As a boy, I lidded grape lugs
field-packed when late,
tough-skinned Emperors
were king, chubby bunches
standing in papered boxes,
swamped and stacked
on narrow trailers
pulled by small 9N Fords
to our refrigerated
storage plant
where the grapes held well
through December
where I learned to drive
a forklift loading
eighteen wheelers
most often at midnight
headed to Eastern buyers—
drivers amped on coffee,
bennies and AM radio.
One so distraught
with the threat of communists
taking over—I consoled by saying:
they’re gonna need someone
who can drive a truck.
drycrikjournal 
you’re on a roll!
LikeLike