Trucker's Radar

Just a few miles from my home, at any time of the day or night, you can find decent food, good company, and share a slice of life with a wide variety of people at The Iron Skillet Truck Stop. In one of his incarnations, my father was a trucker in the 1950's before his health began to fail.

The roaming spirit of trucking never left him and when the urge to wander overtook him, we'd sneak away (just the two of us) in the tank-sized Chrysler and drive to the nearest truck stop. He'd order me a bowl of vegetable soup, poppy-seed rolls and a cup of hot chocolate and without exchanging a word, just coded nods, sooner or later a trucker would sit down at our booth and ask my father, "How long since you hauled a rig?"

I'd be long asleep beside him in the booth under his tan workmen's jacket he wore summer and winter before the two trucker's had traded all their stories of blizzards and runaway trucks barreling down a narrow road in the Poconos. After all these years, I still wander into truck stops and order vegetable soup, poppy-seed rolls and hot chocolate. It never tastes quite a good as I remember but somehow, perhaps by osmosis, I learned to speak the coded trucker language with a nod or a smile, and sooner or later a trucker would pause at my booth, motion to the book I was reading, and politely inquire, "Good book? I'm always looking for something new to read."

The best books I've ever read have been recommended by truckers from "The Crack in the Cosmic Egg," to "The Grapes of Wrath," down to my most recent find of "An Hour Before Daylight." And I ponder with great amusement the mental image of a trucker taking a break in some Midwest truck stop and pulling out my recommendations over the years of "Our Bodies, Our Selves," "Wake up, Stupid," and "Rabbit Hill."

Too sick to cook for the past few days, and tired of microwaving scrambled eggs, I drag myself out of bed and head for The Iron Skillet Truck Stop where I tell the beefy-forearmed waitress to line up six glasses of tomato juice with a grapefruit chaser and then follow that with steak and eggs. Within minutes, the truckers assess the situation and one or two wander by with advice for those suffering from a cold.

With so many trucking companies now requiring urine drug testing, most truckers have steered away from over the counter pharmaceuticals that can give a false positive for opiates or amphetamines, they've ventured into anahcronistic herbal treatments that hearken back to the days of Vick's Vaporub, flannel shirts hosed down with camphorated oil, and my favorite, an electric blanket that plugs into your cigarette lighter to "stave off the chattering teeth of chills on those days when you gotta drive, gotta make up time, gotta keep going down the road."

With my newly-purchased electric blanket trailing its cord, a pint-sized cobalt blue jar of Vick's Vaporub, a "guaranteed not to spill - no matter what!" quart-sized insulated Mack Truck coffee mug filled with honey-horehound tea (made by Ralph from dissolving Ricola herbal cough drops in boiling water), I leave The Iron Skillet Truck Stop feeling a great deal better.

Living behind the grille

A dozen blocks or so from where I work there used to be a cloistered monastery of the Sisters of the Visitation encased behind a nine-foot brick wall that circled an entire city block comprised of their convent, gardens, and graves of the Sisters who "died in Office."

I used to stop by now and then after work to listen to the Sisters sing the Office. The Office, a flowing combination of psalms, prayers, and inner celebration chanted by women answering a call of the "still small voice," was a transcendental experience. Visitors were welcome to sit and listen or join in and chant in harmony from the small visitor's chapel on the other side of the mahogany lattice grille through which you could watch the Sisters rise and kneel in their stalls. Nothing was asked of you. No one bothered you. There was no sense of separation. The grille did not divide us; it joined us.

They came to the city in 1893 when the area was a reclusive forest leading down a high ridge to the Brandywine river. Within a decade or two they were surrounded by the large colonial homes that bragged of their owner's prosperity and sat on opposite sides of Bancroft parkway.

In 1993, one hundred years after the sisters arrived, needing more space and far more quiet, the Sisters moved to the Berkshires in Massachusetts. I had only visited them a dozen times or so and didn't realize how much I would miss the peaceful oasis in the midst of a harried life. But the loss, nameless and poignant, still lingers.

The Sisters had hoped that the property of their century-old granite convent would be converted into a museum or a retirement home but the developer claimed that renovations on two million dollar deal would be too costly. Everything but sections of the nine-foot stone wall was demolished to make room for multiple upscale semi-detached homes.

The Sisters were disappointed that the convent would be destroyed but are at peace with what they can't control. They've had a long history of decisions outside of their control since their founding in France in the town of Annecy in 1610 by St. Francis de Sales and St. Jeanne de Chantal. As the 1993 demolition began, in silence, in peace, they packed their French 16th century religious books and made their way to Massachusetts.

I frequently drive by what remains of the monastery walls and consider that our city lost an anchor of peace when they left. The double-score quarter of a million dollar multiple homes that are now sandwiched together and squeezed within the confines of the wall still look like an afterthought. A mistake. An original gate door from the monastery was salvaged and stands unmoveable on the south side of the property next to a modern light-grained gate door without a window.

The score of cloistered nuns vowed to silence and a physical withdrawing from the world invited the very same world to visit them while the current residents, without a single song in their heart or on their lips added a windowless wooden gate that does not open, does not move, is merely decorative, and only serves the purpose of keeping the world at bay. I wonder on moonless nights if the new residents behind the wall hear eerie cloister voices of the nuns who have passed on, some to Massachusettes, others to their Bridegroom.

A transcendental singing into the night.

Saints, Sinners, Mystics, and Madmen

I pass by this statue of St. Francis several times a week and although his demeanor appears to be one of intense hell and brimstone madness, if you study his life, it was always from positive energy of being a fool for God, a lover of nature, and the epitome of a friend.

Voltaire claimed he was a savage madman who ran naked, spoke to animals, gave religious instruction to a wolf and built himself a wife out of snow. I'm drawn to saints, sinners, mystics, and madmen. They are the spice of life. And they seem to be drawn to me.

One arrived at the lab holding a paper bag like a baby and claimed it was evidence of a homicide in progress and could I analyze the evidence. I peered inside the bag to see a very large zucchini.

"They tried to poison me, but I was too smart for them. Brought it here for you to analyze."

We were drawing quite a crowd in the reception room of the morgue so I guided my almost homicide victim to a quiet place in our library. A long sad story of a long sad life unfolded and in the end, it was no longer a near homicide victim who left still holding a poisoned zucchini like a baby but someone who had been heard. Perhaps not always believed, but heard.

I explained that we really couldn't analyze victimless crimes perpetrated by alleged homicidal vegetables without the proper chain of custody and a police report; but she might consider planting the zucchini and seeing what sprouted both in her garden and in her life.

I never heard what happened to the woman but she left with a smile on her face. And a plan.

Who can be sure who is a saint, a mystic, or a madman? I never know, so I generally treat them all the same and in return, I'm treated the same way.

On my way out of the lab, the Director, (one of my favorite saints, sinners, mystics, and madmen) stopped me to tell me of a phone call he had just received. Someone had called him to ask how low your blood sugar had to go before you went blind, or died, or both. He hedged the question and turned it back on the caller in true Socratic style.

It seems this person had felt near death with a blood sugar measuring 30 and had gone to Mass, taken the Host upon her tongue without swallowing it and walked home and checked their blood sugar again, but this time it was 90 and she felt much better. "Was I healed?"

The Director has a razor wit and a sense of humor as dry as the Sahara, and claimed he offered a few great one-liners about this miracle elevating Padre Pio over the hump to sainthood; but in the way he told me the story, what came across more clearly was how touched he was by the poignancy of this person seeking validation of being alive from another human being, and wanting desperately to feel even more alive.

I do not know who are saints, or sinners, or mystics, or madmen, but it's impossible not to love them all.

Shades of Christmas Past (from February 2007)

The weather finally broke enough to be able to walk during my lunch hour around the Polish and Hispanic neighborhood that surround the Medical Examiner's office where I work. Both neighborhoods are mildly depressed and passed by; but certain sections of streets still speak of first generation immigrants who worked in the tanning factories and proudly sent their children to school in plaid uniforms to nuns who would iron out the accents from their speech.

I've noticed many Christmas decoration still up this year as if people aren't ready to let go of the magic of Christmas and trade it for the reality of slushy February; but this window has had the same decorations in it for the 22 years I've worked in this area. The same kitchy Santa praying before the same manager. The same family trapped in the purity of black and white, still with flushed cheeks from sledding down the slope to the Christiana River, the same dog still barking at their heels.

Many of these row houses were built with simultaneous living and business in mind. Living rooms of homes doubled as storefronts for sub shops, baked goods sales, seamstress alterations. The window of this row house has never changed for as long as I can remember. I've never seen anyone come or go or sit on the stoop or sweep the steps. Yet Santa keeps his vigil all these years for children long grown and I'm certain that a mother is still bent over a crystal rosary for their safety as they travel light years away from the fires of home.

Historic Delaware

In these historic places,

there are spirits everywhere--

those we discover

looking back at us

through a window

and those we bring with us.

It's our choice

whether that will be

a haunting

or a blessing.