Fathers Day

I once said to him "Some people just shouldn't wear hats..." It made him laugh and months later he repeated it back to me. Miss him.

Truck Driving

I found this old, unposted piece of writing in my files. Adding it to the mix...

Poverty. I have immersed myself in it this summer. Poverty of spirit. Poverty of hope. Poverty of materiality. And I feel humility and heartache.

The waterfront is not a soft and cuddly place. It is a place where hard working men and women labor in the heat and the cold each day, a duality, both cruel and compassionate.

The work begins before the day begins, typically 3:00 AM, sometimes 1:00AM. The men straggle in, a few in beat up old automobiles, most on foot or on bicycles, driving licenses long gone. They are running on empty, exhausted, some drunk or high on drugs, whatever gets you through the day. They suit up in greasy boots and skins, baseball caps, rubber gloves and meet the work at hand, unloading trucks with fork trucks and pallet hoists, rolling 500 pound barrels of bait, winching fish onto waiting boats. Plodding, surviving, meeting the pace of the work required, no more, while the boss pushes them to perform.

Mondays are the worst because there is a brutal week facing them and they have the memory of Sunday where they lie down or drown their misery for a day. The mood on Saturday is markedly improved because it is usually an overtime day and there is the promise of a day off.

This summer I am driving truck, delivering barrels of poggies, herring and red fish up the coast to the buying stations, Boothbay Harbor, Georgetown, Harpswell, Orrs Island, over narrow, shitty roads in the big 54,000 lb box trucks. The crew loads me with 8 tons of fish on pallets and I head out in the dark on my first run, down the cobble stone, rutted and potholed Custom House Wharf and onto Commercial Street, up the hill to Congress Street and down the Franklin Arterial to I-295, North to the peninsulas of Casco Bay. I stop for fuel and coffee in Brunswick, then down the rutted, crowned roads to the docks. Backing the truck in for unloading is always an anxious moment. Each drop is unique and the perils are always present.

Albert Poggie  and Dane Allen at Allen's Seafood, Jim Dandy at Five Islands, ex-Navy Larry at Georgetown Coop, Stoner Larry at Ash Cove, every drop has a personality. Dave and his black son, John, at Bristol, Crazy Rick and Linda at Merriman's, 84 year old Bob Waddle (like a duck) at Quohog Bay. Mike and Pete at Cook's, Toby at Erica's Seafood, Jim and Johnny at Reversing Falls... hard working me and women trying to eek out a living on the Maine Coast.

Albert Poggie is a hard working, small, tanned man with tattoos across his back. He rails against the lobster buyers as they squeeze his margins. I saw him standing in the parking lot of the Brunswick Variety after work one night dressed in white pants, white shirt, white hat, looking like John Travolta because he has the hots for the girl behind the register.

Dane is 75, can't read or write, but has built a business on the rugged coast. He builds a lobster boat every winter, chews tobacco and is a gentle, joyful person.  He fishes for tuna and sail fish, a genuine old salt. I wish I had more to speak with him.

Jim Dandy never has a hair out of place. A large, powerful man, he played football for Michigan, running back, and has had both knees replaced. He coached football for 30 years and his son plays at the college level. An educated man, living his dream.

Larry at the Georgetown Coop is a skillful forktruck driver. His autistic son, Matt, helped load barrels onto my truck on day. He is all business, not long on small talk, but one day he told me his story, 30 years in the Navy driving “anything that could be driven”. On Saturday mornings he drinks whiskey while he unloads.

Stoner Larry is perhaps the best fork truck driver. He talks to each pallet as it comes off the truck all the way into the cooler, typically cussing them into place. He loves heavy metal music and weed, a joint between his lips as he works his magic.

Dave Bean owns Bristol Seafood and I see him running his truck up and down the coast picking up lobsters. His black, adopted son, John, is studying Funeral Home Management, a rugged college football playing young man.

Crazy Rick is bipolar. He will erupt into profanity and abuse at the slightest provocation, so last week when he dropped a pallet of four barrels of poggies off the fork truck all over the yard he exploded. “Son of a whore! God damned, c*** sucking bitches! You shit ass cocksuckers!” On and on and on... I shoveled up the fish and still he raved. A few days later, his wife Linda told me he smashed all the dishes in the kitchen that night. He is also a brother... a Mason. One day I was broken down in my truck up the bay from his dock, but he came by on his lobster boat and I flashed him the Masonic sign of distress. He tied up the boat and drove over in his front end loader to give me a jump start. The good and the bad...

84 year old Bob Waddle is an ex-marine, ex-plumber who came back to Maine to do what he loves. He is a demanding old codger, doesn't tolerate bait-juice in his yard or wear and tear on his drive. The truck approach is ridiculous and my heart is always in my throat driving around the tight curve, down the steep sloped hill to the waters edge. He fired his help and now I put the 12 floor loaded barrels into his cooler single-handedly. I take it as a personal challenge. One day he tipped me $10. I refused it after that.

Cook's is a busy drop and the road down Bailey Island and across the single lane Orr's Island crib bridge,  is always adrenalin producing. There are always multiple trucks in the yard. Tractor trailers, box trucks, deliveries and there are only inches within which to maneuver.

Toby is a good shit. He has a 7 ton industrial class forktruck that breaks through the planks of the dock if he strays off the reinforced section so I try hard to position the truck correctly. He is engaged to Erica who doesn't speak to me.

Jim at Reversing Falls is strong and silent. He hasn't said 30 words to me this summer so I try extra hard to make the unloadings uneventful. Perhaps I am succeeding. Last trip he said “See you next time buddy...”   Probably not.

Of all the jobs I have had, this one has the greatest risk and the least reward and I’m not talking about the money. I have enjoyed the people and, to some extent, the challenge, but my truck driving days are over. Nothing but respect for drivers. It’s tough work.


Rereading this material has been enjoyable. Helen Keller wrote "Life is an adventure, or nothing." Ryan said, "It's all about the people." Eric wrote, "Life isn't difficult. We just make it that way." Katie wrote "At least you're a self aware asshole." Craig said "I knew there'd be issues." I am continually surrounded by snippets of brilliance and wisdom.

Just need to learn what words to pay attention to...