I’m lying in the bunk of my Peterbilt listening to music loud enough to violate at least three noise ordinances. It’s the Monday before Thanksgiving, and I’m stuck, parked on an exit ramp outside Sturgis, South Dakota, contemplating my plight and the questionable decisions that brought me here.

My wife is back home preparing the annual Thanksgiving feast. That woman can cook a bird so good angels file complaints for favoritism. I’ve been daydreaming about her secret stuffing recipe all week. She won’t even share it with me, says she’s taking it to the grave. I told her I’d just follow her to the grave with a notebook. She didn’t laugh.

Our three kids, and their own broods, are gathering this year. They all live down Dallas way, where I’m originally from. I don’t get to see my grandkids much except on holidays, if I make it home. I’ve missed more than my share of Thanksgivings due to being an over-the-road trucker. That fact irritates my wife of forty-five years. She keeps saying I ought to retire and become a Walmart greeter.

But I’d rather face icy roads, blown tires, and truckstop chili than shake hands with sticky-fingered toddlers all day.

My satellite message box dings. Dispatch. I crawl down from the bunk and tap the pad.

Dispatch: Willy, you still stuck in the snow?
Me: Yep.
Dispatch: Where exactly?
Me: Same place I told you last time, exit ramp, mile marker 40, outside Sturgis.
Dispatch: Any word on moving soon?
Me: Nope.
Dispatch: Weather?
Me: Colder than a well-digger’s ass. Roads are smoother than glass and twice as deadly. Cars in the ditch everywhere.
Dispatch: You keeping warm?
Me: Yep.
Dispatch: Need anything?
Me: A ride into Sturgis would be swell.
Dispatch: Bye, Willy.

That pretty much summed up my circus of a week.

I’ve got 960 miles to go before Thursday. Wednesday night arrival, maybe. Typical trucking life.

The Week From Hell, Exhibit A: The Stranded Family

First, I encountered a family on the side of the road in eastern Washington. They’d run out of gas on their way to Grandma’s because the driver never bothered to check the gauge. I stopped to help, because I’m apparently a nice guy with poor impulse control. Had I not scooped them up and hauled them to town, I might’ve beaten this storm to South Dakota.

Exhibit B: The Hitchhiker Situation

Then came the hitchhiker.

I was enjoying breakfast at a truckstop in Nampa, Idaho, when this young man asked if I was headed east. When I said yes, he plopped himself across from me like we were blood relatives. Company policy forbids picking up hitchhikers.

Just then the waitress walked by, took one look at him, and said, “Oh honey, blink twice if you’re being kidnapped.”

“He’s fine,” I said. “He’s just a hitchhiker.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure? He looks like he’s about to sell you a magazine subscription.”

He said he needed to get to Cheyenne to surprise his parents for Thanksgiving. Said he hadn’t seen them in three years. I wondered if he’d left home at age fourteen.

I wanted to ask why, but I didn’t want to ruin my omelet.

He offered me twenty bucks for diesel. I didn’t have the heart to explain that twenty bucks won’t even get a truckstop cashier to look in your direction, let alone turn on a pump.

I told him I’d give him a ride and explained what my truck looked like.

When I got outside, he was nowhere to be seen. I figured he’d caught a ride with someone even more gullible than me. I put the truck in gear and then I spotted him running toward me like I was the last chopper out of Saigon.

Behind him was a pregnant woman.

Of course.

I considered flooring it. Then the softy in me hit the brakes.

“Thanks for stopping, mister,” he said. “I couldn’t get Lilly out of the bathroom.”

“You didn’t mention a pregnant woman,” I said. “Or even a woman.”

“I thought I did,” he replied, forcing a smile so guilty it should’ve come with a lawyer.

I made her take the bunk and strap in with the safety harness. Made him buckle in up front.

Once we were back on the interstate, I asked, “What’s your story?”

“We’re going to Cheyenne to surprise my folks,” he said.

“Where you coming from?”

“Seattle!” she shouted from the bunk, already making herself more comfortable than a pregnant woman has any right to be in a stranger’s truck.

“You hitchhiked from Seattle to Nampa in the winter—and now you expect me to take you the rest of the way?”

Turns out, yes. Yes, they did.

After that, I stopped asking questions. I was too irritated, especially at the way that kid had gotten her into trouble twice, if you catch my drift.

Traveling with a pregnant woman means stopping every hour. It took me forever to reach Cheyenne.

After our tenth bathroom stop in two hours, I finally told the young man, “Son, if we make any more stops, I’m gonna be delivering this baby myself, and I ain’t qualified.”

He grinned nervously. “She just has a small bladder.”

“Small bladder?” I said. “Buddy, Niagara Falls has less flow than she does today.”

Had I not picked them up, I would have beaten the storm all the way back to Illinois. I vowed never to pick up another hitchhiker for as long as I lived.

I dropped them off at a truckstop in Cheyenne and headed east, right into the blizzard that trapped me outside Sturgis.

After this week, retirement started sounding more appealing by the mile. Maybe I’d write a book:

Trials and Tribulations of a Long-Haul Trucker, starring me—Willy—and all the dunderheads I meet along the way.

I’ve seen enough crazy things in thirty-five years to fill the Library of Congress.

The Road Home

About an hour later, the SDDOT plows cleared a path. I tucked in behind one doing thirty miles an hour and crawled east. By Iowa, the roads were clear and I made good time.

I parked my rig in the yard around 11:30 AM Thursday. My son picked me up with grandson Willy in tow. That kid is a sight for sore eyes.

He asked what trouble I’d gotten into this week. I told him everything: the weather, the stranded family, the hitchhikers. Then he asked me if I ever hit a moose, which I had about twenty years ago. I still wonder though if I hit the moose or did the moose hit me.

“And that, Willy,” I concluded, “is why you don’t want to be an over-the-road trucker.”

“That’s okay, Pa,” he said. “I think I wanna be a chef.”

That surprised me. My son kept driving like nothing was unusual.

Thanksgiving

At home, the table was set, the Lions–Vikings game was on, and dinner was at four o’clock. My wife always carves the turkey. She’s a surgeon, so it only seems fair.

The grandkids ran in and out of the living room, and I hugged every one of them.

When everyone finally sat at the table, all eyes turned to me for grace. Even the kids’ table went quiet.

I bowed my head.

“Lord, forgive me for focusing more on the negatives than the blessings in my life. Thank you for love, grace, and this family. Fill my heart with gratitude this Thanksgiving…”

People lifted their heads, but my wife squeezed my hand. Meaning, keep going.

“And Lord… please look over me as I deliver my last load for Saxon Trucking on Monday. It’s time for me to retire and be with my family. Please help me find a job here, preferably not as a Walmart greeter.”

My wife squeezed again, fighting a smile.

“I never want to miss another holiday. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

When I looked up, everyone was staring at me. My wife’s eyes shimmered.

“Are you really gonna retire, Pa?” little Willy asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

A Door Opens

The Lord must’ve been listening.

When I told Saxon Trucking I was retiring, they patched me through to the operations manager. He thanked me for thirty-five years of service.

The next day, while clearing out my truck, my phone rang, a Dallas number. I braced myself, expecting them to beg me to run another load.

Instead, it was John Saxon himself.

“Willy, I hear you’re retiring.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, your kids and grandkids live down here, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How would you like to move back to Dallas and become my Director of Operations? Can’t think of anyone who knows this company better.”

I nearly dropped my phone.

He told me to talk it over with my “beautiful wife” and call him back in a couple days. Then he made a generous offer.

That night, over spaghetti at our favorite Italian place, we decided.

A New Beginning

On January 1st, I start my new career—
Back home in Dallas,

Closer to the grandkids,
And far, far away from hitchhikers in Nampa, Idaho.