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 were 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 these 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 cousin’s house in Milford, we would pass by Secondi Brothers Truck Stop on I-95. What a thrill, to see all of the fancies over the 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 for these big machines . What could be more beautiful than a big red dump truck, with its shiny chrome bumper and huge chrome exhaust