Tag: Truck Drivers

Are you your parents?

August 11, 2026

I like to ask people if they have looked in the mirror and seen one of their parents. I am not trying to insult them by saying that they are getting old. That would not be an insult, by the way. There is only one way to avoid becoming older: die now. Death is inevitable, and aging is as well.

If I did not have a good relationship with both of my parents, I would not bring them up in this way. My Dad was not intelligent in the normal way that I think of the word. He never wrote a book, graduated from college, or even high school. He was a city boy and served his country in World War II the best he could.

He was a swabby in the Navy on a repair ship. Yes, he was drafted and assigned to the US Navy. When I thought I might be drafted, I was also talking to them during the Vietnam conflict. I wanted to travel to the Far East but not under government invitation. I wanted to be assigned as a journalist on the front lines.

Dad did his job, came home to Springfield, Missouri, and married our mother. She had to lie about her education to get a factory job that only required a high school diploma. She did not have that either. Dad drove a truck, and Mom had been a waitress and cook in cafes before Zenith hired her.

I can’t drive a truck. Read my column, “I watched a truck driver today,” for more on this. I can cook and started my working career as a fry cook. I ended it as a purchasing manager, was an operations manager for a company I spent twenty-five years with, and graduated with a BA. This was all thanks to their example.

I am not my parents; however, I love them dearly, think of them often, and frequently comment on them in these articles and in my books. Without them, I would not be who I am. The best parts of me are due to them and their influence. My hope is that after reading this, you will say the same of yours.

They were not perfect or spectacular. They never did anything more than what most of us do: work, raise a family, and obey the law most of the time. They never did illegal drugs, drank alcohol to excess, or were arrested. They both served on juries when summoned and took us to church and accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior.

That will not get you the parent of the year award from anyone except your own kids and sometimes not even them. That is the point of this column. What have you done lately to honor your folks? Maybe your parents were abusive and failed you miserably. I’m sorry if that is your story. Mine did not.

I recently spent some time with a professional counselor, and she did, like they all do, try to help us with our problems. She asked about them and my relationship with them growing up, abuse, and substance abuse. There is nothing in my experience in their home that is anything to cause me the difficulties I am having.

Professional counseling is often called for when we are dealing with life’s troubles. Don’t avoid it if you need it. Find a trained and qualified professional who is a good fit with you. Let them direct you to handle your issues, whatever they may be. I’m working on mine, and I hope your parents and you do the same.

©Copyright 2026 by Charles Kensinger

A GREAT DAD

June 13, 2025

Last year I turned seventy. My Dad was sixty when he died. Kayla was just a baby. She now has babies of her own. Michelle remembers her grandpa from stories we tell her. Her own memories of him have been erased by the years.

I am a great father. How do I know this? Not because my children have told me, but because Dad taught me how to be a great father. He taught by example. Every day of my life he demonstrated to me what it meant to be a man. When times were easy, it looked easy. When times were tough, it still did not look that hard, because he made it look easy.

I also have a heavenly father. My brother, Jesus, teaches me about Him. He talked about His Father and said He was our Father. I read the scriptures, and Holy Spirit tells me who God is. We’ll talk more about what I have learned about the triune God, Jehovah, in future columns.

One of my favorite columns about my Dad was written more than fifteen years ago. I am reprinting it here for you.

The big rig was parked on Campbell Street. The driver was waiting patiently to back into the Positronic Industries facility. I worked in that building. I knew that driver. 

There was not enough room at the loading dock to pull in and then back into the dock. The drivers had to wait on the street until the gates were opened and then back in. Some truckers parked on the street and unloaded the cargo there. Our receivers had to bring the forklift to them. They did not enjoy backing into the small area with employee cars on both sides. This driver was not one of them. He watched as the gates opened and carefully backed between them. My mind wandered.

I was a young boy. I don’t remember how young. We stood and watched another driver. This time I was with my father and brother. It was not a truck, the driver was backing, it was a large fifth-wheel camping trailer. Our family was tent camping in another part of the campground and we three had walked to where we could fill our water jug. The owner of the huge, expensive camper was making his fourth attempt to get the rig onto the pad straight while his wife stood on the pad and directed him. When the wheels fell off one side of the pad again, the driver cursed how small the pad was. He cursed his wife for not directing him properly. He got out of the pickup and cursed my Father. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing”, Dad replied. “I just wondered if you wanted help.” The angry man looked at us and grumbled, “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars you can’t hit that pad with this thing.” “I don’t want your money, but I can try to park it for you.” The scowl on the trailer’s owner said nothing and Dad stepped past him and swung into the seat of the truck. He checked and adjusted both side mirrors. “I’ll spot you from the pad”, the other man offered. “If you and your wife stand with my boys so they’ll be safely out of the way, it would be more helpful,” he said as he started to pull the truck and camper forward.

“He’ll need to pull up more than that”, the other man said as the trailer started to move back up the pad. In less than a minute the trailer was centered on the pad on all four sides. “How could you do that so easily?”, was the question from the owner. “I’m a truck driver”, was the reply. “I do this all day for a living.”

A hundred-dollar bill was offered but was refused by the trucker. After tough negotiations and a whispered plea from the wife, he accepted twenty dollars to take his family to dinner. The walk back to the campground was a quiet one, but Mom was not quiet when she was shown the newly acquired twenty. When told by my brother that they could have had a hundred, she said Dad was right to only accept twenty dollars. “Christians shouldn’t take advantage of others”, she replied.

As I watched the trucker swing out of the seat of the tractor, a tear dropped from my eye. I wished I could call Dad and tell him about the distant memory that had come back. A whispered, “Dad, I love you and miss you.” was all I could do that day.

©Copyright 2025 by Charles Kensinger