Introduction

I love the transportation industry and have been in it for most of my life. I have been a trucker since the early nineteen eighties. But the desire to be a trucker was born many years before I ever knew how to drive. I have been able to work in several segments of the transportation industry as well. First, as a parts man, then as a mechanic, and finally a truck driver, and now I am motor coach driver. I want to share my life story with you of how my life has been impacted by the transportation industry for the better and the worse.

I grew up in the suburbs of the city of Los Angeles with all its traffic and hustle and bustle. I was born in the mid-fifties and all that was involved in that time. While growing up I was able to do many things before I started to drive, some of those things had to do with dirt. Yes dirt. I think the first time I encountered it I ate some of it, and it wasn’t too bad. Then I learned to play in it but even then, cars and trucks were on my mind. I made freeways or roadways in the dirt to drive my little plastic cars, then as I got older my dad helped me to learn how to plant vegetation in it and take care of what I planted. As I grew older, I got odd jobs of taking care of lawns besides our own. My dad was gone all the time working as a parts man for Ford Motor Company in Santa Monica, so I became the person he put in charge of the lawns. I enjoyed this type of working with my hands and using the skills that my dad taught me in his perfectionist ways. But I also mixed it with my need to move, first by walking, then bike riding, then running and finally driving. As I reflect on my need to move it brings back a great memory that I shared with my dad, Charlie. We lived close to Disneyland at the time and when we were there, I was about nine years old, and I really wanted to go on a ride. This ride had go-carts, but you had to be a certain size, weight and be accompanied by a parent. I pestered my dad enough that he finally took me on it, and I was the right size and weight. I got to be in the driver’s seat while my dad sat next to me and helped me with how to maneuver that little go-cart. I was driving and I loved it from that moment on. Not just the going fast part, after all how fast can a go-cart go with a Briggs & Stratton 5 horsepower engine on it for power. I loved the movement of it and the strategy of driving it in the proper places and not hitting anything while I was driving it. Nothing in life has ever filled me with so much peace and excitement at the same time.

My dad was not around much because he worked so much at the Ford dealership. But all the dads at that time worked all day and I cannot think of one who was not gone all day. There was an airplane pilot that lived across the street who took trips and then was off for a few days, but he was the exception. My friend Greg’s dad who was home most nights because he was in construction was also an exception.

The city was a place where you did not talk to strangers because they would just look at you with a glare in their eyes and walk on past you. I thought that most people were unfriendly until I moved out of the city years later. I think I was an average kid at the time and did the average things like go to school, do chores at home, mind my parents and so forth.

But as I grew older, I grew more rebellious of authority, my parents, civil authorities, and government authorities. As I look back at that time most everybody my age was rebellious because of all the civil unrest over the war in Viet Nam and before that Korea. One of the big three TV stations televised the war on TV during dinner hour. Which, I did not like by the way, but there it was right in front of you, soldiers aiming rifles meant to kill other soldiers on the other side of the field. We could also watch the Ed Sullivan show, Laugh-In, or Carol Burnett, or Saturday Night Live, show for comedy relief. There was a drug culture forming as well and a counter-cultural movement for those who wanted to “drop out,” of the so-called society called “hippies.” This is where I wound up for a few years, imitating their lifestyle. In fact, I did not realize how many years until later in life I was stuck there. It was not until I was 33 years old that I parted company with this lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock & roll with the help of Jesus Christ my Lord.

One of the other reasons that I originally got into trucking was to escape the normal day to day routine of life, the eight to five for five for six days a week, and to do whatever I wanted to do with my time. I learned as the years passed by that my ways were not the best ways to live my life. The escaping life part of driving created more problems.

Once I learned to drive there was no way to hold me back from the open road. I do not think that everyone has this desire, but I certainly did. So, in the process of living my life I traveled to many places and meet many people. I loved the freedom of being able to travel because I loved to drive. I love the road, maybe it is because I loved the dirt and being on the ground instead of in the sky or on the water., that is just the way I am wired.

As a trucker for several decades, I will do my best to share my life experiences with you which that has made me who I am today, both good and bad experiences. Hang on! Some of my story is a rough ride and I hope you enjoy it and that it sheds a little a little more light on those guys in the big trucks who pass you on the road.

I dedicate this book to my son Mike and hope to fill in some of the 27 years of life that we missed out on together. I also thank God for the family He gave me and my wife of 18 years Joy who has been there for me as much as God has. Also, to my friends who a part of my life that loved me and put up with me in so many ways and sowed their treasures into my life. All who were a part of my life thank you for sharing your life with me. A big thank you to my birth parents whoever they are for being able to give me up and put me into a good family, I am forever grateful to you.

Life continues to happen during trucking or whatever else that you choose to do as an occupation. There were also key moments in my life that led up to me turning my life to Christ. The Lord ministered to me through circumstances of my life and His word and many other ways and still does today. These moments will be referenced as a God moments.

this is what I found that has helped me. not my writing, just wanted to share. if you're reading this, feel free to message me to talk about mental health anytime. my personal addition is I'm looking forward to holding my godchildren when they're born.

"Because the pain I would inflict on my loved ones is far greater than the pain I'm enduring right now."

"If it makes you feel better in the documentary "The Bridge," people who have jumped and survived from the Golden gate bridge have felt instant regret after jumping"

"Because I don't quit."

"If I kill myself it can't and won't get better."

"Schopenhuaer, probably the most nihilistic of all major modern philosphers, condemned suicide. He argues that suicide is not a solution to anything - it merely negates the problem. Like staring at a difficult math problem and tossing it away as the solution. Certainly, you don't have to deal with the math problem anymore, but you haven't solved it. .... Whatever meaning is, whatever the answer to life, it must be sought in the here and now." (read that last line again. so powerful.)

"Death is waiting for each of us anyway; why call on it before our time?" (my two cents: death is infinite and life is brief. just stick with it, babe.)

"I'm not going to let her bury her child." (speaking of one's mom)

"You should keep living because you haven't found the reason to. Once you do, trust me, you'll never want to leave."

"I have a hope that the future will come through for me like it has in the past. Things really do get better, they just fucking suck right now." (my two cents again: if you have a tiny sliver, a shred, a grain of hope, that's enough. let that little hopeful dust mite keep you rooted here for a while.)

"Realizing my own perceptions were so negatively skewed is what helped lift me out of a major episode a few years back. I try to always keep it in mind whenever the feeling creeps back up."

"One thing to note here is that it's likely that people suffering from depression aren't in a good position to reliably estimate how valuable their future life will be. So even if it feels as if the future probably holds no value, you shouldn't trust that intuition. But of course I admit that it might feel that way."*

*I can confirm. No healthy mind actually thinks of suicide as a viable option, and if you're feeling that way, please reach out to me or someone else for help. I've been there and I know how to get out, and I'd like to share that with anyone who needs it.

I wrote this 2 years ago but I've been feeling like this often. Reminder to anyone reading: You're good enough exactly the way you are. You are worthy of respect simply for existing. Big hugs :)

I’m not sorry

For going to bed at 3am

Instead of working

Until dawn.

I’m not sorry

For studying with my friends

Instead of sitting

All alone.

I’m not sorry

For going home at night

Instead of playing

A sport I hate.

I’m not sorry

For stopping piano lessons

Instead of forcing

Myself to play.

I’m not sorry

I chose not to run for council

Because you wanted it

Not me.

I’m not sorry

I chose to tutor instead of study

Because my friend’s at

A fifty-three.

I’m not sorry

I chose not to take physics

Because I loved Spanish

So much more.

I’m not sorry

I chose to take Saturday off

Because my family means

The world.

I’m not sorry

I refused to jump

Through every single hoop.

I’m not sorry

I didn’t check

Every single box you drew.

I’m not sorry

I used my time

To write poetry

And truth.

I’m not sorry

I never tried

To change myself

For you.

December 30th, 7:28 am, 2013

“And then I wanted to see you before I left,” I exclaimed, staring at the red bundled mess on Nurse Johnson’s head, “but I ran out of time.” I wondered if she dyed her hair, or if she thought to at all, when it looked so carelessly disheveled. She was quiet, slowly picking up the fallen bottles on the floor. I couldn’t remember when I put them down. My hand stopped reaching for the nurse’s papery clothes, the silence shrouding the room, dusting over the windowsill, settling on the crumpled sheets.

When she finally spoke, she murmured in a faint voice,“You should rest now.” I picked at my cast again, looking down. Her gaze rested behind me, unfaltering, and when she left, I wanted to trade all the stars in the world for her to linger a moment more.

•••

December 29th, 11:50 pm, 2013

I was jolted awake by a dull clattering on the floor. It must’ve been the lady in the next room, I thought, the one with the heavy glasses and the book with the golden spine. I could see her sometimes, through the corridors, peering inside my room, but she never talked to me. She was always reading out of the book, and there were hardly any pictures. I don’t know what could interest her so much.

“Hello.” A wispy voice settled in the air. I glanced towards the foot of my bed, and a figure loomed in the dark. “Are you another nurse? I’ll go back to sleep now, don’t be mad.”

I heard a faint chuckle, and hesitantly asked again, “Are you here to take more tests?”, propping myself up to sit against the wall. The sheets rustle loudly when no one speaks, I’ve noticed that now. “No child, I, I suppose I’m a ghost now, aren’t I?”, he said, in a strange manner, one I had never heard before. I wanted to sound clever, so I answered, “I know ghosts. I used to hear stories about a Christmas ghost. They were very long.” I tried to think of why I had remembered that, when I couldn’t remember much else, and reached over to turn on my lamp. I had never seen a ghost before, and it seemed very impressive to.

“Child, how old are you?” I said I was eight, but next year I’ll be nine. I think. “Next year should come very soon, I think.” I smiled. He had a very soft voice, as if he was drifting away. “You remind me of my daughter.” And then, when I looked at him, he had such a forelorn and lonely gaze, that it reminded me of someone I used to know. She was a blurry figure in my mind now, and was strange to have all these thoughts, when the doctors said I wouldn’t be able to think of much after what happened with the car.

I asked him what his daughter was like, because no one had talked for some time, and it seemed nice to. He said she was very frail and beautiful, and that he although he knew her not long, he desperately wanted to visit her.

“I would visit you, if you wanted.”, I remarked, and he smiled ever so slightly.“Where is your mother dear now?” I looked at his face in the dim light, and decided that ghosts were very nice. “The get-well people said she was in the car where I got hurt and lost my thoughts. I asked when she would come back, but they keep saying the same thing.” Mr. Ghost’s smile faltered a moment, and he replied, “The get-well people?” I nodded, my hair falling in my eyes. I used my lumpy cast to brush it away. “When they come, they always say to me, ‘get well soon’, and that I would go home with them once I was.” I didn’t say that I didn’t want to go with them, because I’ve never told anyone that, and I didn’t say that I was waiting for my mother to come take me home, because I was afraid he would give me the same answer and tell me she couldn’t, not for a while. I don’t like that answer.

“Mr. Ghost, how did you pass?” He remarked that that was a good way of putting it, as passing a place, leaving it to go away. He also said his name, but I could not understand very well, so I called him Mr. D. He then asked about the Christmas ghost story, which I said I could not find in my thoughts, and explained what I could regarding the doctors.

“You have a broken mind. All the great ones do. I could tell you the story, if you’d like. I wrote it, you know.” I was astonished. How could a ghost write a story? I asked him eagerly, and when he replied, the hours ticked away so swiftly that I hardly noticed it passing at all. “Ah, but, my dear, I was not always a ghost. You see, I went away because of a train...

•••

December 30th, 12:23 pm, 2013

“...and it rendered me so very ill that I could not carry on much longer. It was an unlikely matter, befalling some one like that, and such long years have passed since then that I may have a broken mind as well.” When I finished, the child laughed with such ferocity, I had never met any who was more blest in a laugh.

I wished I could bottle it up and take it with me, a very human thing to do, to have something physical to ground me. The little creature then remarked, “You have a funny way of talking, Mr. D.” I could not help the overwhelming feeling of happiness at her peculiar humour, and expressed my desire at telling my Christmas Carol to her, at which she agreed with a vast, substantial smile.

Often she would stop me, enquiring what the more heard words meant, many of which was “apparition”, “Fezziwig”, and “Bah Humbug”. The last she took a particular interest in, repeating it in her light voice, and it was then that I decided it might not be so burdensome if I were to stay. But if I did, would I tell her the truth about what would befall her? Amongst all the others, would this girl who resembled my dear Dora accept what I say, or argue the opposite?

My wandering thoughts were interrupted by her question. “You’ve talked a long time, do you want some water?” I merely nodded. I watched as she untangled herself of the wires surrounding her, machines echoing solemnly. I watched as her fragile body reached out for an outline in the shadows, her little hand shaking in the dark.

I opened the window when she looked back, the moon brimming in the sky, her with a handful of glass bottles clinking against each other. I wondered if she could see me clearer now, with her bright eyes, still murmuring under her breath, breathing ever so softly. I stood then, and held out my hand.

“Do you want to come with me?”

She remained motionless.

“To wait for your mother?”

Droplets wet the bottles. I had never seen a girl cry so silently before.

She whispered faintly, “I want to stay.” I closed my eyes. So many others had begged for their lives when it neared its end, their voices a wail inside my head.

“Then you shall stay.” I could not bear to answer her the same.

I turned to leave then, the curtains billowing in front of me, trying to escape from their bondage. Then I felt her hand in mine.

“Would you come back, if I wanted to?” She spoke with an airy lightness, her words soaked in tears.

“I will, if you promise to stay.” I grasped her hand tighter, and lifted her up, the bottles falling to the floor with a dull clattering.

•••

December 30, 7:29 am, 2013

I picked up the bottles, one by one, while her body lay on a cold and unforgiving slab. It seemed futile to do anything, but nevertheless I persisted in my task, gathering them up in my hands, so much bigger than hers that I wondered how she managed to hold so many. I wanted to say something to break this frozen silence, being so used to her quiet little voice chattering away. When I finally opened my mouth, all I could say was, “You should rest now.” Such a meaningless thing to say.

Laying my hand on the door, I pushed it open and nearly stumbled into Mrs. Prim.

“Nurse Johnson, can I-”

Her gaze stopped behind me, on the empty bed, the mess of equipment left behind.

“You should be in your room, Mrs. Prim.” I croaked out, trying to steer her back. She shook her head rapidly, tearing splattering on her glasses, her face contorting.

“No, no, it’s not possible..” I set down the bottles by the door and took the book from her hands, for fear she might fall.

“Mrs. Prim, I’ve told you this before.” I sounded shaky, a failed attempt at trying to console her, “She’s gone.”

“I, I can’t even remember that m, my own daughter is gone, it’s my fault, and I ca, can’t even reme-”

•••

December 30th, 7:36 am, 2013

As the two collapsed into each other, a nurse with a sense of belonging with the child, and a mother who unknowingly killed her, they cried. They shed tears for what they lost, for what they had, and for what they will never have again, sitting on the cold tiled floor, and as they gasped for air through their muffled sobs, a single book fell with a dull clattering . It was a small book, with wrinkled pages and a golden spine, titled A Christmas Carol.

Time faded away so quickly then, it was hard to tell the beginning from the end.

Crack. Tsss. Crack. Crack. Crack. Tsss. The boom of striking leather thundered throughout the library. Shadows danced playfully like ballerinas along the walls as she peppered combinations on the swinging bag. Her hijab and skirt swished as she circled the heavy bag. Farm work before and after school had tuned her arms into cannons. Feint with the right, left hook to the body, uppercut to the head.

“10 seconds!” came the shrill voice of a small girl, stopwatch around her neck.

The fighter unleashed a flurry of punches. The once playful ballerinas now became relentless demons only to cease at the bell. She breathed deeply against the bag to recollect herself. It was almost time to walk her little brother home from his madrasa class. She wiped her brow with a cloth and scurried past the sewing class that shared the library.

On nights when her six-year-old brother, Shabani, would finish early, they would race home before sunset. Young men on motorcycles, or pikipikis, patrolled the streets at night, causing a nuisance to local families.

The fading sun cast an orange glow on her as Shabani burst out of class and into Asha’s arms.

“Ew, you’re all sweaty,” Shabani said as he examined his now gleaming arms.

“I just finished sewing class and it was really hot in the library today,” Asha said, as she smelled her armpits. “Come on. You can tell me about your day on the way home.”

Shabani gave her a suspicious look and shrugged.

The siblings scuttled past homes with high metal gates and barred windows. Shabani was deep into a story about his math class when the whine of an engine came from behind them. Asha’s back stiffened and her grip tightened around her little kaka’s hand.

“Hey, where are you going?” shouted the man over his motor. He reeked of Konyagi, the local liquor. The siblings said nothing and looked forward as they walked.

“Are you too good to answer me?” probed the man. Asha could sense the impatience in his voice and quickened their pace. The young man revved his engine and was now in front of the two.

“We just want to go home,” said Asha firmly, pulling her brother along.

“Not until we become friends first,” slurred the driver.

The brother and sister jolted into a sprint. The driver whipped his pikipiki around and was in front of them in an instant. He dismounted his bike, seized Asha’s collar, and started pulling her towards a dark alleyway. Eyes closed, Shabani roared as he rained his tiny fists upon the assailant. Crack. Tss. Crack. Crack. He opened his eyes to disbelief and saw the driver motionless on the ground. Before Shabani could comprehend what happened, he was whisked home.

At dinner, Shabani told the family of his bravery while Asha ate in silence. Shabani reached over, grabbed Asha’s hand, and said, “Don’t be sad, dada, you can keep going to sewing classes. I’ll protect us!”

Asha gave Shabani a light squeeze and said, “Okay, kaka.”

Title: Dada Mkubwa (Big Sister)

Genre: Flash-Fiction

Age Range: Young Adult

Word Count: 508

Author Name: Michael Ogburn

Why your project is a good fit: I aim to give readers a peek into different cultures and viewpoints of others they may not regularly encounter.

The Hook: The big sister can crack.

Synopsis: A young girl who secretly defies her culture's gender norms saves herself and her brother.

Target Audience: Young girls tired of being molded.

Bio: I am from a small town and always wanted to try and live abroad. After graduating from university, I moved to Taiwan and taught kindergarten. Later, I moved to Tanzania for two years and taught 3rd and 6th grade. Currently, I am teaching 6th grade at a school in Costa Rica.

Platform: Microsoft Word

Education: Elementary education degree

Experience: My writing experience is minimal but I have always enjoyed writing. I have only recently begun to write stories that are meant to be read.

Personality/writing Style: I'm new to writing and I'm still learning to find my voice. However, I'd like to have the ability to push the envelope and defy cultural norms

Likes/hobbies: Mma, muay thai, bjj, hiking, diving, dog walking, reading, and eating

Hometown: Small Town in Oregon

Age: 29

Laura stood at her window in the forest hut, watching a jaundiced sky. The bats and the crows flew in uncertain directions at dusk. There was a blaze over the tall gum trees. Laura couldn't figure out what it was. The telltale sign from the yellow sky suggested the end of time. The blaze continued to grow high, then higher. The creatures of the forest, the possum, and the dingoes, and the Tasmanian Tigers ran amok around the bend deeper yet, into the forest. The stifling air made Laura cough up phelm. Distant cries of human voices carried distress. All Laura could see was an engulfing fire. Fire which overwhelmed her and the bush rapidly. Trees and houses and the animal habitat burnt to cinder in this inferno. It burnt for days on end. It burnt without ebb. It still burnt, a permanent haze in the sky darkened the forest. There was no reprieve, no lights, but all cosuming darkness of a fire sparks like ubiquitous fireflies.

Mom & Dad,

Tell me what’s worse - sitting miserably, wishing you could live the life of your dreams, or living your dreams and realizing you’re just as miserable as you were before? ’Cause I used to think it was the first one, and that the depression that came with this town was holding me down, keeping me back from living my life. Now I realize you can’t outrun sadness. And you know what the stupidest part is? Everything is exactly what I dreamed. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s perfect. And for some reason, I’m still sitting here, getting tearstains on this letter to you. This is the first time in my life I don’t know what I want, because I chased my dream - packed my bags, hopped on a plane, the whole thing - and I’m not any happier than I was before. Worse, even. You know, if this isn’t it, where else am I gonna go? What else am I gonna do? This is my only dream, and it’s not enough for me, I guess. But the real kicker is this: I can’t even call it a day and come back home, because the only thing that kept me going before was dreaming my dreams, and some days that wasn’t even enough. Now, I’m all out of dreams. I’ve got nothing left but you two, and for some reason, I’m over here and you’re over there. I’m not really sure why I’m not in my bed at home right now. You know, I haven’t slept comfortably in this bed for two months. And at this point, I’m kinda feeling like the relief of crawling back into my bed at home would outweigh the shame. But I’m not gonna tell you that or send you this. I’m going to tell you I’m happy, because the one thing worse than realizing that living your dreams contains just as much harsh reality as everything else in life is telling your parents that. I can pretend I’m still a dreamer when I’m on the phone.

Love you so much,

to the neighbour i'm cold

always wrapped in myself

i need to say i'm better

than yesterday i showed

after battle how fast my

scars fade from under eyes

with lighting and pigment

laid on top so let me explain

to the gentleman i'll sweat

off his judgement after each

and every unfortunate

On the bushy, green grass, he watches the sky. Everyone around him does the same, instinctually, they are afraid. A bright light competes with the sun for the attention of the creatures. As the comet approaches the Earths atmosphere, it slightly shifts, and misses the Earth just slightly.

He looks around, everyone else just goes back to munching on grass, though he feels as if something important has just happened. The bright circle missed, how will it be different?

"Bye! See you tomorrow!" Hazel calls to her friend as she walks through her gate, her eyes squinting into the sun blocked slightly by the dome. "Mom! Are you home?" She calls into the house as she puts down her bag on the kitchen counter.

"Yeah, honey! I am about to leave for work, another one got in. Can you go feed Blacky?" Hazel's mother walks into the living room and grabs her purse off the counter.

"Sure, be safe." Hazel hands her mom the telephone she was looking for, and recieves a kiss on the head as a thank you. After her mother leaves, Hazel rolls a hay bail from the barn to the front of her acrage where her pet stegasourous lives.

"Hey, Blacky." As the gently beast brings its head down to the hay, Hazel climbs on like she has so many times before. "I hope mom is ok." She sighs. "That is the 4th velocorapter to break into our dome." She stokes her friend's strong neck and considers this. "Do you think the raptors don't like that they can't explore everywhere? I mean, do you mind being confind to a certain area of land?"

Blacky wheezes a bit, as if to tell her that it does, but it is ok.

"I guess I wouldn't like it if people were preventing me from going where I wanted to go. But then again, people are only allowed to stay in the domes." Hazel slides back down Blacky's neck. "I'm gonna get to the bottom of this." She says with determination.

The exit of her dome is only a ten minute bikeride from her house. This is the place where all of the officials dispurse of waste. With out thinking, since she knows that it will probably change her mind, she types in her mom's code and opens the door.

"No turning back now." She mutters to herself. As she opens the thick, steel door, she is shocked at the scene that awaits her. In front of her, there is a waste land scattered with trash mountains, and covered in a haze of human made pollution. She tropes down the metal staircase, her mouth open in terror at what she is seeing.

Just 5 steps behind her, is a green environment with constantly fresh air and unlimited energy. Hazel can't help but feel guilty now for every peice of trash she has created and every light she has left on with out use.

Her white sneakers hit the sand colored dirt, and she is blinded by the sun pounding down on her pale skin.

"This isn't right." She is sad, but more angry. How could they do this to the animals that were here first? Her shoulder lengthe hair blows into her mouth, and she turns her head to get her face out of the wind.

"AAAAHH!" Hazel screams, horrified at what is only 100 yards to her left. There lies rotting dinasour corpses, none of which look like they died of natural causes.

Is this what her mom is doing on these late nights, when Hazel was so worried about her getting hurt. She had always been told that they were being protected from the monsters on the outside, but now she thinks that they should have been worried about the monsters on the inside.

She storms up the stairs with new determination that she has never expireinced before, she will do something about this. People have to know that it is not the dinosours that are in the fault here.

She approaches the door in rage and pulls on the handle. It is locked. There is no way back in.

To be continued(maybe).....