here on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, then the weather turned temperate and has stayed that way ever since.  By this time of year, I'm normally using the pellet stove to take the chill off the house every morning, and as yet, I've only used it once, the day I replaced the door seal and cleaned it to prepare for the coming winter.  I'm absolutely loving it.

I've made the decision to find a way to stop working every weekend.  It's an easy decision, but a tough project.  We finally got our new boss, though there still hasn't been an official announcement.  I did get an email saying I didn't get the job, and I met the guy a couple days later but haven't seen him since.  I'm hoping he's a good one.  First order of business is to see if I can work with the new guy to hammer something out and stick around this place.  Management is frustrating, but it's a really good job and the benefits are phenomenal, so it's at least worth a try.  Since that option relies on things outside my control, I've begun targeting new positions and submitting resumes to other companies in the industry.  I'm not terribly confident, but I have been told by two of my previous managers that I know more about the industry and am better qualified for management than they were, so I keep reminding myself of their confidence and hammer on.   Meanwhile, at least for a few weeks, I have some respite.  Training a new guy for the job cuts my work week to two 24 hour days.

I hope you all are well.

Here are some recent pics.  Send along your advice as to how I can post them larger.

Gracie's birthday cake

How kids these days think their parents looked in the eighties.

Sam, helping out at her new job at the local theater.  She was taking pics that evening to promote the monthly opera showings.  I now have my wife and two oldest girls working at the cinema.  My wife is the official fill-in manager working two days a week and then covering shifts if someone calls in sick or has an emergency, and the two girls are hourly help.