OldTroubador's blog post - Through My Office Window

Over eight years of staring out the windshield, as this great land of ours scrolls past. Eight years of sunrises, sunsets, woods, hills, mountains, plains, lakes, rivers, bays, and oceans. Eight years of seeing some of the most beautiful land imaginable – and there is so much more that I haven’t seen.
Two weeks ago, as I was headed to the house, I crossed the Old and Lost River (before any rumors get started, this river was NOT named for me. However, I have it on good authority that one of the original SWIFT drivers used to live here; or did after he found it and decided to just settle there). It is about a mile to the Trinity River and the expanse is covered in a grassy wetland. As I crossed this expanse, a flock of two dozen white ibis rose to take flight – their long legs trailing behind as their almost as long curved, red beaks led the way.
My first pick-up after my break was in Beaumont, TX. As I sat in the staging area awaiting my call to the dock, a golden eagle flew over head. On my way west after being loaded, I crossed a crawfish farm. I was marveling at the number of egrets of all shapes and sizes feeding in the ponds, when a roseate spoonbill lifted off, powerful wingbeats propelling it in flight, its brilliant pink contrasting beautifully with the green grass and the blue sky reflecting off the water.
For the most part, I have enjoyed bright blue skies and lots of sunshine over the last two weeks. I have been blessed to miss all the storms that have wreaked so much havoc in many parts of the country. Every sunrise has been a blessing to me, every sunset a unique benediction to end the day. Although seemingly similar, each is as individual as we are. Some mornings, the sky is cloudless and the palette of pastels ever-changing in the eastern sky is mesmerizing. Other days, large puffy clouds capture the sunrise in a kaleidescopic riot of color – from ashen gray to a blindingly pure white. And yet other days, high thin clouds are dry brushed across the sky, first showing pale purples before exploding into fiery oranges, yellows, and reds.
There is a special moment before the dawn, when one realizes that one can see color where before there was just different degrees of blackness. The subtle hues and shadings are not yet evident, but the world is still green, it is pleasing to note. As you look under the trees, back into the woods, it is still shrouded in shadow – dark, quiet, mysterious, foreboding. As the sun climbs higher, the east facing slopes catch the morning in all its glory. They glow green; each individual leaf contributing to a greater whole as all the myriad variations of green are laid out for one’s enjoyment. The west facing hillsides are still in shadow, awaiting the conductor of this symphony to cue them for their grand entrance. The flowers also lend their colors to this opus, brilliant counterpoints to the main theme of green.
In the hollows where the dew lay heavy during the night, and from the streams and ponds, a light fog rises, diffusing the morning light. When caught at the right angle, this mist casts a golden hue over the awakening greens of the day. If the hollow is next to the roadway, the fog rises and spills across the road, its travel interrupted by the passing vehicles, causing the mist to rear up and roil before dissipating into the morning sky. Other times, the mist lies in the ditches along the road, like a large dragon, slumbering. As a truck passes, it causes one end to raise up, the dragon enraged at the noisy diesel which dared waken it.
There are so many images burned into my mind – the sandhill crane flying over the marshes of central Wisconsin north of the Dells, the Dells themselves, the sun shining on the sandstone rock cuts on I-49 north of Jane, MO, the endless miles of corn – from knee-high in Wisconsin to ‘ready for harvest’ in Texas. Schools of shad and finger mullet dimpling the salt water flats around New Orleans. Thunderheads building in the heat of the afternoon. Watching as a crested caracara does a barrel roll to try to escape a blackbird that was attacking it. Fireflies dancing in the shrubbery.
Then, in the evening, I watch out my window as the sun sets, again casting an amazing palette of colors against the sky, melding to a deep blue then black as the sun, reluctantly, lowers itself below the western horizon, leaving a last glimmer of light behind. And in the deepening darkness, a sliver of the moon hangs motionless above.
The soundtrack that accompanies the moving images is equally mesmerizing. The songbirds trilling their happy songs as the morning wakens them. Yes, including that one damned mockingbird that has to rise before anyone else and sing joyfully, hours before the sun rises. In the spring, crickets and treefrogs call to each other, individually not much to listen to, but en toto, a rousing concert of desperation masked as happiness. And out on the road, a different concert is being played. The hum of the tires on asphalt and concrete, sometimes to the accompaniment of stones caught in the treads clicking a syncopated beat. The roar of the diesels as they go by; the whistle of turbochargers spooling up and the growl of the big diesels as they labor up a hill or around slower traffic. The throaty chortle of engine brakes holding the weight back against gravity as the trucks descend hills and exit ramps. And, sadly, occasionally there are sirens screaming past, pointing the way to trouble, either ahead or behind. And to all this cacophony is added whatever musical selection catches my ear this fine driving day. All this and more are my daily soundtrack.
It is the memories of these sights and sounds that makes me want to get up every day and continue driving. All these things and more – the towns, each with their own history. Being able to top a hill and look down into the valley with its farms and villages. The rock cuts in the highway, telling of the prehistory of the world. The streams and rivers, looking deep into the clear water, and imagining the places where the large fish swim. Being able to see the limitless wide open spaces of the western plains, the closeness of the eastern hills. Every mile brings new memories; every turn of the wheel portending a hidden gem to be discovered.
And I will continue to partake of the visual buffet that rolls by my office window.