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There are sounds and smells that can trigger memories in me faster than a story or old faded photographs. The smell of non-filters on vinyl seats layered under thousands of miles of diesel moves my heart and conscience to a time when my life was less complicated. The last time I smelled the aroma of a Camel and old diesel fumes was my father’s funeral four and a half years ago. I hugged that mechanic and former neighbor longer than he expected, just breathing in the memories of my dad and his truck.

It was that smell, laced with old coffee and window cleaner I awoke to. It was the sounds, frightening to some and comforting to others, that stirred me from sleep. My dad had a cough that was as unique to him as his fingerprints. I could sleep through that. It was the air brakes engaging that caused my eye to peak and see we were parked in a sea of rigs. My watch said 10:45 which meant we made good time coming across Indianapolis despite arriving there at morning rush hour. Flight leaves at 2:00 and we were another two hours away from St. Louis. We had time for a late breakfast.

We were parked outside of Effingham Illinois, north of the little town, at a truck stop my father new all too well. For years he traveled I-70 from the Rockies in Colorado to the feet of the Poconos in Pennsylvania. This stop was a routine one. Stop for fuel, more coffee and maybe a bite to eat. For me it meant a chance to grab a Coke, find a restroom and stretch my body a bit before settling in for the final leg of this journey. He took time to check in at the fuel desk, I wasted a few quarters on a video game, we met in the dining room. The novelty of sitting in a booth in a truck stop that had both a mini juke box and phone for the drivers use had worn off. I figured by the age of 23 I had been in dozens of truck stops in dozens of states, dozens of times and only the scenery out the window changed. Today’s view in south central Illinois looked a lot like home.

There is a familiarity between a good truck stop waitress and a truck driver. She understands the rules, coffee first, never interrupt a phone call and never move a driver’s log books. A great truck stop waitress would know the difference between a freight hauler and a furniture mover. She could separate the over the road guys from the local partial load drivers in a minute if she needed. She talked to my dad like they were best friends, in reality he hadn’t been through the Petro in Effingham in six months. He explained that Omaha had put him on a dedicated run on the Walmart account. He would be coming through here more often in the fall. She seemed to know that I was in college and it appeared he had bragged on his boy a time or two before that morning.

Breakfast came and went, so did too many cups of coffee and coke. When his thermos reappeared rinsed and refilled it was time to put out the last cigarette and make our way a bit further west.

Climbing into a rig tells a spectator everything. I imagine the drivers watching me were a bit surprised. They would have never guessed that this college kid wearing sandals could climb into a rig with such dexterity and comfort. Moving west on I-70 that early June sun hung over our left shoulders and the buzz of the CB radio was full of chatter when he pushed the tape in. There is a therapeutic comfort for some of us when you are bouncing in air ride captains seat. With Johnny Cash in the tape deck, dad shifting gears and me riding 10 feet above the pavement, everything was right with the world, for that moment, that day.