Broken Trucks and a Dolly’s Special
It was 8:40 a.m. and gray swirls of fog rose lazy and unconcerned in the corn fields.
A scene hit me like a quiet, lovely painting.
I was just passing Dolly’s restaurant on my right, traveling 35 miles per hour through Lawrenceville which is celebrating 175 years of existence.
A short, beefy man in his thirties wearing a dirty brown and beige plaid coat and a bright turquoise baseball cap spotted with grease lumbered along the side of the road through a trail of black rubber chunks toward his fat-bellied concrete truck.
The truck sat at an angle, stopped in mid-limp. Its rear tire had shredded. The burly truck driver must have known he was going to be awhile before help arrived and made his way on foot to Dolly’s Restaurant where he probably had a big plate of ham and eggs with a side of home fries and several cups of coffee. He looked like the type who uses Tabasco sauce
And maybe now he was returning to his beloved truck (all drivers love their trucks, even if it is just a lowly concrete mixer) to get in the cab, lean back, pull his turquoise cap over his eyes and have a nap.
Life’s bumpy, but not bad at all with the right attitude. . .and a good restaurant within walking distance.