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>From :http://www.roadstaronline.com/2000/08/072a0008.html
What A Flashback
By Dave Sweetman
Contributing Editor
Recalling my initiation into the world of 'shrooms back in 1969.
I get letters. Some rake me ov er the coals for my slanted view of the
world, as though a sense of humor is foreign to them. Some are
complimentary, leading me to believe that perhaps it is the world that's
slanted and not me.
Some letters ask for direction in how a new driver should aim his career
goals.
Many newbies want it all right now. Forget paying your dues and working your
way up the ranks: Some want instant seniority, only the newest and best
equipment and the gravy runs, all just for showing up. A good gig if you can
get it, but that's not how the real world of trucking works.
In my case, I learned from the best: Uncle Sam. Joining the U.S. Army at 17
was one of the best things I could have done, considering that I was too big
for my britches and headed nowhere with the wrong crowd. 1969 was a turning
point in many lives, mine included, and for the next three years I learned
to handle just about everything with wheels as part of an interesting "Olive
Drab World Tour."
Upon re-entry into civilian life, I found myself armed with a shoebox full
of awards and decorations, which, along with 25 cents, would get me a cup of
coffee at Peggy's Truck Stop. Getting a trucking job with one of the big
carriers was all but out of the question, but I had to start somewhere.
Living in northern Delaware, not far from Kennett Square, PA, you couldn't
help but notice all the mushroom farms. All those 'shrooms need to get to
market somehow, so checking with one farm after another, I got lucky and was
hired on as a driver. With a 3 a.m. start the next morning, I was to be
"taught the ropes" by senior driver Jesse. A line of International 4070A
Transtars awaited.
Dark-thirty the next morning, I was ready to roll. Jesse pointed me toward a
red cabover hooked up to an odd-looking, wire-mesh-sided trailer with a
rolled-up tarp in the nose. I had no clue but fell in behind Jesse as we
took off down Route 41 headed for New Jersey. We didn't have CB radios, so
Charlie Douglas kept me company as WWL Radio New Orleans faded in and out on
the AM.
Jesse, being the total professional, blinked his trailer lights when
approaching a red light, making sure the rookie was paying attention.
Just as daylight arrived we pulled into Monmouth Racetrack in central
Jersey. Snaking between the rows of stables, we came to a stop in front of a
loader with a claw that made quick work of loading the trailer with hay,
straw and, uh, slightly used oats that had already been through the horse.
Horse manure! Now I had to ask, "What are we doing here?"
"Stage One of the compost process for making mushroom soil," I was told.
Truck it back to the yard where it gets mixed with bulk gypsum powder and
other ingredients to form "Ricks" to ferment, before being taken to the
farms for the spores to grow into the finished product. Now before you start
snickering, you should know that this is an important process in the
mushroom business and without Sea Biscuit's contribution, I would not have
had a job and thousands of people would not have mushrooms for their salad.
In my own small way, I felt a minor accomplishment for supplying part of the
food chain. Besides, I was trucking and it was a paycheck.
The first day on the job nothing ever goes right, and this day was no
exception. Because the straw was dry, the loader at the racetrack put more
in the basket trailer than normal, as it would settle in transit. Making our
way back down the New Jersey Turnpike and over the Delaware Memorial Bridge,
all bridges had 13 feet, 6 inches of clearance or more and the trailer
contents cleared easily. Taking the Route 41 cutoff up through Newport was a
left-hand sweeper that dumped you into a four-lane that quickly narrowed to
three and then two, just before going under the old railroad bridge at the
DuPont Plant. Jesse had put me up front so he could keep an eye on the
rookie, and I thought I was doing pretty well. In my mirrors I watched as an
impatient motorist in a little Triumph convertible sportscar passed Jesse
and had to duck in behind my trailer just as the road turned into two lanes.
Considering the contents of my trailer, I thought him a foolish but brave
individual with bad sinuses.
As the railroad underpass was at the base of a small hill and the old 238
Detroit was groaning under the strain, I mashed on the throttle to keep up
momentum. At least until that 13.6 load hit the 13.2 bridge. You would have
thought a bomb exploded. There was hay, straw and "road apples," as my
grandfather used to call them, everywhere. Hitting the four-way flashers and
the parking brake, I bailed out to survey the situation. Right on my ICC
bumper was Mr. Convertible Tailgater completely covered in fresh, steaming
manure. The car was full to the top of the doorjambs and the mesh trailer
cover draped over him like a pup tent. Jesse sat at the wheel of his rig,
hands over his eyes, shaking his head.
As if the morning weren't going badly enough, a local Newport town cop, who
had been sitting on a cross street watching the whole episode, now appeared,
lights and siren going full tilt. All I could think was, "I hope Barney Fife
doesn't have a bullet for that gun or I'm dead." Within minutes a city dump
truck showed up and I was presented with brooms, shovels and a rake and was
told that if one piece of manure was left on the street, I was going to
jail.
Barney Fife followed my every step, ignoring the honking car horns and the
Shadow Traffic helicopter flying overhead. I could tell he secretly wanted
to lock me up for my sins. I figured explaining to my new cellmate "Bubba"
what I was in for -- "too much manure" -- would not be good for my health. I
kept sweeping.
After retarping the trailer, I escaped the threat of jail, Officer Barney's
single bullet and the wrath of Bubba for trashing his town, and I rolled on
to the yard. The news of my adventure had preceded me, thanks to Shadow
Traffic's eye in the sky. I wasn't fired but they wouldn't let me forget it
for a while. Other drivers would "duck" in the hall to make their point.
I learned a lot in my time in the 'Shroom Biz. Like check your overhead
clearance. And never , ever tailgate a load of manure if you drive a
convertible.
Happy trails and seven-thirds, drivers. I'm back out.
Dave Sweetman is a contractor with Horseless Carriage and is RoadStar's
driver correspondent.
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confidentiality or privilege is waived or lost by any mistransmission.
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views expressed in this message are those of the individual sender, except
where the message states otherwise and the sender is authorised to state
them to be the views of any such entity.
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indicative only, is subject to change and does not constitute an offer to
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