240915 Heading East

Heading East
Episode 1

Back in 2011 I wrote perhaps the most liked story I've ever posted. Its title was: "The Final Voyage." I think about that frequently And it always makes me smile.

I've always liked trucks. I've had 2 trucks over my lifetime and I loved having both of them.

Yesterday I was dragging my little hand cart home from the grocery store. I approached a little used cross street. There a young man pulled up to the intersection and was waiting for traffic to clear so he could continue his journey.

He was driving a beat up old Chevy truck. I asked, "56?" He replied, "57." We talked for several minutes and then parted ways.

Seeing that old truck made me happy as I thought about it all day long. Late in the afternoon I decided to write another story, similar to the well liked: "Final Voyage story."
This time I will be heading east instead of west.

My story begins. I've become restless living alone in my apartment. Friends here come and go in less than a year. They're off to another journey, while I stay in a static lifestyle here.

I began looking for an old truck on car buying sites. I saw one listing that stated: "54 Chevy stepside, looks bad but runs good!" That was my trigger. I contacted the owner, sent him a deposit and said I'll be there in a few days to purchase the truck.

I canceled my lease on the apartment, withdrew my money from the bank and took a bus to Saint Louis. There I went to see the owner of the truck. He was correct in his description, the truck was shabby looking. I took it out for a test drive and was surprised at how well the truck performed. The owner had rebuilt the engine and all of the moving parts in the undercarriage, but he ran out of money before he could make the truck look like new. That was perfect for me; it was everything I had dreamt about for years.

I stopped at a sporting goods store, bought a tent, a small Coleman cooking stove and a host of packaged meals, just add water, heat and eat. I fired up the old Chevy and headed east, crossing over the bridge into Illinois.

230123 The Final Voyage

After I posted my most recent writing. I remembered this story. I think it fits well with my post of January 20, 2023.

I wrote this story 12 years ago. I have updated it and hopefully made it better.

                  The Final Voyage
                  Chapter 1
                  Escape

The farm was all I ever knew, except for a hitch in the navy.

I tried living in a retirement home for a month, but could not stand being cooped up with all those old people just sitting there waiting to die. By gosh I had a few more things to do before I laid down for the last time. One night as the last visitors were leaving and the nurse’s aides were busy putting all the old people to bed, I joined ranks with the visitors and walked right out the door. The girl in the office was busy filling out the daily reports so she never looked up.

The night air was cool and refreshing as I walked back toward the farm. Lucky for me, I was smart enough to keep the spare key to my old truck in my pocket when I went into the retirement home. I was building up a sweat as I climbed the last hill up to the farm, despite the cool night air. It was after midnight when I arrived. Seeing the old house again made a tad of water run from my eyes. The lights were out and the new owners were asleep. The little old truck was parked out by the barn and was none the worse for the time I was away. I slipped the gear shift into neutral and began to slowly push the truck out to the road. I could not risk starting it and driving by the house. The little truck was very lightweight and was fairly easy to push out to the road, once there; I pointed her down the hill and coasted to the bottom before firing the old girl up. Lights on and I was headed west out of the county.

My lighter sparked and I took a full puff off my first cigarette since being locked up; I mean being in the home. The glove box had several packs inside as I was the only one who smoked. The thought process kicked up a notch and I began to imagine tomorrow morning’s scenario. The nurse’s aides would find my bed empty. They would do a search of the home and grounds and when they were absolutely sure I was missing, they would try to figure out what to say when they notified the authorities. Once they were aware, they would look around the farm to see if I was there. When they found the truck missing, they would begin to wonder if I had retrieved it or if someone had stolen it. That would not take too long before they would realize no one would steal a beat up 30 year old truck. They would then call the sheriff and ask him what he could do. They would explain that I was old and perhaps not able to take care of myself, trying to get the sheriff involved and of course the truck might still be considered stolen. That being the case, I was heading out west on the old highways, thinking the interstate would be the place any patrol car would be looking. I was in no hurry, no time schedule, just heading west and looking to enjoy the scenery on the back roads of Missouri and Kansas.

                  The Final Voyage
                  Chapter 2
                   Heading West

The old truck started bucking and losing power just shy of Wichita, Kansas. The morning sun hadn’t looked so good to me in a long time. I pulled the old truck to the side of the road when the engine completely died. There I was with just a few dollars in my pocket and nowhere particular to go. Another smoke and a few moments to think brought me a few ideas to mull over. Morning commuters began passing by, so I stuck my thumb out and caught a ride into Wichita. My benefactor said his name was Charlie and he worked at a truck stop over on the interstate at the edge of town. We pulled into the Petro stop and Charlie offered to get me breakfast in the kitchen. His girlfriend worked there so it was free to Charlie and me. We ate some delicious eggs, bacon and biscuits. His girlfriend Nancy was the morning chef and that girl could cook a wonderful breakfast. I thanked them for their kindness and said I was going out on the lot to hitch a ride. Charlie asked what I was going to do about my truck. I reached into my pocket and tossed him the key.

Out on the lot I went from truck to truck asking for a lift. The third driver asked where I was going. I replied “West.” He said he was headed into Denver and I said that would be great. Ron was his name and Ron was a victim of too many big meals in truck stops, but he was a nice guy. We rolled along listening to country music and the occasional breaker over his old CB radio. Interstate 70 through Kansas seems to go on forever without change, but Ron was a funny guy, so time passed with enjoyment as Ron spoke about his wife, his girlfriend and a crazy fishing buddy named Leroy.

We rolled into Leroy’s place just across the Colorado state line a little before dark. Leroy greeted us with a round of cold beers. We had a second round and Leroy suggested we catch a few fish for supper. I said I didn’t have a license, but Leroy assured me I didn’t need one. He went over to a little shack behind the barn and came back with a half-stick of dynamite. We walked down through a wooded area to a large approximately 10 acre pond where Leroy had his boat. Leroy lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite a few feet out into the lake. The dynamite exploded, giving us a cool, refreshing shower. Seconds later our supper floated to the surface and we gathered the fish and headed back to the house. After scraping off the scales we fileted the fish and fried up the best supper I’d had in a long time. A few more beers and we settled in for the night.

The next morning Ron was up early and ready to go. He was anxious to see his girlfriend in Denver. I would have liked a few cups of coffee, but Ron popped a top on a beer for breakfast and said, “Let’s go!” He grabbed six more on the way out the door and he fired up the big diesel in his truck. I climbed aboard and Ron wound up the truck heading down the Interstate. Ron’s excitement grew with each slug of beer and the speed of the truck kept climbing the closer we got to Denver. We were 20 miles shy of Denver when the flashing red and blue lights appeared behind us. Ron pulled over to the side of the highway and soon thereafter this tall, lean ex-Marine looking state trooper motioned Ron out of the truck. It was a dead giveaway when he tripped climbing down the side of the semi and knocked the trooper to the ground with him. The trooper barked out, “I am arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence.” Ron was handcuffed in the back seat of the patrol car and I was given the option of calling someone to come and get me or ride downtown with them to headquarters. Since I did not have a cell phone or anyone to call I took the ride, thinking I could hitch a ride out of Denver.

                   The Final Voyage
                   Chapter 3
                  North of Denver with Denver

I hitched north out of Denver and then down a state road to see an old navy buddy (Denver) living up in the mountains. I gave him a call from a pay phone in Fort Collins and he wound down the mountain to pick me up in an old Dodge 4-wheel drive pickup. He drove us up to his cabin high in the Rockies where in a few hours the only thing higher than the mountains was us. The views were amazing. We sat on a rocky cliff with our feet dangling over a thousand-foot drop-off as we marveled at the wonder of it all. Two old men sitting there talking about the old navy days together. We ran out of beer, weed and several bags of chips before crawling back to his cabin for a long night’s sleep.

The next morning, still hungry, we fired up the wood cook stove and had a dozen eggs and several potatoes. We heard gun shots nearby so we walked out to see what was going on outside. Several of Denver’s buddies jumped a big buck and came rolling up on their 4-wheelers with the big buck strapped on the back of one of the four wheelers. We spent the next several hours drinking beer, skinning and dressing the deer before hanging him in the smokehouse. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long without all the beer, but it might not have been as much fun either. We saved part of that deer and roasted it on a spit over a campfire near the cabin. Deer and canned beans, you can imagine that scene if you have ever seen the campfire scene in Mel Brook’s movie “Blazing Saddles,” enough said about that.

Those friends of Denver ran him completely out of beer that night so the next morning it was time to drive down the mountain and get another truck load of beer. It was fun being up there on the mountain and fun visiting Denver, but at my age I can only go so long before having to back off for a while. I rode down with Denver to Fort Collins and flagged a ride on a tractor/trailer headed toward the west coast. Denver and I were and are good buddies, but we have a tendency to go just too far with fun times together, we always did and always will do so.

I caught another ride with a trucker headed to San Francisco. John was a churchy type, making the run a long one. I listened for as long as I could before starting to question just how illogical the biblical stories were that he related to me. An hour later, he pulled over on the side of the road at the edge of Reno Nevada. John reached over, opened the door, shoved me out and actually showed me the single digit salute as he yelled, “go to hell you demonic bastard!” Maybe John didn’t read the parts of the book that speak of love thy neighbor.

I walked over to a casino and started looking for busses returning west from the casino and found one headed back to Sacramento. The passengers started lining up to board so I got in line with them. An old lady ahead of me stopped to bend the driver’s ear and some stoner behind me passed by and boarded with me following close behind him. The bus driver was busy trying to be polite so we wandered right on by and sat in the back of the bus. The stoner said his name was Daryl and proceeded to tell me stories that even I could not believe. Daryl (at least in his mind) thought he was the Charlie Harper character on the Two and a Half Men TV show. I thought I even remembered one or two episodes. We were nearing Sacramento when I saw a Roseville sign on I-80; Daryl said he needed to light up a fat boy and then proceeded to do so. Soon after, smoke rolled out and another old woman walked up to speak with the driver. The driver pulled into a truck stop and then came walking to the back of the bus. His intention was to remove Daryl from the bus and when he did so, he realized I was not supposed to be there so he removed me along with Daryl. There I was again, on foot with dwindling resources. What was I to do?

                  The Final Voyage
                   Chapter Four
                  Heading South

I was stuck somewhere near Roseville, I weighed my options and tried to formulate a plan. Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the road can be taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they were.

I was at the coffee counter at a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra.

“Nice car,” I said. “It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.” Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer.

We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened there, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that thing up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could make their way back to their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened it up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. before Hal let off the gas and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank.

We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at the quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising speed and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We stopped and started a few times crusing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?”

“The car is hot,” he said.
“I know its fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked.
“It’s stolen,” Hal replied.
“Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?”
“Why would I take that chance?” He answered.
“I told you it wasn’t mine,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded,
“Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?”
We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.

                  The Final Voyage
                  Chapter 5
                  The Hospital

I woke up in an Escondido, California hospital, battered and bruised. I pressed the call button and a nurse showed up a minute or so later, with a policeman right behind her. She asked me what my name was while the cop stood by with a pen and notebook at the ready. I didn’t have any identification when I left the old folks home, so they didn’t know who I was. I told them my name was Bill Weber, (hoping there was no missing person data out there) and said I was homeless, just hitching a ride when all this started up near Roseville. She asked if I knew anyone in the local area. I gave them Kelvin’s name and said he lived in Murrieta. She and the cop left the room.

They ran a full body scan on me to make sure there were no internal injuries. I was rolled back to my room and the cop and the nurse came in shortly after that. The nurse had contacted Kelvin said she said I could be released in 24 hours. The cop said that Hal had been a stand up guy and admitted that I was just a hitchhiker he had picked up to keep him company. That was a big surprise to me, but Hal did seem like an ok guy. Kelvin arrived that evening. We had not seen each other in 18 years. He brought a bottle of tequila with him. I rang for the night nurse and she brought us a cup of ice water. She left, Kelvin poured out the water and we sipped tequila and shot the bull until visiting hours were over.

Hello, my name is Kelvin; I found these story notes written on a tablet Bill had with him. The nurse said his heart had stopped in the middle of the night and the staff could not revive him. I typed his notes and am sending them to his contacts and posting the story on his Facebook page as he no doubt intended to do. His body will be sent back to the farm for burial, where he will rest in peace.

The End

220121 Sentinel, My Posts and Stories

I have recently passed the 2,106 mark in posts sent. That is more than I ever dreamed of when I started using Google Blogger in 2006.

There were few posts written in the early years, in 2006 I only wrote 3 posts. In the first 6 years the combined total was only 87 posts. It was 2013 when first I broke 100 posts written in a year. Since then every year has been about 200 to 300. I hope 2022 is equal to that and maybe more.

My posts have been read by 92,626 people here in the U.S. and in other countries. I know that many people have had many more people read their posts than I have, but I feel that I have done well for a poor kid raised in Missouri with no education in the writing craft and never having read the classic literature of the English language.

The only precept I found and try to follow is to write about what you know and have experienced. I’ve never admitted this before, but many of my posts about my Uncle Billy are in reality written by my own experiences. One could say in those stories I am Uncle Billy. You can type in Uncle Billy in the search box in the upper left hand corner of any post and you will get a list of them. Almost all of those stories (with perhaps a slight embellishment) are the real deal in my lifetime. My stories “The Final Voyage” are based on how I would like my life ending to be.
I contemplated quitting my writing when I hit my goal of 2000, but I found that writing is most of what I have to do these days and I enjoy doing it. I would like to add another 900 to exceed 3,000 posts, but I don’t know if I have enough time left to do that in my lifetime. That could take up to 4.5 years or more and what the future may bring is as always the dark unknown to everyone of us.

Sentinel, Travels 2105

Sentinel test
      I never did this over the road traveling, but I wish I had the opportunity to do it. The picture below is Jack Kerouac an American writer and a traveler across our country..

      Jack took off and traveled the country, sometimes alone, sometimes with his dog. He just wandered about seeing whatever there was to see. I find that idea exciting. I never had the opportunity to do that. Those of you who have read my story “The Final Voyage” have an idea of what I wish I had done. The story was only in my imagination, but what a journey it would have been to experience.

      I met an interesting character during my Burroughs days by the name of Tom. We were all still young in those days. He had several jobs prior to working at the big “B”. Nothing lasted for a long time. He bought a big Dodge van and he and his wife started heading west from Minnesota with no particular plan in mind. I recall him saying they lived in that van for a year, working odd jobs and continuing their travels every so often. Once they finally got to San Diego, they were tired of all the traveling. He got a job, they bought a home and were there as long as I was and more.

      I still dream about it, but no longer have the constitution to actually take off and just roam with nothing to carry and no one to worry about but myself.. One of the things I liked about my navy time and being aboard ship was that I walked up the gangplank with nothing but my sea bag and nothing to worry about. The ship fed me, gave me a place to sleep, a lot of excitement and a chance to see foreign countries that the majority of people never get to see.

      

Sentinel, Final Chapter of The Final Voyage 210313

The Final Voyage Chapter 5 The Hospital

I woke up in an Escondido California hospital, battered and bruised. I pressed the call button and a nurse showed up a minute or so later, with a policeman right behind her. She asked me what my name was while the cop stood by with a pen and notebook at the ready. I didn’t have any identification when I left the old folks home, so they didn’t know who I was. I told them my name was Bill Weber, (hoping there was no missing person data out there) and said I was homeless, just hitching a ride when all this started up near Roseville. She asked if I knew anyone in the local area. I gave them Kelvin’s name and said he lived in Murrieta. She and the cop left the room.

They ran a full body scan on me to make sure there were no internal injuries. I was rolled back to my room and the cop and the nurse came in shortly after that. The nurse who had contacted Kelvin said I could be released in 24 hours. The cop said that Hal had been a stand up guy and admitted that I was just a hitchhiker he had picked up to keep him company. That was a big surprise to me, but Hal did seem like an ok guy, except for being a mule for a stolen car ring.

Kelvin arrived that evening. We had not seen each other in 18 years. He brought a bottle of tequila with him. I rang for the night nurse and she brought us two cups of ice water. She left, Kelvin poured out the water and we sipped tequila and shot the bull until visiting hours were over.

Hello, my name is Kelvin; I found these story notes written on a tablet Bill had with him. The nurse said his heart had stopped in the middle of the night and the staff could not revive him. I typed his notes and am sending them to his contacts and posting the story on his Facebook page as he no doubt intended to do. His body will be sent back to the farm for burial, where he will rest in peace.

The End

Sentinel, The Final Voyage Chapter 4 210309

The Final Voyage Chapter Four Heading South

Stuck somewhere near Roseville, I weighed my options and tried to formulate a plan. Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and usually sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the road can be taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they are.

I was at the coffee counter inside a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra. “Nice car,” I said. “It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.”

Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer.

We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that thing up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could kickstart their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened that Cobra up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. Hal let off the accelerator and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank. We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at the quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We stopped and started a few times crossing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?” “This car is hot,” he said. “I know its fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked. “It’s stolen,” Hal replied. “Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?” “Why would I take that chance?” He answered. “I told you it wasn’t mine.” “Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.” “I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded, “Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?” We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.

Sentinel, Final Voyage Chapter 3 210308

The Final Voyage Chapter 3 North of Denver with Denver

I hitched a ride north out of Denver and then down a state road to see an old navy buddy (named Denver) who was living up in the mountains. I gave him a call from a pay phone in Fort Collins and he wound down the mountain to pick me up in an old Dodge 4-wheel drive pickup. He drove us up to his cabin high in the Rockies where in a few hours the only thing higher than the mountains was us. The views were amazing. We sat on a rocky cliff with our feet dangling over a 300-foot drop-off as we marveled at the wonder of it all. It was us two old men sitting there talking about the old navy days together. We ran out of beer, weed and several bags of chips before crawling back to his cabin for a long night’s sleep. The next morning, still hungry, we fired up the wood stove stove and had a dozen eggs and several potatoes. We heard gunshots nearby so we walked out to see what was going on outside. Several of Denver’s buddies had jumped a big buck and came rolling up on their 4-wheelers with the big buck strapped on the back of one of the four wheelers. We spent the next several hours drinking beer, skinning and dressing the deer before hanging him in the smokehouse. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long without all the beer, but it might not have been as much fun either. We saved part of that deer and roasted it on a spit over a campfire near the cabin. Deer and canned beans, you can imagine that scene if you have ever seen the campfire scene in Mel Brook’s movie “Blazing Saddles,” enough said about that. Those friends of Denver ran him completely out of beer that night so the next morning it was time to drive down the mountain and get another truck load of beer. It was fun being up there on the mountain and fun visiting Denver, but at my age I can only go so long before having to back off for a while. I rode down with Denver to Fort Collins and flagged a ride on a tractor/trailer headed toward the west coast. Denver and I were and are good buddies, but we have a tendency to go just too far with fun times together, we always did and always will do so. I caught another ride with a trucker headed to San Francisco. John was a churchy type, making the run a long one. I listened for as long as I could before starting to question just how illogical the biblical stories were that he had related to me. An hour later, he pulled over on the side of the road at the edge of Reno Nevada. John reached over, opened the door, shoved me out and actually showed me the single digit salute as he yelled, “go to hell you demonic bastard!” Maybe John didn’t read the parts of the book that speak of love thy neighbor. I walked over to a casino and started looking for busses returning west from the casino and found one headed back to Sacramento. The passengers started lining up to board so I got in line with them. An old lady ahead of me stopped to bend the driver’s ear and some stoner behind me passed by and boarded with me following close behind him. The bus driver was busy trying to be polite so we wandered right on by and sat in the back of the bus. The stoner said his name was Daryl and proceeded to tell me stories that even I could not believe. Daryl (at least in his mind) thought he was the Charlie Harper character on the Two and a Half Men TV show. I thought I even remembered one or two episodes. We were nearing Sacramento when I saw a Roseville sign on I-80; Daryl said he needed to light up a fat boy and then proceeded to do so. Soon after, smoke rolled out and another old woman walked up to speak with the driver. The driver pulled into a truck stop and then came walking to the back of the bus. His intention was to remove Daryl from the bus and when he did so, he realized I was not supposed to be there so he removed me along with Daryl. There I was again, on foot with dwindling resources. What was I to do?

Sentinel, The Final Voyage Chapter 2 210307

The Final Voyage Chapter 2 Heading West

The old truck started bucking and losing power just shy of Wichita, Kansas. The morning sun had not looked so good to me in a long time. I pulled the old truck to the side of the road when the engine completely died. There I was with just a few dollars in my pocket and nowhere particular to go. Another smoke and a few moments to think brought me a few ideas to mull over. Morning commuters began passing by, so I stuck my thumb out and caught a ride into Wichita. My benefactor said his name was Charlie and he worked at a truck stop over on the interstate at the edge of town. We pulled into the Petro stop and Charlie offered to get me breakfast in the kitchen. His girlfriend worked there so it was free to Charlie and me. We ate some delicious eggs, bacon and biscuits. His girlfriend Nancy was the morning chef and that girl could cook a wonderful breakfast. I thanked them for their kindness and said I was going out on the lot to hitch a ride. Charlie asked what I was going to do about my truck. I reached into my pocket and tossed him the key. Out on the lot I went from truck to truck asking for a lift. The third driver asked where I was going. I replied “West.” He said he was headed into Denver and I said that would be great. Ron was his name and Ron was a victim of too many big meals in truck stops, but he was a nice guy. We rolled along listening to country music and the occasional breaker over his old CB radio. Interstate 70 through Kansas seems to go on forever without change, but Ron was a funny guy, so time passed with enjoyment as Ron spoke about his wife, his girlfriend and a crazy fishing buddy named Leroy. We rolled into Leroy’s place just across the Colorado state line a little before dark. Leroy greeted us with a round of cold beers. We had a second round and Leroy suggested we catch a few fish for supper. I said I didn’t have a license, but Leroy assured me I didn’t need one. He went over to a little shack behind the barn and came back with a half-stick of dynamite. We walked down through a wooded area to a large approximately 10 acre pond where Leroy had his boat. Leroy lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite a few feet out into the lake. The dynamite exploded, giving us a cool, refreshing shower. Seconds later our supper floated to the surface and we gathered the fish and headed back to the house. After scraping off the scales we filleted the fish and fried up the best supper I’d had in a long time. A few more beers and we settled in for the night. The next morning Ron was up early and ready to go. He was anxious to see his girlfriend in Denver. I would have liked a few cups of coffee, but Ron popped a top on a beer for breakfast and said, “Let’s go!” He grabbed six more on the way out the door and he fired up the big diesel in his truck. I climbed aboard and Ron wound up the truck heading down the Interstate. Ron’s excitement grew with each slug of beer and the speed of the truck kept climbing the closer we got to Denver. We were 20 miles shy of Denver when the flashing red and blue lights appeared behind us. Ron pulled over to the side of the highway and soon thereafter this tall, lean ex-Marine looking state trooper motioned Ron out of the truck. It was a dead giveaway when Ron tripped climbing down the side of the semi and knocked the trooper to the ground with him. The trooper barked out, “I am arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence.” Ron was handcuffed in the back seat of the patrol car and I was given the option of calling someone to come and get me or ride downtown with them to headquarters. Since I did not have a cell phone or anyone to call I took the ride, thinking I could hitch a ride out of Denver.

Sentinel, Final Voyage Chapter 1 210306

This is my favorite story that I have ever written. I suppose because while it is a fantasy, it is also something I would like to do, without all of the crazy characters in the story. I published it first in 2011. It was reposted about 2017 and now with increased readership I am posting it for them. Those of you long-time readers are welcome to read it again. The story will be sent in 5 chapters, one each day.

The Final Voyage Chapter 1 Escape

The farm was all I ever knew, except for a 10-year hitch in the navy and a failed attempt at a business of my own. When I got too old to pull my weight on the farm, the kids decided I needed to go into an old folk’s home nearby. They needed space for a hired hand that could do more work than I could. I lost my room in the house and a young man from down the road took over my room and my chores. I tried the retirement home for a month, but could not stand being cooped up with all those old people just sitting there waiting to die. By gosh I had a few more things to do before I lay down for the last time. One night as the last visitors were leaving the home and the nurse’s aides were busy putting all the old people to bed, I joined ranks with the visitors and walked right out the door. The girl in the office was busy filling out the daily reports so she never looked up.

The night air was cool and refreshing as I walked back toward the farm. Lucky for me, I was smart enough to keep the spare key to my old truck in my pocket when they put me in the home. I was building up a sweat as I climbed the last hill up to the farm, despite the cool night air. It was after midnight when I arrived and the lights were out in the house. The kids, grandkids and hired hand were all asleep. Seeing the old house again made a tad bit of water run from my eyes. The little old truck was parked out by the barn and was none the worse for the time I was away. The kids had a newer, bigger truck so it had probably not been used since I left. I slipped the gear shift into neutral and began to slowly push the truck out to the road. I could not risk starting it and driving by the house. The little truck was very lightweight and was fairly easy to push out to the road, once there; I pointed her down the hill and coasted to the bottom before firing the old girl up. Lights on and I was headed west out of the county. My lighter sparked and I took a full puff off my first cigarette since being locked up; I mean being put into the home. The glove box had several packs inside as I was the only one who smoked and the kids did not want me smoking around the grand kids. The thought process kicked up a notch and I began to imagine tomorrow morning’s scenario. The nurse’s aides would find my bed empty. They would do a search of the home and grounds and when they were absolutely sure I was missing, they would try to figure out what to say when they notified the kids. Once the kids were aware, they would look around the farm to see if I was there. When they found the truck missing, they would begin to wonder if I had retrieved it or if someone had stolen it. That would not take too long before they would realize no one would steal a beat up 30 year old truck. They would then call the sheriff and ask him what he could do. They would explain that I was old and perhaps not able to take care of myself, trying to get the sheriff involved and of course the truck might still be considered stolen. That being the case, I was heading out west on the old highways, thinking the interstate would be the place any patrol car would be looking. I was in no hurry, no time schedule, just heading west and looking to enjoy the scenery on the back roads of Missouri and Kansas.

Songs Sounds and Memories 200309

      This post is personal with some sweet memories.

      Whenever I hear a Johnny Cash recording I think of my old buddy Doug Culwell, God rest his soul. Doug was a sailor, a jailer, a miner, an insurance salesman. He covered all fronts.

      When I pop a top on a can of beer I think of my fallen friend Bob Dill. I used to get home and call him at work and have him listen to the top on my first beer.

      When I see a helicopter I remember another sailor, Ken Vaughn who flew helicopters for near 30 years in the navy and John Alehandro who was a door gunner in Vietnam.

      A motorcycle makes me think of our Litton heroes Kelly Hampton and Bill Taylor, or biker Billy as he is now known.

      I often review my story "Final Voyage" (one of my favorites) I think of our west coast bureau chief Kevin. And of course when I need help with the dreaded Windows computer, he is there.

      Another favorite story "Enlightenment" I think of my friend Isabel from Litton. I always liked the way she thought about things.

      My poem "The River of Life" reminds me of all the friends I made at Litton. In the poem I speak of how some people are always in my life while others may only be there for a short time to teach me something.

      If I watch a war movie with an army medic in it I think of Derrick, who was an army medic and after he was out, he dropped everything to go to New York the help out after 9/11.

      A paint commercial reminds me of my grandpa and Joyce's, one painted all his life and the other started after retirement.

      When I isten to the song "Hey Paula" the lyrics make me think of Joyce and how we were married so you because we were in love. It's been over 55 years now, but I think it's going to work out.

      When I see a bottle of rum, I think of my navy buddy Cal and the time we went to town in Cavite P.I. with a bottle of 151, drank that, drank more of what I do not know and finally some Filipino whiskey that cost 15 centavos, about maybe 10 cents at the time. I don't know how we made it back to the navy base, but I remember waking up the next morning and thinking I had gone blind for about 15 minutes.

      A bottle of Gin reminds me of sitting in the historic Raffles hotel in Singapore drinking Singapore Slings on the covered veranda and musing about how life was there before WW-2.

      

      

Daydreams About Old Pickup Trucks 1904

      I have this persistent daydream about getting an old Ford or Chevy pickup and cruising out old route 66 all the way to California in it.

      If you have ever read my story about the "Final Voyage" you might have an idea of what I am talking about.
      I expressed that thought to Joyce for the first time this afternoon and she says she is up for it as long as we don't camp in the truck. I am not sure I have it in me at this point, but I am thinking about it at the moment. I can't think about anything better in my life at this time. I can just picture it in my mind. We would just drive a couple hundred miles a day and stop at a nice motel for the night.
      Maybe I am just being silly; I do do not know if I could do it, but I still love to think about it nearly every day. I guess I am just thinking like an old man here. The old sense of adventure has waned over the years. In the old days I might have just taken off as soon as I could find the right truck. So the question is, should I go for it or not? I haven't been on the road in a long time and no doubt things have changed. Maybe I will give it a shot sooner than later; only time will tell.
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

Has life passed me by?

      This picture was taken many years ago. Someone asked why my current cover photo on Facebook didn't show a beer in my hand. I replied that it was indeed strange, as most pictures of me do have a beer in hand. This picture has never been posted before and I do have a beer in one hand, a smoke in the other and a smile on my happy face.

      I no longer work, no longer visit with as many people as I once did. I am beginning to wonder if I am out of the loop?
      Joyce's mother said that many years ago. I thought it was funny at the time, but now I have to say I get it. What happened here? I am happy, but I am wondering now if Joyce's mother was correct years ago and now I am in the same predicament? I feel like I am in that same situation at this moment. I have forgotten more than I can state about how things happen in the workforce. I don't know if I could get a job anymore. All I know is history these days when it comes to working in the positions I have held in the past; everything has advanced beyond anything I ever knew. I am feeling very outdated at the moment. I hope I never need another job in the future. Back in the day I was in a desirable field, now my field has gone well past my ability. I have never worked as cashier or in a retail store or as a janitor and as for working as a short order cook at an unnamed restaurant chain, I don't have any court convictions to qualify at this point in time. I suppose I could get a job as a Walmart greeter, but I don't think they have them anymore. And then again I would not want to stand for hours trying to make people happy to be entering Walmart; most seem happy already.
      So what is left for me if I need some kind of job? I have no answer today. Maybe there is no answer? I do not know. I can only hope I never need to find out, but with increasing prices on everything I may have to at some point. Perhaps something will happen similar to my story I sent out earlier this week, "The Final Voyage."
      Whatever happens in the future is not necessarily mine to choose, but whatever happens I will as the song said, "So let the sun shine in, face it with a grin. Smilers never lose and frowners never win. Open up your heart and let the sun shine in."

Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

The Final Voyage Chapter 5 190226

      This is the last chapter. I hope you have enjoyed the ride.

The Final Voyage
Chapter 5
The Hospital
      I woke up in an Escondido, California hospital, battered and bruised. I pressed the call button and a nurse showed up a minute or so later, with a policeman right behind her. She asked me what my name was while the cop stood by with a pen and notebook at the ready. I didn’t have any identification when I left the old folks home, so they didn’t know who I was. I told them my name was Bill Weber, (hoping there was no missing person data out there) and said I was homeless, just hitching a ride when all this started up near Roseville. She asked if I knew anyone in the local area. I gave them Kelvin’s name and said he lived in Murrieta. She and the cop left the room.
      They ran a full body scan on me to make sure there were no internal injuries. I was rolled back to my room and the cop and the nurse came in shortly after that. The nurse had contacted Kelvin said she said I could be released in 24 hours. The cop said that Hal had been a stand up guy and admitted that I was just a hitchhiker he had picked up to keep him company. That was a big surprise to me, but Hal did seem like an okay guy.
      Kelvin arrived that evening. We had not seen each other in 18 years. He brought a bottle of tequila with him. I rang for the night nurse and she brought us a cup of ice water. She left, Kelvin poured out the water and we sipped tequila and shot the bull until visiting hours were over.
      Hello, my name is Kelvin; I found these story notes hand written on a spiral note pad Bill had with him. The nurse said his heart had stopped in the middle of the night and the staff could not revive him. I typed his notes and am sending them to his contacts and posting the story on his Facebook page as he no doubt intended to do. His body will be sent back to the farm for burial, where he will rest in peace.
The End
      
      
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

The final voyage chapter 4

      Stuck somewhere near Roseville, California, I weighed my options and tried to formulate a plan.

The Final Voyage
Chapter Four
Heading South
      Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the over the road trucks were taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they were.
      I was at a coffee counter in a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra Mustang.
      “Nice car,” I said.
      “It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.” Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer. We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened there, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that mother up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could start up their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened it up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. before Hal let off the gas and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank. We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at a quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising speed and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We had stop and go traffic a few times crossing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south of L.A. when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?”
      “The car is hot,” he said.
      “I know it’s fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked.
      “It’s stolen,” Hal replied.
      “Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?”
      “Why would I take that chance?” He answered. “I told you it wasn’t mine,” he said.
      “Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.”
      “I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded, “Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?” We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.
      
      
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

The final Voyage Chapter 3

      This first picture is me sitting on the edge of a cliff high up in the Rockies. Denver took the picture.

The Final Voyage
Chapter 3
North of Denver with Denver
      This picture is Denver. He looks like a shorter version of Sam Eliot as I see it.

      I hitched north out of Denver and then down a state road to see an old navy buddy (Denver) living up in the mountains. I gave him a call from a pay phone in Fort Collins and he wound down the mountain to pick me up in an old Dodge 4-wheel drive pickup. He drove us up to his cabin high in the Rockies where in a few hours the only thing higher than the mountains was us. The views were amazing. We sat on a rocky cliff with our feet dangling over a several hundred-foot drop-off as we marveled at the wonder of it all. Two old men sitting there talking about the old navy days together. We ran out of beer, weed and several bags of chips before crawling back to his cabin for a long night’s sleep.
      The next morning, still hungry, we fired up the wood cook stove and had a dozen eggs and several potatoes. We heard gun shots nearby so we walked out to see what was going on outside. Several of Denver’s buddies jumped a big buck and came rolling up on their 4-wheelers with the big buck strapped on the back of one of the four wheelers. We spent the next several hours drinking beer, skinning and dressing the deer before hanging him in the smokehouse. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long without all the beer, but it might not have been as much fun either. We saved part of that deer and roasted it on a spit over a campfire near the cabin. Deer and canned beans, you can imagine that scene if you have ever seen the campfire scene in Mel Brook’s movie “Blazing Saddles,” enough said about that.
      Those friends of Denver ran him completely out of beer that night so the next morning it was time to drive down the mountain and get another truck load of beer. It was fun being up there on the mountain and fun visiting Denver, but at my age I can only go so long before having to back off for a while. I rode down with Denver to Fort Collins and flagged a ride on a tractor/trailer headed toward the west coast. Denver and I were and are good buddies, but we have a tendency to go just too far with fun times together, we always did and always will do so.
      I caught another ride with a trucker headed to San Francisco. John (the driver) was a churchy type, making the run a long one for me. I listened for as long as I could before starting to question just how illogical the stories were that he related to me. An hour later, he pulled over on the side of the road at the edge of Reno, Nevada. John reached over, opened the door, shoved me out and actually showed me the single digit salute as he yelled, “go to hell you demonic bastard!” Maybe John didn’t read the parts of the book that speak of love thy neighbor.
      I walked over to a casino and started looking for buses returning west from the casino and found one headed back to Sacramento. The passengers started lining up to board so I got in line with them. An old lady ahead of me stopped to bend the driver’s ear and some stoner behind me passed by and boarded with me following close behind him. The bus driver was busy trying to be polite so we wandered right on by and sat in the back of the bus. The stoner said his name was Daryl and proceeded to tell me stories that even I could not believe. Daryl (at least in his mind) thought he was the Charlie Harper character on the Two and a Half Men TV show. I thought I even remembered one or two episodes. We were nearing Sacramento when I saw a Roseville, California sign on I-80; Daryl said he needed to light up a fat boy and then proceeded to do so. Soon after, smoke rolled out and another old woman walked up to speak with the driver. The driver pulled into a truck stop and then came walking to the back of the bus. His intention was to remove Daryl from the bus and when he did so, he realized I was not supposed to be there so he shoved me off the bus along with Daryl. There I was again, on foot with dwindling resources. What was I to do?
      
      
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

The Final Voyage Chapter 2

      In chapter 2 I start meeting some unusual characters, even stranger than me.

The Final Voyage
Chapter 2
Heading West
      The old truck started bucking and losing power just shy of Wichita, Kansas. The morning sun had not looked so good to me in a long time. I pulled the old truck to the side of the road when the engine completely died. There I was with just a few dollars in my pocket and nowhere particular to go. Another smoke and a few moments to think brought me a few ideas to mull over.
      Morning commuters began passing by, so I stuck my thumb out and caught a ride into Wichita. My benefactor said his name was Charlie and he worked at a truck stop over on the interstate at the edge of town. We pulled into the Petro stop and Charlie offered to get me breakfast in the kitchen. His girlfriend worked there so it was free to Charlie and me. We ate some delicious eggs, bacon and biscuits. His girlfriend Nancy was the morning chef and that girl could cook a wonderful breakfast. I thanked them for their kindness and said I was going out on the lot to hitch a ride. Charlie asked what I was going to do about my truck. I reached into my pocket and tossed him the key. Out on the lot I went from truck to truck asking for a lift. The third driver asked where I was going. I replied “West.” He said he was headed into Denver and I said that would be great. Ron was his name and Ron was a victim of too many big meals in truck stops, but he was a nice guy. We rolled along listening to country music and the occasional breaker over his old CB radio. Interstate 70 through Kansas seems to go on forever without change, but Ron was a funny guy, so time passed with enjoyment as Ron spoke about his wife, his girlfriend and a crazy fishing buddy named Leroy.
      We rolled into Leroy’s place just across the Colorado state line a little before dark. Leroy greeted us with a round of cold beers. We had a second round and Leroy suggested we catch a few fish for supper. I said I didn’t have a license, but Leroy assured me I didn’t need one. He went over to a little shack behind the barn and came back with a half-stick of dynamite. We walked down through a wooded area to a large approximately 10 acre pond where Leroy had his boat. Leroy lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite a few feet out into the lake. The dynamite exploded, giving us a cool, refreshing shower. Seconds later our supper floated to the surface and we gathered the fish and headed back to the house. After scraping off the scales we filleted the fish and fried up the best supper I’d had in a long time. A few more beers and we settled in for the night.
      The next morning Ron was up early and ready to go. He was anxious to see his girlfriend in Denver. I would have liked a few cups of coffee, but Ron popped a top on a beer for breakfast and said, “Let’s go!” He grabbed six more on the way out the door and he fired up the big diesel in his truck. I climbed aboard and Ron wound up the truck heading down the Interstate. Ron’s excitement grew with each slug of beer and the speed of the truck kept climbing the closer we got to Denver. We were 20 miles shy of Denver when the flashing red and blue lights appeared behind us. Ron pulled over to the side of the highway and soon thereafter this tall, lean ex-Marine looking state trooper motioned Ron out of the truck. It was a dead giveaway when Ron tripped climbing down the side of the semi and knocked the trooper to the ground with him. The trooper barked out, “I am arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence.” Ron was handcuffed and put in the back seat of the patrol car and I was given the option of calling someone to come and get me or ride downtown with them to headquarters. Since I did not have a cell phone or anyone to call I took the ride, thinking I could hitch a ride out of Denver.
      
      
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

The Final Voyage Chapter 1

      Some of you long term Sentinel News readers have seen this story several years ago. This is more directed toward Facebook friends who have never seen it. I found it again and I liked re-reading it myself. This story is a mix of fantasy, wishes, truth and whimsy. Take it for what you will.

       The Final Voyage Chapter 1 Escape
      The farm was all I ever knew, except for a hitch in the navy and two failed attempts at a business of my own.
      When I got too old to pull my weight on the farm, the kids decided I needed to go into an old folk’s home nearby. They needed space for a hired hand that could do more work than I could. I lost my room in the house and a young man from down the road took over my room and my chores.
      I tried the retirement home for a month, but could not stand being cooped up with all those old people just sitting there waiting to die. By gosh I had a few more things to do before I lay down for the last time. One night as the last visitors were leaving and the nurse’s aides were busy putting all the old people to bed, I joined ranks with the visitors and walked right out the door. The girl in the office was busy filling out the daily reports so she never looked up. The night air was cool and refreshing as I walked back toward the farm. Lucky for me, I was smart enough to keep the spare key to my old truck in my pocket when they put me in the home. I was building up a sweat as I climbed the last hill up to the farm, despite the cool night air. It was after midnight when I arrived and the lights were out in the house. The kids, grandkids and hired hand were all asleep. Seeing the old house again made a tad of water run from my eyes. The little old truck was parked out by the barn and was none the worse for the time I was away. The kids had a newer, bigger truck so it had probably not been used since I left. I slipped the gear shift into neutral and began to slowly push the truck out to the road. I could not risk starting it and driving by the house. The little truck was very lightweight and was fairly easy to push out to the road, once there; I pointed her down the hill and coasted to the bottom before firing the old girl up. Lights on and I was headed west out of the county.
      My lighter sparked and I took a full puff off my first cigarette since being locked up; I mean being put into the home. The glove box had several packs inside as I was the only one who smoked and the kids did not want me smoking around the grand kid. The thought process kicked up a notch and I began to imagine tomorrow morning’s scenario. The nurse’s aides would find my bed empty. They would do a search of the home and grounds and when they were absolutely sure I was missing, they would try to figure out what to say when they notified the kids. Once the kids were aware, they would look around the farm to see if I was there. When they found the truck missing, they would begin to wonder if I had retrieved it or if someone had stolen it. That would not take too long before they would realize no one would steal a beat up 30 year old truck. They would then call the sheriff and ask him what he could do. They would explain that I was old and perhaps not able to take care of myself, trying to get the sheriff involved and of course the truck might still be considered stolen. That being the case, I was heading out west on the old highways, thinking the interstate would be the place any patrol car would be looking. I was in no hurry, no time schedule, just heading west and looking to enjoy the scenery on the back roads of Missouri and Kansas.
      
      
      
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.

Thoughts from my heart 170901

I hope those of you who may have read my story “the final voyage” remember it. In case you do not; it is at the end of this post. It is one of my favorites. But for now I want to share a thought from my heart.

I would love to get an old pickup truck and travel the west, no schedule, no worries. I know it is just a dream, but the thought is in my bones. The first truck I was exposed to was a friend’s 56 Ford with a big V-8 engine and exhausts that came up behind the cab and had that deep throated sound that just made a kid dream about traveling in it. Another friend of mine had his grandpa that had a 58 Chevy Apache, with just the six cylinder shift on the column that also inspired me to wonder what it would be like to just take off and see the west. I think I would prefer the old Chevy because I had a 65 Chevy with the same six cylinder and I loved it.

If my love of my life (Joyce) would happen to pass before me, I believe I would have to do this quest if I was still able to drive. If not, then it will just be a thought in my heart.

If you haven’t yet seen my story below, take a few moments and read it now. I suppose I am just in my heart an old cowboy who loves pickup trucks and roaming the west.

The Final Voyage

    Chapter 1

      Escape

The farm was all I ever knew, except for a hitch in the navy and two failed attempts at a business of my own.

When I got too old to pull my weight on the farm, the kids decided I needed to go into an old folk’s home nearby. They needed space for a hired hand that could do more work than I could. I lost my room in the house and a young man from down the road took over my room and my chores.

I tried the retirement home for a month, but could not stand being cooped up with all those old people just sitting there waiting to die. By gosh I had a few more things to do before I lay down for the last time. One night as the last visitors were leaving and the nurse’s aides were busy putting all the old people to bed, I joined ranks with the visitors and walked right out the door. The girl in the office was busy filling out the daily reports so she never looked up.

The night air was cool and refreshing as I walked back toward the farm. Lucky for me, I was smart enough to keep the spare key to my old truck in my pocket when they put me in the home. I was building up a sweat as I climbed the last hill up to the farm, despite the cool night air. It was after midnight when I arrived and the lights were out in the house. The kids, grandkids and hired hand were all asleep. Seeing the old house again made a tad of water run from my eyes. The little old truck was parked out by the barn and was none the worse for the time I was away. The kids had a newer, bigger truck so it had probably not been used since I left. I slipped the gear shift into neutral and began to slowly push the truck out to the road. I could not risk starting it and driving by the house. The little truck was very lightweight and was fairly easy to push out to the road, once there; I pointed her down the hill and coasted to the bottom before firing the old girl up. Lights on and I was headed west out of the county.

My lighter sparked and I took a full puff off my first cigarette since being locked up; I mean being put into the home. The glove box had several packs inside as I was the only one who smoked and the kids did not want me smoking around the grand kid. The thought process kicked up a notch and I began to imagine tomorrow morning’s scenario. The nurse’s aides would find my bed empty. They would do a search of the home and grounds and when they were absolutely sure I was missing, they would try to figure out what to say when they notified the kids. Once the kids were aware, they would look around the farm to see if I was there. When they found the truck missing, they would begin to wonder if I had retrieved it or if someone had stolen it. That would not take too long before they would realize no one would steal a beat up 30 year old truck. They would then call the sheriff and ask him what he could do. They would explain that I was old and perhaps not able to take care of myself, trying to get the sheriff involved and of course the truck might still be considered stolen. That being the case, I was heading out west on the old highways, thinking the interstate would be the place any patrol car would be looking. I was in no hurry, no time schedule, just heading west and looking to enjoy the scenery on the back roads of Missouri and Kansas.

The Final Voyage

     Chapter 2

  Heading West

The old truck started bucking and losing power just shy of Wichita, Kansas. The morning sun had not looked so good to me in a long time. I pulled the old truck to the side of the road when the engine completely died. There I was with just a few dollars in my pocket and nowhere particular to go. Another smoke and a few moments to think brought me a few ideas to mull over. Morning commuters began passing by, so I stuck my thumb out and caught a ride into Wichita. My benefactor said his name was Charlie and he worked at a truck stop over on the interstate at the edge of town. We pulled into the Petro stop and Charlie offered to get me breakfast in the kitchen. His girlfriend worked there so it was free to Charlie and me. We ate some delicious eggs, bacon and biscuits. His girlfriend Nancy was the morning chef and that girl could cook a wonderful breakfast. I thanked them for their kindness and said I was going out on the lot to hitch a ride. Charlie asked what I was going to do about my truck. I reached into my pocket and tossed him the key. Out on the lot I went from truck to truck asking for a lift. The third driver asked where I was going. I replied “West.” He said he was headed into Denver and I said that would be great. Ron was his name and Ron was a victim of too many big meals in truck stops, but he was a nice guy. We rolled along listening to country music and the occasional breaker over his old CB radio. Interstate 70 through Kansas seems to go on forever without change, but Ron was a funny guy, so time passed with enjoyment as Ron spoke about his wife, his girlfriend and a crazy fishing buddy named Leroy.

We rolled into Leroy’s place just across the Colorado state line a little before dark. Leroy greeted us with a round of cold beers. We had a second round and Leroy suggested we catch a few fish for supper. I said I didn’t have a license, but Leroy assured me I didn’t need one. He went over to a little shack behind the barn and came back with a half-stick of dynamite. We walked down through a wooded area to a large approximately 10 acre pond where Leroy had his boat. Leroy lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite a few feet out into the lake. The dynamite exploded, giving us a cool, refreshing shower. Seconds later our supper floated to the surface and we gathered the fish and headed back to the house. After scraping off the scales we filleted the fish and fried up the best supper I’d had in a long time. A few more beers and we settled in for the night.

The next morning Ron was up early and ready to go. He was anxious to see his girlfriend in Denver. I would have liked a few cups of coffee, but Ron popped a top on a beer for breakfast and said, “Let’s go!” He grabbed six more on the way out the door and he fired up the big diesel in his truck. I climbed aboard and Ron wound up the truck heading down the Interstate. Ron’s excitement grew with each slug of beer and the speed of the truck kept climbing the closer we got to Denver. We were 20 miles shy of Denver when the flashing red and blue lights appeared behind us. Ron pulled over to the side of the highway and soon thereafter this tall, lean ex-Marine looking state trooper motioned Ron out of the truck. It was a dead giveaway when he tripped climbing down the side of the semi and knocked the trooper to the ground with him. The trooper barked out, “I am arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence.” Ron was handcuffed in the back seat of the patrol car and I was given the option of calling someone to come and get me or ride downtown with them to headquarters. Since I did not have a cell phone or anyone to call I took the ride, thinking I could hitch a ride out of Denver.

The Final Voyage

     Chapter 3

North of Denver with Denver

I hitched north out of Denver and then down a state road to see an old navy buddy (Denver) living up in the mountains. I gave him a call from a pay phone in Fort Collins and he wound down the mountain to pick me up in an old Dodge 4-wheel drive pickup. He drove us up to his cabin high in the Rockies where in a few hours the only thing higher than the mountains was us. The views were amazing. We sat on a rocky cliff with our feet dangling over a thousand-foot drop-off as we marveled at the wonder of it all. Two old men sitting there talking about the old navy days together. We ran out of beer, weed and several bags of chips before crawling back to his cabin for a long night’s sleep.

The next morning, still hungry, we fired up the wood cook stove and had a dozen eggs and several potatoes. We heard gun shots nearby so we walked out to see what was going on outside. Several of Denver’s buddies jumped a big buck and came rolling up on their 4-wheelers with the big buck strapped on the back of one of the four wheelers. We spent the next several hours drinking beer, skinning and dressing the deer before hanging him in the smokehouse. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long without all the beer, but it might not have been as much fun either. We saved part of that deer and roasted it on a spit over a campfire near the cabin. Deer and canned beans, you can imagine that scene if you have ever seen the campfire scene in Mel Brook’s movie “Blazing Saddles,” enough said about that.

Those friends of Denver ran him completely out of beer that night so the next morning it was time to drive down the mountain and get another truck load of beer. It was fun being up there on the mountain and fun visiting Denver, but at my age I can only go so long before having to back off for a while. I rode down with Denver to Fort Collins and flagged a ride on a tractor/trailer headed toward the west coast. Denver and I were and are good buddies, but we have a tendency to go just too far with fun times together, we always did and always will do so.

I caught another ride with a trucker headed to San Francisco. John was a churchy type, making the run a long one. I listened for as long as I could before starting to question just how illogical the biblical stories were that he related to me. An hour later, he pulled over on the side of the road at the edge of Reno Nevada. John reached over, opened the door, shoved me out and actually showed me the single digit salute as he yelled, “go to hell you demonic bastard!” Maybe John didn’t read the parts of the book that speak of love thy neighbor.

I walked over to a casino and started looking for busses returning west from the casino and found one headed back to Sacramento. The passengers started lining up to board so I got in line with them. An old lady ahead of me stopped to bend the driver’s ear and some stoner behind me passed by and boarded with me following close behind him. The bus driver was busy trying to be polite so we wandered right on by and sat in the back of the bus. The stoner said his name was Daryl and proceeded to tell me stories that even I could not believe. Daryl (at least in his mind) thought he was the Charlie Harper character on the Two and a Half Men TV show. I thought I even remembered one or two episodes. We were nearing Sacramento when I saw a Roseville sign on I-80; Daryl said he needed to light up a fat boy and then proceeded to do so. Soon after, smoke rolled out and another old woman walked up to speak with the driver. The driver pulled into a truck stop and then came walking to the back of the bus. His intention was to remove Daryl from the bus and when he did so, he realized I was not supposed to be there so he removed me along with Daryl. There I was again, on foot with dwindling resources. What was I to do?

The Final Voyage

 Chapter Four

Heading South

Stuck somewhere near Roseville, I weighed my options and tried to formulate a plan. Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the road can be taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they were.

I was at the coffee counter at a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra.

“Nice car,” I said.

“It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.”

Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer.

We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened there, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that thing up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could make their way back to their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened it up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. before Hal let off the gas and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank.

We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at the quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We stopped and started a few times crossing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?”

“The car is hot,” he said.

“I know its fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked.

“It’s stolen,” Hal replied.

“Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?”

“Why would I take that chance?” He answered. “I told you it wasn’t mine,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded, “Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?” We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.

                            The Final Voyage

Chapter 5

     The Hospital

I woke up in an Escondido California hospital, battered and bruised. I pressed the call button and a nurse showed up a minute or so later, with a policeman right behind her. She asked me what my name was while the cop stood by with a pen and notebook at the ready. I didn’t have any identification when I left the old folks home, so they didn’t know who I was. I told them my name was Bill Weber, (hoping there was no missing person data out there) and said I was homeless, just hitching a ride when all this started up near Roseville. She asked if I knew anyone in the local area. I gave them Kelvin’s name and said he lived in Murrieta. She and the cop left the room.

They ran a full body scan on me to make sure there were no internal injuries. I was rolled back to my room and the cop and the nurse came in shortly after that. The nurse had contacted Kelvin said she said I could be released in 24 hours. The cop said that Hal had been a stand up guy and admitted that I was just a hitchhiker he had picked up to keep him company. That was a big surprise to me, but Hal did seem like an ok guy.

Kelvin arrived that evening. We had not seen each other in 18 years. He brought a bottle of tequila with him. I rang for the night nurse and she brought us a cup of ice water. She left, Kelvin poured out the water and we sipped tequila and shot the bull until visiting hours were over.

Hello, my name is Kelvin; I found these story notes written on a tablet Bill had with him. The nurse said his heart had stopped in the middle of the night and the staff could not revive him. I typed his notes and am sending them to his contacts and posting the story on his Facebook page as he no doubt intended to do. His body will be sent back to the farm for burial, where he will rest in peace.

The End