““He’ll be in a box truck”, the dispatcher said. There was a pregnant pause, mostly due to my skepticism. “Well”, I said slowly,” he’ll probably make it”. She’d assured me, vigorously, it would not be a tractor trailer. “I’d just really feel bad if he got stuck up here” I said, in most sympathetic voice. Her voice was more confident. “I’ll have him give you a call when he’s on his way”, she said. “He’ll be there Friday”. On Friday, I made sure to plow, and clean out the driveway, to the best of my ability, using a small plow on a Gator. I shoveled fastidiously, trying to imagine the route this delivery might take, to make it as far as my deck. There would be a few obstacles to overcome, granted. Like the six foot pile in front of the deck, with only a small goat path for the last 20 feet. But, assuming the driver got up the town road, even dumping my cargo at the end of the driveway would not be so much of a crisis, I told myself. Making sure I had done all regarding snow removal, I zipped off to the post office, then hurried home, and began to wait. Friday came and went. Saturday night, a big snow moved in. It soon became apparent I would have to rinse, and repeat this operation on Monday. Another foot of white stuff fell, covering all my efforts. Being an optimistic, I told myself I’d be doing basically the same thing, with or without a delivery. Keeping access open on a mountain pass (dead end) is about what it sounds like. No one expects too much, and knows how to play it by ear, but it’s serious business, none-the-less. The delivery being returned to the manufacturer was not an option. I would ace this test, come hell or high water. I’d waited long enough for the f-ing thing. Monday morning, a text pinged that the driver was on route. Next, the voice mail. “Hi, my name is Verne, I drive for BSP transport, I got a delivery for ya, but I’m in a full size tractor trailer... (pause) ... and ah ... (pause) dispatch told me you’d be willing to meet me. You can call me back at ... “ etc. He sounded like a nice guy. I left him a message, praying he’d have cell coverage. Probably he would if he was local, but if he was out of state, chances diminished. However somehow we made contact, and I met him at the high school, in the valley town of Bristol. It was easy to pick him out of the non-existent crowd. He was idling by the playing fields next to the VFW, in the longest tractor trailer truck I think I ever saw, except for maybe on the Indiana turnpike. I pulled my pickup behind his rear doors and saw success, finally within reach. We both jumped out of our cabs at the same time, and although it seemed he had to walk a mile to get to me, when our eyes met, he smiled, and I smiled. He had an amazing couple of earrings in his left ear, and I immediately liked him. “It’s been snowing since I left Essex, and it was supposed to be sunny!” he said. “Yeah, no kidding” I said. “Want me to back around, so you can slide it in?” He nodded, and I pulled forward into the VFW parking lot, then backed myself into position, according to his hand signals. “I got another guy in Lincoln who won’t return my calls for a week”, he said, as he maneuvered his fork lift around the cavernous truck belly, looking for my item. It was strapped onto an enormous pallet. “Can you take it off the pallet?” I queried. “No, I’d have to charge you extra for that”. He seemed genuinely sorry. I was only thinking about how heavy it was, and how far I was going to have to drag it across the yard. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know” I offered. Sometimes guys don’t want help, so I didn’t insist. He nimbly jumped into my truck bed, and pulled on the strapping. It was a beast of packaging. With some effort, he shimmied it over the tailgate. Then we both watched as it gently slid down and settled.”I don’t think it’ll fall out ... right?” I always say that. He thought about it. “I once put a load into an Amish guy’s truck and it broke right thru, to the frame”. I could see it in my mind. “Dang it”, I said. We pondered for a moment. “Some of them can use cars and some can’t” he added. I agreed that it was different rules, between different sects of Amish. I was now fully loaded with my new door, and would have to go. As we parted, he said, “It’s been really nice to meet you”. “Nice to meet you too” I replied. As I drove back up the mountain, I wondered what more he might have told me over a beer, in some dive bar, about all the things he’d seen as a trucker. But, that must be another story, I guess, for another time, or another life.”
