Short Version: I Went for a Trip With Neil. Long Version with Pictures: Below!

It started something like this:

My cell phone shakes my pocket, but I can't answer it because I'm at work and the manager is standing very near by. A couple of minutes later, the work phone rings. It's Neil, asking if I'd like to go 'up North' with him that evening. And of course I replied, "Yes!"

The plan was, get off work at 4, transit home, and have time to get ready to meet him at 88 Avenue and 132 Street around 7pm. However, the best laid plans of mice and men, right? The next call was to tell me I couldn't go - he had to take a different truck up north for one of the switch drivers from Prince George, and it had only one bunk. Oh well, maybe next time.

However - at about 8:30pm, my phone rings again . There was trouble with the new truck, so he was back in The Mistress (yes, that's what he calls his truck), and would pick me up in about half an hour, if I still wanted to go. And of course I replied, "Yes!"

So off we went ..... and the journey was fine ... until a few miles before Chilliwack, when we noticed some strange actions from other people on the road.

Another semi passed us, flashing his lights. Then a wittle bitty truck zoomed by, horn blasting all the way. Then yet another semi with flashing lights .... and Neil realized the running lights on the back of the container he was hauling were not working. It seems it's not a good thing to be hauling a trailer with no running lights at night .... but as we were just a few minutes from the Husky truck stop, and the city lights were no doubt helping motorists behind us actually see the trailer .... we made it there with no problem.

Neil ended up replacing a fuse ... and after a pit stop, a fuel fill up, and a bag fill up of junk food, we were on our way again. 

However, after a few miles - no running lights. So it was pull over at the next rest stop, which happened to be somewhere in the middle of nowhere (just before the Hope weigh station), and we spent the first night on the road taking an 8 hour sleep stop - 3 hours drive from home. 

And this stop WAS in the middle of nowhere, a pullout off the highway, surrounded by tall dark trees which were probably inhabited by bears, wolves, and axe murderers. Dark washrooms loomed on the far side, and God only knows what kind of monsters lived under the damp smelly toilet seats, monsters that would probably get very upset if a lady peed on them in the middle of the night. However, this didn't prevent Neil wandering over, talking to the mechanic on this cell, taking his time, while I waited all alone in the truck with the passenger door locked.

Even a text message didn't seem to hurry him up ....

Oh well, we did get through the night unscathed, and a mechanic from Hope came in the morning and fixed the wires that were causing the short in the trailer, so it was just a beautiful, relaxing autumn trip - in daylight.
 
Because he couldn't drop off the container until the following morning, there was no rush to get to Fraser Lake. I was just happy to be there with Neil as he drove through his 33rd birthday.
I've seen these sights through late winter, spring, summer and now fall, and the changing seasons bring their own beauty. British Columbia has so much diversity, ranging from the tropical rainforests of the lower mainland to the desert of the Okanagan Valley. Going north to Prince George we drove through semi-desert and tundra conditions (in my opinion. I'm no geographical expert.)

I just know what's pretty.

At this point, I shared with Neil the ballad about Aunt Daisy's Pussy Cat. Now that he was 33 years old, I thought he was old enough to hear it -you may like to check it out, too. Sorry you won't be able to hear the lonely haunting sound of the train whistle, though.

 As you may have noticed, most of my pictures on the go are captured through a truck window. 
When we reached Prince George, we stopped at the Husky for a birthday dinner and another fuel top-up. Neil had a burger and fries, and I had Lentil Soup, which I am pretty sure started off life in a can. However, we were (at least I was) too full for dessert, so he never got even a birthday muffin with a candle in it. However, I did know there were plans for belated birthday celebratin' for him.

After dinner, we drove to Fraser Lake, which is about a 45 minute drive west of  Vanderfhoof
- the geographical centre of BC - which I've never been to, but which one of my good friends is from (how's that for a grammatically incorrect sentence, huh?) I don't know if I passed the service station she worked at when she was young girl, but I'll never forget her telling me she was putting air in a bike tire for someone, and put in so much air she blew the tire apart.

We spent another night pulled over at the side of a lonely country road, but somehow it wasn't as full of potential disasters as the night before. Then, about 6:30 the next morning, we were at the Fraser Lake sawmill waiting  for someone to sign the delivery papers so we could head for home. 

Because there was no empty trailer there for Neil to bring back to Richmond, we bobtailed it back to Prince George. It was a bit of a bumpy ride with no container attached - these trucks were built to carry a heavy load, and when one goes with no load ... well, I wish now I hadn't googled it. Oh well, it's a rare thing, and he would be picking up a container in PG anyhow.


The morning air became thick with fog .... 

...which left an ice buildup on the mirrors ...

... but by the time we got to Prince George it was starting to clear up.

And ... to make a long trip even longer - dispatch told him we had to wait until about 3:30 for a container to bring home, so after a hearty breakfast, we read/listened to music/did crossword puzzles/played solitaire ... until we gave it all up and went for a nap. However, at 2:30, he got the text ... no container, so it was a bobtail ride all the way home. Beautiful driving weather, though. 



.... and because there was no trailer attached, Neil was able to drive down our little street and drop me off at our driveway, rather than have me walk a ways all by myself in the dark midnight hour.

So bobtailing isn't always a bad thing after all. 

And now, Neil has a new traveling companion. Hope I still get the occasional ride, though!
 

RERUNS from 2011 - A Poem and A Story (I think they're both click-worthy)

This poem, along with others, can be found at http://tamarsdayoff.blogspot.ca/ , along with some posts from a 'retired' blog. For the other poems, just go to the left side of the page, and click on The P File. If you've never visited here, you may enjoy some of the other writings from a couple of years ago. 

THE STORY OF MY LIFE....in six decades

the fifties were my first decade

when my first memories were made

our little home with walls of stone 
and now. like lots of things, it's gone
my daddy's horse, our big white cat  
and other little things like that

the sixties brought us overseas  
where i made brand new memories  
living by the sea in bliss  
learning to swim with jelly fish
skating til dark with my dog at my side
 mostly alone, but i didn't mind

the seventies brought me lots of things
oversized coats and wedding rings  
kisses on Gun Hill, a tiny wee house
a bouncing wee baby for me and my spouse
co-workers and friends i held close to my heart  
and they'd hold me together when i'd fall apart

the eighties brought treasures of friendships and love
and the me that i was, came back into my soul  
and the bad times were eased by the waves and the sun
and the cries of the gulls when the morning begun
two babies came crying and brought me more joys
and my life had a purpose, my three little boys

the nineties brought change in a mindblowing way
when we packed up our stuff and moved so far away  
new ocean, new city, new jobs and new friends  
a brand new experience round every bend  
no regrets, except family and friends left behind,  
our memories keeping them all in our minds
  
those decades add up, and no longer we feel  
middle aged, and that's scary - the grey hair is real  
and our little boys are all finally grown  
with true loves and dear little kids of their own   
we continue the journey, no matter what comes,  
for beginnings are not only made for the young

I have written a few posts over the years that make people laugh - but I didn't consider myself as even a wee bit of a writer until I wrote a story that made at least one of my friends cry .... I've never been happy with the words I used to end it, but this is still lingering in the back of my head, and some day .....

Check it out -  Fiona, from Middle to Beginning

Missing Trinity - Old Words with Old Pictures Added - so that makes it new ... Right?

I live in a city. The house we rent holds all my treasures, but I don't always feel safe inside the four walls. Last night, some speed freak broke into our car and stole the digital camera that holds the images of our beautiful grandchildren and the memories of our weekends. This morning, I hear on the news that another shooting took the life of another mother's son, and even though the sun is shining and the music on the radio is upbeat, by heart is low and I miss my Newfoundland home.

 On my desk sits a Mason jar filled with pieces of clay pipes, treasures I gathered from the beaches that edge a little town called Trinity, on the east coast of Newfoundland. I wasn't born there, and I didn't move there until I was 19 years old, but it is my home.

 Here, in a town seeped in history, I settled with my husband and raised my children. They were happy to be outport kids, to explore the hills and the beaches. They climbed on trees, not monkey bars. they skated on frozen ponds, not indoors in circles following the same music as everyone else.

There were dangers, of course. Springtime brought ice break-up, and 'ice pans' would pack the harbour. These were smaller pieces of ice floating together, almost like a jigsaw puzzle, always tempting to a child. Jump on one, jump to the next - oh,oh, this one's sinking, quick, to the next one - and so it would go, and boys would come home with wet feet to receive a good 'tongue banging' from whichever parent caught him sneaking in from 'copying pans.'

(Note: this is NOT one of my boys. They would never do this. They always had a good explanation of why their feet were wet when they came home on an early spring day.

My favourite season was Autumn, with the beauty of late September and early October, sunny and fresh and filled with colour. I loved berry picking on the barrens then, so peaceful, with no world sounds or people sounds, only a berry-picking buddy (for protection from bears and fairies), and the plop of berries in the bucket.

 As I walked along the beaches of my town, I picked my treasures. Broken pieces of clay pipes, stems and bowls, carried in with the waves and hidden among the seaweed and pebbles, found a home in my Mason jar. I would imagine the men of the village standing there a hundred years ago, chatting about the weather or the catch, smoking their pipes, and throwing them in the water when they were all worn out.

 Hundreds of speeding vehicles keep the road in front of our house smooth, and the blare of horns and sirens often fill the air. But when I look at the jar on my desk, I remember the roll of the waves on the beach, and I feel how they tickled my feet. I hear the sigh of the tides, and the cry of the seagulls, and I realize that home, like all good memories, is only a thought away.