Encounters

Truck stop

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April 2000

There’s a restaurant/truck stop in the vast nothingness that is Saskatchewan that has become a regular haunt of mine. Well, regular in the sense that I always stop there when passing through. Why? Because of the butterfly sausages, hash browns and eggs over, of course. Day or night, rain or shine, they’re always the same. There’s something to be said for such consistency in this day and age, don’t you think? Particularly at a roadhouse where the cooks are moving through faster than the trucks.

I’ve not been through here in the last eighteen months or so, but there is one other constant, besides the food, and that is Mel, the waitress. The first time I showed up and sat down, Mel came over to ask the usual questions: where are you headed? where are you from? how long have you been on the road? are you coming back this way?

Over the years I have become a regular, and we have entered into an easy banter about nutty cage drivers, speed traps, truckers (of which there are many that stop here) and motorcycles. She wants to own one some day. Not a Harley of course — too expensive. Rather, something foreign and more affordable.

This time, however, I am in my car. Mel hasn’t recognized me, perhaps because of the length of time since my last stop, but more probably because I’ve arrived by car, and I am sans beard. This has allowed me a great opportunity to pay more attention to the eat-in crowd.

The foursome at the table in front of me consist of two women with their backs to me, and two men facing, one older, the younger on the outside of the booth. The men wear baseball caps with truck logos on them. The younger one wears cowboy boots. Okay, he wears at least one cowboy boot, since I can only see the right foot from where I am sitting. The boot is well-worn and muddy, and has a leather boot strap for half of a set of spurs.

Talk of favorite country and western singers and songs floats across the table. Johnny Cash is mentioned. The titles of trucker movies prevail, although I don’t recognize any of them.

My meal arrives, transported by Mel. She hurries off to wait tables. I must have arrived just before the truck-stop late-dinner rush. I eat in a silence broken by random bits of conversation that echo around the diner.

It is dark and very late, and I am in a hurry to get back on the road. I walk past the four people at the table in front of me, pay my bill and walk out to my car.

I forgot to look for that other spur.

Personal

Decisions, decisions

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March 2000

I’ve been living in a city of 750,000. It’s a nice place in the summer — lots of trees and parks and green space. But it’s miserable in the winter, with long, cold nights and wind and snow. I’ve had enough of that. Winter warmth has beckoned to me more often than not, and I’ve traveled from Africa to the southern U.S. and Mexico to escape the cold.

I have found a new place to live. It’s out west, in southern Alberta. In a small town. The summers will be hot, and the winters will be a lot milder than what I have become accustomed to experiencing. It is also a much shorter ride to the winter warmth of southern California and the Baja.

This new place is furnished. And yes, I know. I have accumulated a lot of things. Upstairs and downstairs is full of treasure – at least it seems like treasure. It is said one man’s treasure is another’s trash, and I’m afraid that might be very true in my case. I have boxes left unpacked from my last move, ten years ago or more. These will be opened and inspected and the contents probably given away. I have papers and books, magazines and photographs, posters, artwork – all the things one collects over the years.

And let’s not forget the furniture. Or the stereo, the television, the laserdisc and dvd players and the movie collection to go with them.

What to keep, what to discard? What to put in storage? Yes, storage. To be sure, not all I own will be sold, destroyed, given to charity.

So many mementos of past times, past lives, past loves. Of course, I will always have those memories.

But good grief! What will I do with the rest of it?

Drifting and dreaming, Personal

Call of the road

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February 2000

I can hear the open road calling my name. I can feel the wind in my face every day. Already I can see the people I’ll be meeting, taste the food I’ll be eating. And in my mind the road just keeps on calling, one long mile at a time.

It’s been a long haul up to now, but it’s finally over. It’s time to lighten the load, and move on. I own too many ‘things’. I’m fed up with a job that presents no real challenges. My thinking has become stale and I’ve become jaded. I’ve been in one place for the longest time ever in my life, and I’m not used to that.

Consequently, I’m selling most of what I own, and going on the road, permanently. First stop: anywhere but here. It won’t happen right away, of course. I must rid myself of the things that have been collected over these past years, as well as one of the containers that holds it all. Some will go into storage, to be sure. After all, treasures collected over a lifetime cannot be dismissed just for the dollar.

Once my affairs are in order, I’m gone! I have no plan, other than to get the rubber on the road and to live life as I have not done so these many years.

As I wind my way up and down the highways and byways of North America I know that I’ll be having many new adventures. There will be people to meet, places to see and women to love. There’ll be towns I want to stay in, and towns I want to leave. There’ll be good food, bad food, and waitresses to flirt with.

I can’t wait!

To all the women I have known in my present incarnation: thanks for the wonderful memories. I’ll not forget any of you.

To all my cyber acquaintances, this is so long. Good bye. It’s been great to know you.

Riding farther, seeing more