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The arrival of the 10 wheeled rig to the white zone at Lambert-St. Louis International airport was just as awkward as the Midwestern boy’s arrival at the Seattle Tacoma airport 5 hours later. I was now hundreds of miles from the brick ranch where I awoke that morning.

It was late May or early June in 1995, when I woke to the familiar sounds of my father beginning his day at 5:00 a.m. My mom played the part of dutiful trucker’s wife well and she too was moving at that hour in a ritualistic fashion unique to her and her truck driver.

The sounds of dad’s coughing, then his footsteps to the bathroom, ashtray on toilet tank lid, then the smells of Old Spice and Camel non-filters moved across the hall to my bedroom. Water running in the kitchen and the clicking of the stove coming on to heat the tea pot for instant coffee. Ashtray, Winston being lit, coffee mugs moving from counter-top drying rack to kitchen table. He joined her in the kitchen, small talk, whispers almost, I am sure that the conversation centered on bills or money or house repairs, or when dad would be home again and mom’s schedule for the week, for the month, with an empty house.

My little brother had just been married,and I had just finished my 4th year of college and mom would have the house entirely empty for the summer. They made tentative plans for her to ride with him in September. Hearing the thermos filling with hot water and instant coffee and dad moving to the living room to “get his boots” on to start the truck i knew it was time for me to get up. His blue Kenworth was parked out front, bob tailed today, he was dead heading to St. Louis to pick up a box then he would head south to Mississippi. What his dispatcher didn’t know was there would be a passenger, one 22 year old son and two bags packed. The dispatcher would notice the detour north across I-270 and the rig jogging south to the airport and following the same bypass south to catch 55 to the delta. Dad would explain later.

Hearing the diesel engine power up at 5:30 that morning was my cue. Rest was over, it was 5 hours in the rig before a noon flight to the Pacific Coast. Dad dressed in his Lee jeans and button down, western cut shirt, probably purchased at a truck stop with fuel points, met me in the hall. No words had to be exchanged. Mom would take care of the check list. She was still at the kitchen table, cigarette in one hand, a teaspoon stirring coffee in the other. Despite the coffee and cigarettes she would return to bed shortly after the rig turned on to the state route that led out of our neighborhood.

It was at that moment, being a part of the departure ritual, that I began to wonder how many times she had sat at that table. Smelling the Camels and Old Spice, watching him pull on those boots and climb up the side of the rig. How many times had he left. How many mornings did she rise before the sun to see him off. A quick count of 2-3 a month, sometimes more, sometimes less, over 24 years, put the count in the hundreds. That morning she sent two of us off.

The truck was warm and it only took a few minutes to clean out the seldom used passenger seat. My bags found space on the bunk behind the seats. Dad stowed his thermos, placed the folded clean sheets on the bed and placed his log book on the dash. A quick check of gauges and with coffee cup secured, right foot on the gas, left foot pumping the clutch, a small early morning grinding and first gear was engaged. The KW lurched forward as my dad worked the pedals and shifter with a precision that only comes with a million miles of experience. Watching a truck driver work through the 13 gears of a rig some would liken to a ballet. This dance is between a man and a 19,000 lb machine. Soon the sounds and rhythm and darkness pulled me back to sleep. A place where I had slept before, in the passenger seat, my dad at the wheel, and some great new place on the horizon when I wake.