Today would have been dad’s 82nd birthday.

Dad came to the United States when he was 18 years old to be a sheepherder. But, when I was growing up, I knew him as a truck driver, hauling hay to the local dairies. He started out working for his childhood friend Felix Anchustegui, also from Munitibar, but later bought one of Felix’s trucks to start his own business. A one-truck, one-man show, though dad did hire help from time to time. Dad started off by just charging for delivering hay but after a while he and mom decided that more money could be made if he was more than just the delivery man; if he actually bought and sold the hay, he could also make a profit as the middle man, finding hay for the buyer and selling it for more than he bought it. That worked for a while, and they were doing quite well until a couple of dairymen went bankrupt and didn’t pay dad for the hay he had sold them. The business essentially lived paycheck to paycheck and didn’t really have anything in the bank to weather such a hit. That put mom and dad into what he always called his “big shit hole” that he never quite got out of. 

His truck dominated my childhood. It was ever-present, this massive beast that was always parked on the street in front of the house. It dwarfed everything around it, especially when it was loaded with hay. My brothers and I would climb the haystacks and run around on top. We would have races to see who could climb to the top the fastest. I wasn’t the strongest climber, so sometimes I would have to climb against the backstop of the cab. But, while dad’s truck was the main source of income for the family, it was also our playground. It’s a miracle we all survived. Whenever dad would take us on the road to the haystacks, he would lift us up with the grabber on his tractor to the top of the stack to untie the ropes. We just sat on the end, no ropes or anything, as he lifted us up. It was always the highlight of going with him, just feeling so daring, sitting on the grabber with my legs dangling in the air.

Dad could drive that truck anywhere, maneuvering his truck like mere mortals like me drive our car. It was a double trailer with one hitch – the first trailer was attached to the cab. I’m sure there is a special name for this type of truck but I don’t know it. Anyways, dad would navigate it down remote dirt roads to get to the haystacks and between barns and fences to unload. He could back that thing up as easily as a four-wheeler. And he was just as good with the tractor, using the grabber to adjust the bales of hay, tightening them so that he could grab them more easily and make a more stable stack. The things he could do with both was just amazing.

Dad never listened to music or the radio when driving, but the chatter from the CB radio was constant. He never said much – once in a while, if there was another Basque, they would chat – but mostly he just listened. There were always people telling stories, or warning people of accidents or cops ahead. Dad was a master at avoiding the weigh stations as he was always pushing the limits of what he was allowed to haul. All of the truckers would tell each other which weigh stations were open and routes around them. Dad got his share of tickets, but it could have been a whole lot more.

Dad liked to be at the haystack by dawn so that he could maximize the amount of daylight he had to work. That often meant getting up too damn early. I remember him waking me up at 3 or 4 in the morning. We would sometimes stop at a gas station to get some sandwiches or pop – in those days, my drink of choice was Mountain Dew. Dad let me sleep in the passenger seat while he drove in the dark, often several hours, to the stack. And he worked all day, usually getting home long after dark, often after we had eaten dinner. They were long days and I know they took their toll.

Dad only had the one truck and it was a Mack. A flat nose cab with the Mack statue sticking out the front. That little dog embodied the truck, gave it an identity. When he had his heart transplant and had to stop working, dad eventually sold the truck. I’m sure it must have been hard for him as it was almost an extension of him. He probably spent more time sitting in that truck than he did at home. For Christmas, my wife, daughter and I designed and created a little wooden bowl with a Mack bulldog centerpiece – it was one of the first pieces I made on my father-in-law’s lathe. When dad opened it up, his eyes gleamed as he exclaimed “Mack!” Lisa described it as greeting an old friend. It wasn’t much but it was the perfect gift. He had it on his side table and would store his loose change and small pocket knives in the bowl. After he died, I got it back and it sits on my desk, a constant reminder of dad and his truck. 

Happy birthday dad. I miss you.

Thanks to Lisa Van De Graaff for inspiring me to write this and reminding me that today was dad’s birthday. I am sad to think that I got too distracted by work and other things to remember myself.