Lee your writing is only improving....
Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale
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I grew up there but I moved to Georgia when I was 18 so I wouldn't have known a 40 even I saw one. I didn't get into the disease... er, life until after I came down here.
Not to get too off topic again but I took a road trip with my best friend after I turned 18 from Oklahoma City to Huntington Beach, CA (lived there for a short time when I was a kid), up PCH to Santa Barbara (my aunt lives there), North to Lakeport (near Clear Lake, my dad lives there), back down near Fresno (stayed in the Sequoia national park and hiked all around.) This is bringing back lots of memories and I'm familiar with some of the locales so far. We didn't get to drive a cool vehicle like a 40 tho. We were in a 90's Chrysler LeBaron...
This is a great story and I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say that I am really glad you are sharing it with us. From the responses I can tell everyone sees a little of themselves in this story. The way you tell it really draws you in and makes you feel like you were there. I look forward to the next chapter.
Take your time writing this, I want it to last.
Last year I posted a trip I took with my dad on Expedition Portal:
A Trip Back
Facing your parent's mortality is a scary thing. Both my parents are still alive and very active but pushing 80. Your story reminded me that we (my dad and I) need to make another trip north. At least this time we'll have disc brakes and a 4 speed.
You weren't a CH-46 driver by any chance? It would explain the fascination with operating antiquated machinery!
Last year I posted a trip I took with my dad on Expedition Portal:
A Trip Back
Facing your parent's mortality is a scary thing. Both my parents are still alive and very active but pushing 80. Your story reminded me that we (my dad and I) need to make another trip north. At least this time we'll have disc brakes and a 4 speed.
You weren't a CH-46 driver by any chance? It would explain the fascination with operating antiquated machinery!
- Thread starter
- #144
Take your time writing this, I want it to last.
Last year I posted a trip I took with my dad on Expedition Portal:
A Trip Back
Facing your parent's mortality is a scary thing. Both my parents are still alive and very active but pushing 80. Your story reminded me that we (my dad and I) need to make another trip north. At least this time we'll have disc brakes and a 4 speed.
You weren't a CH-46 driver by any chance? It would explain the fascination with operating antiquated machinery!
Thanks for your link. I'll look forward to reading.
My Dad is 91+, and telling me he's ready for one last road trip. He wants to go to Mississippi where he was born, and see the Azaleas in bloom. I've promised him that I'll make that happen, hopefully this Spring, but it won't be in a 40.
Yessir, I was a 46 driver, in another life, another time. I think there's still a few in service. I was Navy, and 46's were more commonly known as "Whistling $hitcans of Death" then. Pretty accurate description, IMO.
Be assured that I will be taking my time with this tale. There's probably 10 more chapters before I even get to Hawaii, and keep in mind this is only the first 40 I'm writing about. There's a couple more before I get to The Old Rustbucket.
Back to writing, need to finish up The Mother Road chapter tonight. Maybe a beer would help me get moving.
I'll buy you one.
Columbia Helicopters is still buying up 'retired' CH-46's and rebadging them as BV107's. Great aircraft. When I was flying Blackhawks at Fort Bragg we'd fly over to Cherry Point and mix it up with the Marines' 46s.
Make that trip with your dad. It would make a great final chapter.
Columbia Helicopters is still buying up 'retired' CH-46's and rebadging them as BV107's. Great aircraft. When I was flying Blackhawks at Fort Bragg we'd fly over to Cherry Point and mix it up with the Marines' 46s.
Make that trip with your dad. It would make a great final chapter.
The art of great story telling has not been lost here. Subfreakingsubscribed!
Take your time writing this, I want it to last.
Last year I posted a trip I took with my dad on Expedition Portal:
A Trip Back
Facing your parent's mortality is a scary thing. Both my parents are still alive and very active but pushing 80. Your story reminded me that we (my dad and I) need to make another trip north. At least this time we'll have disc brakes and a 4 speed.
You weren't a CH-46 driver by any chance? It would explain the fascination with operating antiquated machinery!
Haha..Lee's got a lot of 40 road trip/transport stories to share, so this could go on for months!
I read your story about the trip with your dad sometime last year. It was great and I was drooling over the pics of your 40 while reading it.
This is great I wish I could do a road trip with my dad but I lost him 6 years ago and after both knees being replaced he couldn't climb into my cruiser. Now mom has 1 hip replaced and waiting on 1 more I may have carry a stool so she can get in and out of it. I come from a long line of cruiserholics (at least 10 have been in the family). I"m waiting for the next chapter so keep it comin.
- Thread starter
- #149
The Mother Road--Part Two
I spent the better part of two years in Southeast Asia, and I know a little about monsoon rains. I've driven into them. flown through them, landed in them, and been aboard ship in seas so rough we had to lash ourselves to our bunks to keep from being tossed onto the deck. Those are not fond memories and now, as Yogi Berra said, "It's deja vu all over again." Minutes after I spot the storm cloud, all hell breaks loose. The cloud on my left quickly moved to the right and into my path while an even bigger cloud that I hadn't noticed came sneaking up from behind. They merged, and suddenly The Turtle and I are driving blind under a pitch black canopy. It's only 1 PM, and I can't even see the hood. I turn on the headlights and they're worthless. Shifting winds are gusting across the highway and whipping us all over the road. With the hard top side panels acting as sails, it feels like the truck could flop over at any time. Oh, and it's raining like a mofo with sheets of water pounding us from every direction. It's now that I discover there's no weatherstrip at the top of the windshield frame, and fat rain drops are blowing through the gap, pelting me in the face. This must be what it feels like to be blasted by a pressure washer. Whatever this is, an atmospheric disturbance or something more, it doesn't take a back seat to any of those monsoons.
I pull onto the shoulder, then a bit farther onto a grassy area. I decide to hunker down and wait it out. Not my best idea. After a short wait, the wind finally subsides somewhat, but that's the least of my worries. It took a couple of minutes to get the kick vents closed, and by now there's water standing in the floor pans. Sitting there, I'm beginning to wish this was a sea turtle, a 40 with pontoons, because we're being rocked by the wind, more rain is seeping through the doors and lift gate, and the water level in the floor pans is rising. Worse yet, I look out and see that the spot I've chosen to park happens to be a drainage ditch and I'm already hub deep in muddy red water. This land is too flat to be concerned about flash flooding, but being stuck in a muddy ditch would be downright embarrassing, especially in a built up 40. That can't happen, so I restart The Turtle and ease back onto the highway. I can't see the road but I know it's relatively straight, and if I go slowly I think I can drive it by feel. The Mother Road will help us; if I'm not feeling vibration from the cracks in her 75 year old concrete, and rhythmic bumps from the expansion joints, I'll know I'm off the road and need to make a course correction. This works pretty well, and no one else is dumb enough to be out, so I'm not worried about collisions. What I am worried about is zero visibility, and getting somewhere dry. This is the land version of flying IFR, but worse since I don't have instruments. I soon discover that I shouldn't have bothered stewing about finding the way. Karma has kicked in and with the Mother Road guiding us along, The Turtle doesn't miss a beat. We creep along at a snail's pace for well over an hour until finally, through the rain I see lights flickering in the distance. That has to be Clinton.
Clinton was once a booming town, before Interstate 40 started siphoning off the 66 traffic and killing businesses. During the big war there was a Naval Air Station here, and later a SAC Base that was home to B-52 Stratofortresses. It was the largest town in Western Oklahoma, and may still be, but at the moment it looks like a ghost town. Everyone is probably hiding in storm shelters, but I'm crossing my fingers that something will be open. Anything. I hone in on the nearest lights and as I get closer, I start wondering if we've crossed the time-space barrier into the 1950's. The lights, they're on a sign, a very old looking sign. It says Glancy Motor Hotel. Singles $18.50. I get closer and see a little flashing sign in the office window: VACANCY. Hey, I've seen this flick before. There was darkness and lightning, and big scary claps of thunder, and then in the distance, this sign. Just like in the movies, right? Could The Turtle be a friggin time machine? I start looking around for Rod Serling to jump out and do his monologue.
"You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone."
What to do? Drive ahead and look for a Holiday Inn Express? Or stop here? What would Buzz and Todd do? I know exactly what they'd do. They'd stop here, because it's all about the adventure, and adventure happens to be my middle name. On this trip anyway. Not to mention that it's still pitch dark, raining like hell, and I'm freezing my ass off. I choose the Twilight Zone.
I park The Turtle under the nifty drive through carport looking structure outside the office, get out and look around. No cars. None. That figures. I enter the office and it's strange, but in a cool way. All 1950ish--art deco furniture, plastic flowers in a vase, faded Western landscape paintings on the wall, old style percolator and a few coffee mugs on a little service credenza. There's a waist high counter and behind it a desk. Over the desk hangs an autographed photo of Will Rogers and on the desk is one of those double picture frames, the kind with one frame on either side and a hinge in the middle. In the frame, boot camp photos of two Marines in dress blues. Ruggedly handsome young men. They look like brothers, one in black and white, the other in color. And there's a lady sitting at the desk behind the counter. Name plate on the counter says "Nettie," and underneath, Manager. No last name. I guess when everybody knows you, all you need is one name. I wonder if Nettie is short for something; I wonder if her last name is Glancy, but decide it wouldn't be appropriate to ask. Nettie is a large woman. Not really what you'd call fat, more like rotund. A strong woman. I know it's a stereotype, but I'm guessing she's probably good natured, with a great laugh. She's wearing a frumpy looking dress that reminds me of something my grandmother would have worn to church. I'm not good at guessing women's ages, but she looks late 70's. She's staring, and I realize that I'm not presenting myself well. I'm wearing a "Keep Austin Weird" ball cap, Homer Simpson t-shirt, cargo shorts, and Tevas, and I'm soaking wet, dripping all over her spotless linoleum floor. Most places, they'd turn up their nose ask me to leave, but Nettie says "What happened to you?" My Mom would probably say I looked pitiful. Nettie is pleasant and seems more concerned about my condition than the mess I'm making of her floor. I tell her about getting caught in the storm, the leaky truck, and that I'd seen her vacancy sign. I ask for the $18.50 single special. She says "Just so you know, we don't have no cable TV." "And we don't take no credit cards. We can't afford to pay them bank fees." That strikes me as very sad, another Mom and Pop business that's probably dying, and I assure her I don't care. This place is old school, and I like it. I fill out the little registration card, and she gives me a key, a real key. She says it's one of their best rooms. No payment in advance required.
I go to my room and unload my junk. The room is squeaky clean, with more art deco furniture. There's a wall mounted gas heater and I'm shivering so I crank it up full blast and pull a chair up in front. Get warm, hot shower, open my duffel bag and find everything inside soaked. Crap. It's coming up on 5 o'clock and I'm suddenly starving. I wring out a shirt as best I can and go back to the office to ask about local diners. Nettie looks like she knows her food. She tells me there's probably nothing open because of the storm. She says "Sugar, you don't have any business going out in this weather anyway. You get cold and wet again and you're liable to get sick." Only she didn't say sugar, she said "Shugah." My Grandmother called me Shugah, and that sounds like something she'd have said. Nettie asks why I'm still wearing soggy clothes and I tell her everything got drenched. I have them hanging all over the room, drying. She seems lonely and eager to talk. I'm not feeling talkative, but we visit for a short time. I give her an abbreviated version of where I've come from and where I'm going. Then I remember a zip-lock bag of power bars and trail mix that I'd packed. That can't be wet, and it'll get me by until tomorrow. I tell Nettie good night and return to my warm perch in front of the heater.
Back in the room, it dawns on me that I'm due in Dumas within the hour. I need to call Tom. We'd spoken a few days earlier, and he knows all about the road trip, shipping The Turtle, Hawaii, all of it.
Me: "Tom, I'm sorry, but I won't make it tonight. I ran into a storm in Clinton and had to stop."
Tom: "Stop? Why?"
Me: "I just told you. The weather."
Tom: "Aren't you driving an old Land Cruiser?"
Me: "Yep."
Tom: "And didn't you tell me it's the same as the truck you drove in college?"
Me: "Yes, just a few years newer."
Tom: "And weren't you the guy who carted us around in that truck when nothing else was moving?"
Me: "That was me all right."
Tom: "So when did you become such a pussy?"
Ouch. I know he's joking, but still, ouch.
I explain enough to satisfy him, tell him I'm not sure if I'll even make it tomorrow, apologize again, and we're done.
I'm about to dive into bed and try to find a local weather report when there's a knock at the door. On Route 66 the television show, this happened almost every episode. Invariably it was a damsel in distress, and she was always smokin' hot. Buzz usually went to the door, but I'm the only one here so I have to go. There's no peep hole but I don't care. I'm Mr. Adventure and I can handle whatever is on the other side. I open the door and it's Nettie. With a tray of food. There's a massive roast beef sandwich, and some deviled eggs, and a generous wedge of chocolate cake. It's not generic hotel dinnerware either. It's china, probably hers. She looks embarrassed and says she got to thinking about me asking about places to eat, and her not being helpful and well, she just decided to make me a sandwich. She shoves the tray through the door without coming in and says she'll be right back. And she is, moments later, with a pitcher of sweet tea and a flannel shirt. She hands them over, and says the shirt belongs to her son, Ray. She says "he's bigger than you, but it's a good heavy shirt and it'll keep you warm." I ask if her son will mind me borrowing his clothes and she tears up. "We lost him in Viet Nam," she says, in 1970. "I took this out of his closet. He was a Marine, just like Weldon, his Daddy. I lost Weldon last year" The Marines on her desk. Weldon and Ray. She turns and walks away, leaving me holding a tea pitcher in one hand and Ray''s flannel shirt in the other.
The next morning I rise at 0600 and dial in the weather. Two days on the road and I'm already a day behind. The Texas Panhandle forecast calls for clear skies, temps in the 60's, no precipitation. If the forecast holds up, I can live with it. I stuff my dry clothes into the duffel and take it to The Turtle, then return to the room and retrieve Nettie's tray and dishes, and Ray's flannel shirt. I haven't worn it. Nettie is sitting in the same place I found her yesterday. Same dress. She looks sad. I imagine that's she's been thinking about her son. I pay my bill, twenty bucks and change. I place her tray on the check-in counter, and then the shirt. I tell her I didn't need it after all, and thank her for her kindness. She says "You may not have needed it last night Shugah, but you'll need it where you're going. I want you to keep it." This seems important to her. It's one of those moments where I have to say just the right thing. I tell her that I served a tour with the Third Marine Amphibious Force, that I'd never met a finer group of young men, that I'm sure Ray was a credit to his uniform. I say I'd be honored to have her son's shirt and I'd think of him whenever I wore it. I walk outside and it's nippy, much colder than I'd expected. Nettie was right. I slip on Ray's shirt, roll up the sleeves, mount up, and once again, we're off. The Mother Road.
I was in another lifetime one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter from the storm"
--Bob Dylan
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter from the storm"
--Bob Dylan
I spent the better part of two years in Southeast Asia, and I know a little about monsoon rains. I've driven into them. flown through them, landed in them, and been aboard ship in seas so rough we had to lash ourselves to our bunks to keep from being tossed onto the deck. Those are not fond memories and now, as Yogi Berra said, "It's deja vu all over again." Minutes after I spot the storm cloud, all hell breaks loose. The cloud on my left quickly moved to the right and into my path while an even bigger cloud that I hadn't noticed came sneaking up from behind. They merged, and suddenly The Turtle and I are driving blind under a pitch black canopy. It's only 1 PM, and I can't even see the hood. I turn on the headlights and they're worthless. Shifting winds are gusting across the highway and whipping us all over the road. With the hard top side panels acting as sails, it feels like the truck could flop over at any time. Oh, and it's raining like a mofo with sheets of water pounding us from every direction. It's now that I discover there's no weatherstrip at the top of the windshield frame, and fat rain drops are blowing through the gap, pelting me in the face. This must be what it feels like to be blasted by a pressure washer. Whatever this is, an atmospheric disturbance or something more, it doesn't take a back seat to any of those monsoons.
I pull onto the shoulder, then a bit farther onto a grassy area. I decide to hunker down and wait it out. Not my best idea. After a short wait, the wind finally subsides somewhat, but that's the least of my worries. It took a couple of minutes to get the kick vents closed, and by now there's water standing in the floor pans. Sitting there, I'm beginning to wish this was a sea turtle, a 40 with pontoons, because we're being rocked by the wind, more rain is seeping through the doors and lift gate, and the water level in the floor pans is rising. Worse yet, I look out and see that the spot I've chosen to park happens to be a drainage ditch and I'm already hub deep in muddy red water. This land is too flat to be concerned about flash flooding, but being stuck in a muddy ditch would be downright embarrassing, especially in a built up 40. That can't happen, so I restart The Turtle and ease back onto the highway. I can't see the road but I know it's relatively straight, and if I go slowly I think I can drive it by feel. The Mother Road will help us; if I'm not feeling vibration from the cracks in her 75 year old concrete, and rhythmic bumps from the expansion joints, I'll know I'm off the road and need to make a course correction. This works pretty well, and no one else is dumb enough to be out, so I'm not worried about collisions. What I am worried about is zero visibility, and getting somewhere dry. This is the land version of flying IFR, but worse since I don't have instruments. I soon discover that I shouldn't have bothered stewing about finding the way. Karma has kicked in and with the Mother Road guiding us along, The Turtle doesn't miss a beat. We creep along at a snail's pace for well over an hour until finally, through the rain I see lights flickering in the distance. That has to be Clinton.
Clinton was once a booming town, before Interstate 40 started siphoning off the 66 traffic and killing businesses. During the big war there was a Naval Air Station here, and later a SAC Base that was home to B-52 Stratofortresses. It was the largest town in Western Oklahoma, and may still be, but at the moment it looks like a ghost town. Everyone is probably hiding in storm shelters, but I'm crossing my fingers that something will be open. Anything. I hone in on the nearest lights and as I get closer, I start wondering if we've crossed the time-space barrier into the 1950's. The lights, they're on a sign, a very old looking sign. It says Glancy Motor Hotel. Singles $18.50. I get closer and see a little flashing sign in the office window: VACANCY. Hey, I've seen this flick before. There was darkness and lightning, and big scary claps of thunder, and then in the distance, this sign. Just like in the movies, right? Could The Turtle be a friggin time machine? I start looking around for Rod Serling to jump out and do his monologue.
"You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone."
What to do? Drive ahead and look for a Holiday Inn Express? Or stop here? What would Buzz and Todd do? I know exactly what they'd do. They'd stop here, because it's all about the adventure, and adventure happens to be my middle name. On this trip anyway. Not to mention that it's still pitch dark, raining like hell, and I'm freezing my ass off. I choose the Twilight Zone.
I park The Turtle under the nifty drive through carport looking structure outside the office, get out and look around. No cars. None. That figures. I enter the office and it's strange, but in a cool way. All 1950ish--art deco furniture, plastic flowers in a vase, faded Western landscape paintings on the wall, old style percolator and a few coffee mugs on a little service credenza. There's a waist high counter and behind it a desk. Over the desk hangs an autographed photo of Will Rogers and on the desk is one of those double picture frames, the kind with one frame on either side and a hinge in the middle. In the frame, boot camp photos of two Marines in dress blues. Ruggedly handsome young men. They look like brothers, one in black and white, the other in color. And there's a lady sitting at the desk behind the counter. Name plate on the counter says "Nettie," and underneath, Manager. No last name. I guess when everybody knows you, all you need is one name. I wonder if Nettie is short for something; I wonder if her last name is Glancy, but decide it wouldn't be appropriate to ask. Nettie is a large woman. Not really what you'd call fat, more like rotund. A strong woman. I know it's a stereotype, but I'm guessing she's probably good natured, with a great laugh. She's wearing a frumpy looking dress that reminds me of something my grandmother would have worn to church. I'm not good at guessing women's ages, but she looks late 70's. She's staring, and I realize that I'm not presenting myself well. I'm wearing a "Keep Austin Weird" ball cap, Homer Simpson t-shirt, cargo shorts, and Tevas, and I'm soaking wet, dripping all over her spotless linoleum floor. Most places, they'd turn up their nose ask me to leave, but Nettie says "What happened to you?" My Mom would probably say I looked pitiful. Nettie is pleasant and seems more concerned about my condition than the mess I'm making of her floor. I tell her about getting caught in the storm, the leaky truck, and that I'd seen her vacancy sign. I ask for the $18.50 single special. She says "Just so you know, we don't have no cable TV." "And we don't take no credit cards. We can't afford to pay them bank fees." That strikes me as very sad, another Mom and Pop business that's probably dying, and I assure her I don't care. This place is old school, and I like it. I fill out the little registration card, and she gives me a key, a real key. She says it's one of their best rooms. No payment in advance required.
I go to my room and unload my junk. The room is squeaky clean, with more art deco furniture. There's a wall mounted gas heater and I'm shivering so I crank it up full blast and pull a chair up in front. Get warm, hot shower, open my duffel bag and find everything inside soaked. Crap. It's coming up on 5 o'clock and I'm suddenly starving. I wring out a shirt as best I can and go back to the office to ask about local diners. Nettie looks like she knows her food. She tells me there's probably nothing open because of the storm. She says "Sugar, you don't have any business going out in this weather anyway. You get cold and wet again and you're liable to get sick." Only she didn't say sugar, she said "Shugah." My Grandmother called me Shugah, and that sounds like something she'd have said. Nettie asks why I'm still wearing soggy clothes and I tell her everything got drenched. I have them hanging all over the room, drying. She seems lonely and eager to talk. I'm not feeling talkative, but we visit for a short time. I give her an abbreviated version of where I've come from and where I'm going. Then I remember a zip-lock bag of power bars and trail mix that I'd packed. That can't be wet, and it'll get me by until tomorrow. I tell Nettie good night and return to my warm perch in front of the heater.
Back in the room, it dawns on me that I'm due in Dumas within the hour. I need to call Tom. We'd spoken a few days earlier, and he knows all about the road trip, shipping The Turtle, Hawaii, all of it.
Me: "Tom, I'm sorry, but I won't make it tonight. I ran into a storm in Clinton and had to stop."
Tom: "Stop? Why?"
Me: "I just told you. The weather."
Tom: "Aren't you driving an old Land Cruiser?"
Me: "Yep."
Tom: "And didn't you tell me it's the same as the truck you drove in college?"
Me: "Yes, just a few years newer."
Tom: "And weren't you the guy who carted us around in that truck when nothing else was moving?"
Me: "That was me all right."
Tom: "So when did you become such a pussy?"
Ouch. I know he's joking, but still, ouch.
I explain enough to satisfy him, tell him I'm not sure if I'll even make it tomorrow, apologize again, and we're done.
I'm about to dive into bed and try to find a local weather report when there's a knock at the door. On Route 66 the television show, this happened almost every episode. Invariably it was a damsel in distress, and she was always smokin' hot. Buzz usually went to the door, but I'm the only one here so I have to go. There's no peep hole but I don't care. I'm Mr. Adventure and I can handle whatever is on the other side. I open the door and it's Nettie. With a tray of food. There's a massive roast beef sandwich, and some deviled eggs, and a generous wedge of chocolate cake. It's not generic hotel dinnerware either. It's china, probably hers. She looks embarrassed and says she got to thinking about me asking about places to eat, and her not being helpful and well, she just decided to make me a sandwich. She shoves the tray through the door without coming in and says she'll be right back. And she is, moments later, with a pitcher of sweet tea and a flannel shirt. She hands them over, and says the shirt belongs to her son, Ray. She says "he's bigger than you, but it's a good heavy shirt and it'll keep you warm." I ask if her son will mind me borrowing his clothes and she tears up. "We lost him in Viet Nam," she says, in 1970. "I took this out of his closet. He was a Marine, just like Weldon, his Daddy. I lost Weldon last year" The Marines on her desk. Weldon and Ray. She turns and walks away, leaving me holding a tea pitcher in one hand and Ray''s flannel shirt in the other.
The next morning I rise at 0600 and dial in the weather. Two days on the road and I'm already a day behind. The Texas Panhandle forecast calls for clear skies, temps in the 60's, no precipitation. If the forecast holds up, I can live with it. I stuff my dry clothes into the duffel and take it to The Turtle, then return to the room and retrieve Nettie's tray and dishes, and Ray's flannel shirt. I haven't worn it. Nettie is sitting in the same place I found her yesterday. Same dress. She looks sad. I imagine that's she's been thinking about her son. I pay my bill, twenty bucks and change. I place her tray on the check-in counter, and then the shirt. I tell her I didn't need it after all, and thank her for her kindness. She says "You may not have needed it last night Shugah, but you'll need it where you're going. I want you to keep it." This seems important to her. It's one of those moments where I have to say just the right thing. I tell her that I served a tour with the Third Marine Amphibious Force, that I'd never met a finer group of young men, that I'm sure Ray was a credit to his uniform. I say I'd be honored to have her son's shirt and I'd think of him whenever I wore it. I walk outside and it's nippy, much colder than I'd expected. Nettie was right. I slip on Ray's shirt, roll up the sleeves, mount up, and once again, we're off. The Mother Road.
Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads
Runnin' down a dream
Runnin' down a dream
Last edited:
77mustard40
SILVER Star
Thanks Lee, think I'll go to sleep now, see you soon.
Good stuff.
kling-on
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Awsome read
Sent from outer space via my mind
Sent from outer space via my mind
This is Great.
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Awesome chapter Lee, I have always wanted to travel Route 66. I believe if would be a pretty awesome trip. Looking forward to reading more
So far so good, Commander. Your memory and memories are amazing. I had a grandmother named Nettie. Glad that Viet Nam was only something I watched on the nightly news back then.
Keep on truckin'.
Keep on truckin'.
Wow, this is an incredible story. I just read through all 8 pages. I can't wait to read the rest. So far we've got electrical tech, upholstery work, and I can sense some clutch tech coming up. I say it stays.
just need to say thanks, ive never been so much to read one chapter in a "book" with out getting bored or side tracked, but somehow feel my self compelled to log on each night and get caught up on your story, look forward to the rest of the trip. I can only hope my 40 brings me this many adventures, although it does feel like a time machine each time i get behind the wheel.
This is just to let you you know that you've got a big fan over here in little ol' New Zeeeeeland Lee.
Be careful with all that power you're weilding though.
I'd never heard of either Townes Van Zandt (or that other fella) before reading your thread here. But already I have a Van Zandt CD in my collection (which arrived the other day) and there's one from the other fella on its way to me as we speak.
PS. I read a sh#tload of books so I reckon I can recognise a good writer. And I correctly figured someone who can write as well as you do must also have good taste in music
(And I still buy CDs cos I HATE buying music as downloads.)
Be careful with all that power you're weilding though.
I'd never heard of either Townes Van Zandt (or that other fella) before reading your thread here. But already I have a Van Zandt CD in my collection (which arrived the other day) and there's one from the other fella on its way to me as we speak.
PS. I read a sh#tload of books so I reckon I can recognise a good writer. And I correctly figured someone who can write as well as you do must also have good taste in music
(And I still buy CDs cos I HATE buying music as downloads.)
- Thread starter
- #160
I don't know whether to call this a disclaimer, or a warning, or something else entirely, but I'll take a crack at saying what I mean to say.
I wrote the first part of the next chapter today. I'll post it in a couple of minutes. I call it Spearman. This one was hard to get out and now that it's written, I'm thinking that it may be inappropriate for MUD, particularly a semi-tech thread. There's two FJ40's in the tale, but no tech. I describe a chapter of my life that I'm not proud of. I've been carrying this baggage around for years and never talked about it before, not to anyone. Today it just tumbled out. It's crudely written, but I decided to leave it alone. Remembering and writing, maybe it was somehow therapeutic. I don't know yet.
My request is this. If anyone feels the Spearman chapter doesn't belong in this thread, tell me and I'll make it go away. Future episodes will be more upbeat, and we'll be back on track.
Thanks gents,
Lee
I wrote the first part of the next chapter today. I'll post it in a couple of minutes. I call it Spearman. This one was hard to get out and now that it's written, I'm thinking that it may be inappropriate for MUD, particularly a semi-tech thread. There's two FJ40's in the tale, but no tech. I describe a chapter of my life that I'm not proud of. I've been carrying this baggage around for years and never talked about it before, not to anyone. Today it just tumbled out. It's crudely written, but I decided to leave it alone. Remembering and writing, maybe it was somehow therapeutic. I don't know yet.
My request is this. If anyone feels the Spearman chapter doesn't belong in this thread, tell me and I'll make it go away. Future episodes will be more upbeat, and we'll be back on track.
Thanks gents,
Lee
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