How We Can Save America

(And ourselves in the process.)

Driving down I-75 in the rain tonight, we find ourselves grousing, again, about having to share the highway with long-haul truckers.  Even the apologists at www.truckinfo.net admit that there are half a million accidents on US  highways every year involving tractor trailers. They would like us to believe that 75 percent of these are the fault of the driver of the car, but anyone who has been on an interstate highway probably has some other ideas about that particular statistic.

If you want to see the real toll of trucking, google “big rig + killed” or  ”tractor trailer death.” Is there a driver in America that has not passed the scene of a tractor-trailer fatality at least once? Last summer I sat on an interstate in South Carolina for three hours while they cleaned up an accident that killed two big rig drivers and a guy in a pick-up.

Some states mandate a slower speed limit for tractor-trailers, but realistically, those are only effective when there’s a cop in the median, and sometimes not even then. Many companies keep drivers on a strict and unrealistic schedule (because time is always money) and drivers are forced to push the speedometer just to keep their jobs. The average truck driver makes about $32,000 a year and it is a grueling life.

Though the trucking industry is quick to point out the amount they pay in over-the-road taxes, everyone who uses un-dyed diesel fuel pays the same tax. I used to pay that extra tax to drive my 1984 diesel Volkswagen Rabbit, but these enormously heavy trucks really exact an astounding toll in wear and tear on US highways.

At an average of 5.3 mpg and a carbon dioxide emission of  22.4 pounds per gallon of diesel fuel consumed, makes the carbon footprint of the more than two million tractor trailers in the US pretty significant.

Surely there must be a better way.

Of course there is. And the answer is  . . .  to ship freight (and maybe people as well) via rail and water.

Before the Greek Chorus starts up, I am fully aware of the state of American railroads. That’s part of the plan. When I first started talking about the better way to move freight and all of its attendant benefits, I used to begin by saying “If I was Warren Buffet, I would  . . . ” and it is worth noting that last spring Warren Buffet bought the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad, the second largest railroad in the country. Maybe he was listening.

A locomotive can move a ton of freight 430 miles on one gallon of diesel fuel.

Go ahead, read it again. Read it out loud. The carbon emissions for trains per ton-mile is the least of any sort of freight handling and one-tenth that of trucks.

Yes, the railroad system in this country is abandoned, decrepit, and not nearly as extensive as it was 100 years ago. But that can be fixed. It is almost too late, but if we act quickly, we can recreate a glorious railway empire, create jobs, make a greener environment and save ourselves.

In the current economic doldrums, there has been talk in Washington of restoring and rebuilding infrastructure, both because it’s necessary and because the country could really use a modern day WPA program. It worked for FDR and it can work again.

By starting with freight handling, and the restoration of the rail system to change the mode by which we move America, we give this notion of a new Works Project Administration a focus, and a place to start. Laying track, building depots, designing computer systems, building and maintaining locomotives and freight cars– that all spells JOBS. Not just part time, unskilled labor jobs, (though there would be some of those too) but a lifetime career, if one should so desire. Implementing navigable waterways into this means jobs in ports, jobs in shipyards, jobs in warehousing. There would be still room for some trucking- mostly short haul, specializing in getting goods to the rails and to the ports. Truckers could sleep at home at night in their own beds rather than in the cab of their truck along some interstate rest stop.

Everything can be and has been moved on the railroad. Livestock, airplanes, automobiles, milk, oil, grain, coal, manufactured goods– and people. With a reconfigured railroad, we can once again look at moving people by rail. It’s more restful than flying (albeit slower) and it’s more efficient, and certainly greener than driving yourself.

Highways would not require the maintenance they currently demand, because fewer trucks means less wear. The materials used to make big rigs can be recycled into ships, containers, box cars. Architects get work designing depots, construction workers find work building them. Manufacturers enjoy less expensive shipping costs. Air pollution drops, employment is up. The number of tractor-trailer accidents would dwindle, meaning less expense due to medical care, less mayhem on the highways, and less heartbreak for the families.

It could be done. It wouldn’t be cheap, but it would pay for itself over the long haul, and in the end we would have something to be proud of– unlike, say, a war. One ton of freight moved 430 miles on one gallon of diesel fuel. Warren Buffet is in. Are you?

CRASH

I knew this day was coming. I knew even before I started this project that I would reach a point where I would want to just to blow off the writing and crash. This is that night.

First comes the bargaining: it’s okay, you can go to bed and get up early and write, who will know the difference? Then comes the crankiness: why even bother, who even cares, why do you write this crap?  Then there’s the worst: the whining. I am so tired. I just want to lay my head down, I just want someone to rock me to sleep, I just want . . .

The truth is that I’m tired because I’ve been cleaning my house. How lame is that? The house is not that bad– it’s not like we’re in the running for an episode of Hoarders or anything. But there is a lot of stuff to sort through, and in the past I’ve just stuffed it in that closet or stowed it in those boxes or put it in the corner and thrown a festive tablecloth over it. It’s time to finally figure out where everything goes and put it there. We’ve been here for four years after all.

To compound my to-do list, Christmas is around the corner. And we’ve invited folks over. What is it about humans that makes us decide to replace the front door glass, paint the back door, install a new kitchen island and sort out the dresser drawers (underwear with holes to the trash, underwear with shot elastic to the trash. Hell, put it all in the trash) when we have an absolute no-fail, no wiggle-room deadline.  We must be nuts.

And I am tired. My back is a little achy, I have a paper cut, I need to do something with my hair and good God, it’s nearly two in the morning again? I am peering up over the edge of fifty and I guess it’s okay to be tired.

But before I can ramp up a full-fledged pity fest, I remember. One of my friends was just diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian cancer. She’s optimistic, her doctors are optimistic, she’s going to do her best to beat this. Still, one of our mutual friends was already spinning out a eulogy over dinner.

Eulogies are being written for the sister of one of my high school classmates. She drowned last week while on vacation in Mexico, and my friend struggles daily with authorities in another country  to have her sister’s remains brought back to Canada.

Last week, another friend joyfully announced her remission from leukemia and in the next breath said she was going in for more chemotherapy to keep it that way, and the way she said it  made it sound like she’d decided to go to Michigan for the weekend or something. She must be so very tired, but she is determined.

The near constant severe headaches plaguing yet another friend turned out to not be Lyme Disease (her original diagnosis, which would have been bad enough) but a godawful thing called Fahr’s Syndrome. When she told me in an email that this was what she was facing, I had to look it up. When I saw what it said, I wept. There is no treatment for this progressive neurological disease. Unlike my friends with cancer, she cannot get better. She and her husband have two daughters not yet in high school.

So who am I to even feel weary? My friends are the most amazing people, and I am humbled by their strength. If they want to pitch a fit sixteen ways to Sunday  surely that’s their prerogative, because life really is so damn unfair. It is not for me to whine about having all this to do, and wishing I had another week to spin my wheels. It’s not for me to complain that I can’t fall into bed because I will not be dissuaded from this relatively modest project of writing something everyday. I didn’t even say that I had to write something good.

Dear readers, please say a prayer for Audrey and Marilyn, for Stacy and for Sue.  Know, too,  that I am counting my weariness and minor aches and pains like blessings. Tomorrow is another day, and one of those tomorrows I am going to sort out my schedule to get the writing done first.

But for tonight, I really do have to crawl into bed. I am so sleepy I don’t think I can write one more

 

 

 

(word.) 

 

I HAVE A HOLE IN MY SHOE

Damn, there’s a hole in my shoe. I thought maybe the leather was getting a little thin there a few days ago, walking down that gravel drive.  Still, this is one of my favorite pairs, cordovan Johnston and Murphy wingtips.  Did Ellen get these for me before she took her powder? I can’t remember. No, I think I got them at Altman’s over on Monroe. Doesn’t matter, I guess. There’s a hole in one, now.  I wonder if I should take them to the shoe repair. But they’re never the same when you get them back. It’s like putting the new sole on makes them smaller, or tighter or something. They’re never as comfortable.

Well, they say if you’re going to campaign, you’ve got to use a lot of shoe leather, heh heh. Sometimes I wonder why I let the President talk me into this. Still, Kefauver is too much of a loose cannon, and Russell, that fucking bigot, no surprise that he didn’t get much love at the convention. Jesus, it’s hot up here in Michigan. The venue’s outside tonight, maybe there will be a breeze. It’s great of old Soapy to get the faithful out, but it must be 90 degrees for his Labor Day picnic.

Eisenhower’s going to make this a struggle anyway, he’s got that whole war hero thing going for him, and Stewart Alsop with that crack about “eggheads.” Alsop went to Groton, what does that make him– the common man?  Glad I brought this linen jacket, it’s just stifling in here. What is that on the radio? Sounds like someone stepping on a cat. Oh, Johnnie Ray, can’t stand that guy. Where’s the knob? Blessed silence. All right, time to go and meet the throngs of happy Democrats. I’m sad about this shoe, though. It’s one of my favorites. Guess it’ll have to do for now. I wonder if they have a good shoe store here in Flint.

I have a hole in my shoe.