A Hillsborough Community College Student Publication since 1978.
by Paul Zambori
The sweet smell of the orange blossoms
filled the air as the sun peeked over
the edge of the long lonely highway.
I was already on my second run with
the weight of a thousand years of rock
spilling over the sides of the dump
body. Had to watch for the D.O.T man,
they been pulling a lot of us over lately,
checking weight tickets as we pull out
of the mines. I would get an overweight
fine on this one, but with the price of
diesel at 75 cents a gallon theses days,
you have to haul all you can to keep
that rig running. Took 21 years, but
I was finally running my dream, me
and my big red dump truck. Thinking
back to when I was a kid, how I used
to sneak up to Main Street and watch
the big rigs go by. Making motions
for the drivers to blow their air horns,
the sonic blast was music to my ears.
If mom knew I was at the dangerous
intersection she would be furious, but
for me it was pure trucking excitement.
One semi after another would thunder
by me, shaking the ground where I
stood, filling the air with the
smell of diesel. When
riding with my
mom to my
cousins house in Milford, we would pass
by Secondi Brothers Truck Stop on I-95.
What a thrill, to see all of the fancy overthe
road trucks parked in the lot with the
engines idling, like giant beasts snoring
as they rest before the next leg of their
journey. I would call out the names of the
tractors as we passed by, there’s a Mack,
I would shout, and a Kenworth, there’s
a Pete, as if my mother knew or cared.
She would feign enthusiasm to make
me happy. I thought the whole world
shared my love of these big machines .
What could be more beautiful than a big
red dump truck, with its shiny chrome
bumper and huge chrome exhaust