Big Trucks, Big Dreams

Big Trucks, Big Dreams 
By John R. Greenwood

Work Horse On A Foggy Morning

If you are from the Saratoga Springs, N.Y. area you are familiar with the well groomed trucks of William J. Morris Excavating. I have been witness to this company’s work for over thirty years. This post is a salute to a young man's dream of making his living by moving dirt and digging holes with big trucks and backhoes. I wanted to highlight a real life example of a young man who not only realized the American Dream, but also understood the importance of doing it with hard work and honesty. In all the years I have known Bill we have never spoken more than a few sentences to each other. We were not close friends nor were we classmates. The common thread was being young business owners in the 1980’s. Bill had a backhoe, I had an old milk truck. We both got up early and had our morning coffee side by side at the counter of a local diner. I knew who he was; the quiet guy with the brown and gold trucks. He knew who I was; the guy who bought a milk business and delivered milk to every place in town. We said good morning up to seven days a week for many years. If we saw each other in another venue we might not recognize each other. I have always had great respect for this quiet, hard working man. You don’t survive that long in business unless you are a person of integrity injected with a strong work ethic. William Morris is that guy. 

Bill if you ever run across this post know that it was done as a tribute to the working man. I can recall the early days when you could be spotted in a backyard digging a trench or burying a drainage pipe. You were always right there in the middle of things. In fact just a couple of days ago, and thirty years later, the sight was repeated at the place where I work. There you were shovel in hand, work boot deep in a ditch, leading the project by example. It has always been that way. It was as though you had clones spread out across town. 

As a young boy playing with my Tonkas in the dirt I dreamt of driving the big trucks, vroom, vroom, vrooming myself to sleep. I like most country raised boys of my era wanted that life. Bill Morris lived it and lives it still today. May every young person with a vision and solid work ethic realize their dream. I will be pulling for you all. 

Parked But Never Still

Hitchhiker

Hitchhiker
By John R. Greenwood













A teenage memory lingers
It remains thumb-out on Rt #9n
Morning, noon, and lonely night I stood upon the shoulders  of my 1970's friend waiting for a samaritan with trusting soul and open door
Hitchhiking; a lost art, a missed miss-adventure
Sadly, safely, banished from the list of a young man have-to's
Each time an approaching car 
Each time a racing heart, a hopeful spirit wish
Will this be the ride that satisfies freedoms joy
Right thumb out, arm bent and swaying slightly back to front
Sometimes rigid as if to say:
Go ahead, pass me by
A lifetime to stand here free as a tree waiting for a change of season
But as each begging eye meets the oncoming pair
A sense of lottery seeps in
Brightened brake lights proclaim thee a winner

"Hitchhiker" Read by the author John R. Greenwood

Fortunately as a fifteen year old I was able to experience hitchhiking. I can remember how much courage it took that very first time I stepped from the yard to the road's edge. I recall being more afraid of an angry father than I was of being picked up by a serial killer. Once you've secured your first ride, each ensuing trip to the shoulder becomes easier. There is an art to hitchhiking. My ticket to a prompt pick up was carrying my Saratoga Blue Streak gym bag. That coupled with a baby smooth, whisker-less face pretty much insured I was as harmless as a pack of lambs. I didn't usually have to walk too far. In fact it was best when heading into town to stay put. People were used to seeing me there and a ride within the first few cars was common. The return trip had more challenges. Many times it was dark by then. Gym bag or not, the ride home took a bit more work to secure. 

Hitchhiking was dying a slow death. More families had multiple vehicles and more teenagers were driving them. Hitchhiking and teens riding school buses were on the decline. It was also becoming more dangerous to be on either side of an outstretched thumb.

We lived on a busy state highway. Traffic and the ability to snag a ride were much easier there than on the secondaries that ran parallel. I lived about six miles north of the city where my girl friend lived. When your fifteen, love runs strong, six miles is trivial pursuit. The pretty young thing with the Irish dimple was well worth the travel time--in fact she still is. 

Writing Is My Hay

Writing Is My Hay
By John R. Greenwood

I just returned from reading a Bedlam Farm.Com  post about hay being the thread of life on a farm. Hay is such a simple thing and yet without it many animals would perish. That's when it dawned on me that writing is my hay. It draws me to the desk each day like a horse to the greenest pasture. I relish each line as though munching another mouthful of dry rye, lifting my head just long enough to savor the world around me. It doesn't matter what I write about or how it's shared, but it does matter that it happens. When days multiply without words, I become hungry and weak. Irritability rises and my sense of worth drops a point or two. When I put my life on paper I breathe. It keeps me vital in the world. It is a small corner I inhabit and without documentation my fear is that it will someday become extinct. I'm the little guy who writes about little things like mowing the lawn and swimming holes. The hay that sustains the majority. The nourishment we must appreciate in order to receive its full benefits. As I munch away here I begin to feel full again, if only for a few hours or maybe a day or two, always knowing I will need another armful of hay, another pageful of sharing. Each morning when the alarm rings and the day begins to entwine itself, I yearn for something more. I keep all my senses on alert for more hay, more sustenance. I am never opposed to being fed by strangers either. Any broken bales of ideas or thoughts are welcome. Simply throw them over the fence and watch me eat. I will absorb your thoughts and dreams and let them supply me strength. Strength to continue my writing, working life. 

What's your hay? 

What Makes You Smile?

What makes you smile?
 By John R. Greenwood

My father had a deep vein of prankster in him. One prank in particular always brings a smile to my face. Dad's friend Jack used to stop by and visit him on a regular basis. They would talk about everything and anything. They were both retired and in their seventies. The friendship had a Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, Grumpy Old Men, feel to it. Their visits were more about killing time than about discussing world events. Jack was a character and known to be a little tight with a dollar. He was always complaining about how much everything cost; whether it was a gallon of gas or a bag of oranges. My father, the perpetual instigator, loved to poke him with a stick to get him ranting about something. On this particular day my father dreamed up a scheme to play on Jack's love of the almighty buck. He took a $5.00 bill and tied it to the end of some fishing line. He then laid the bill at the end of the sidewalk where he knew his friend would see it. Dad then peeled off several feet of line from his fishing pole and hid in the back porch just out of sight. There sat a seventy year old man on an upside down plastic pail, fishing pole in hand waiting for a nibble from his frugal friend. Minutes later a Buick pulls in the driveway and out steps Mr. Fishing Prey. As he heads toward the front door he spots the bait. There on the sidewalk lay a crisp fiver waiting for a nibble. He bends over to snatch it up and just as he does Father Prankster reels in a foot or two of fishing line. Poor Jack almost falls on his face trying to grab the cash. Bent over like 6:15, he lunges forward and takes another swipe at the runaway Lincoln. At that point he hears an old-man's roar of laughter echo from the back of the house! A responding, "You Son-of-bitch!", could be heard a mile away. Sometimes you can't help but smile. For me this is one of those times. 

This post was initiated by a writing prompt on the website Pugs and Pics. The creator of Pugs and Pics, Kim Gifford, is a member of my Hubbard Hall Writing Group. Her site is packed with Pugaphernalia and good fun.   

Hilltop Drive

Hilltop Drive 

By John R. Greenwood

To the end of Hilltop Drive I go. Hilltop Drive the rising road to nowhere and everywhere. It's a place where life begins and where life ends. A spot where quiet dominates and noise is distant and hollow. I walk beyond the end. I perch on a chainsaw-murdered log. I watch nothing and soak in everything. A deer hunter's shot rings out in the woods beyond me, I flinch but remain. A curious hawk swoops in low to see if I am meal worthy. Watching her cholesterol she decides I am not and continues on her way. Cars pass by on lonely Route #9 below. Route #9, the forgotten one, the Route #66 of the Adirondacks. Hilltop Drive is young but spreading. Like a bittersweet vine she wanders off into the forrest grasping ledges and limbs, embedding her blacktop where it doesn’t belong; an asphalt intruder, unwelcome and dark. Unsettled animals scurry around the edges of a civilized world here, sacrificing inches, relinquishing miles. What will happen tomorrow? Only the wind and rain know for sure. They will show up regardless. As this last line is penned, a parade of snow, flurries down upon me. Resting assured, my plight is their plight. 

The End

I assembled the piece above from photographs taken of a new road near my home. The area has grown considerably since 1981 when we purchased our little one story ranch for the price of a present day, nicely equipped pickup truck. The question of how much growth is enough is an ongoing tug-of-war we must face. As I was taking photos of the hillside and surrounding area a tired old porcupine waddled to the roads edge as if on cue by the director. The look on his face said he knew I was coming all along.