Chatter

The blade chatters across the pavement.  Truck 991 has a new operator getting used to the pistol grip plow controller.  In the back of the Public Works yard, I’m heeding the advice of PW Director Clarke to practice before I head out to where the action is.  I plowed my way through every college winter break in a tired International Scout with a dash mounted plow joystick and a three speed manual transmission.

Including the steering wheel, that left three things to do, and only the standard issue two hands to do them with.  You would think the automatic transmission in the Public Works F350 would make things easier.  After a few hours of adjustment it does, but in the early going I find myself wishing for a clutch pedal.  The forward and reverse foxtrot of both hands working with both feet provided a rhythm back in the day, and thousands of hours of muscle memory is a hard habit to break.

The radio chatter is another difference.  Grayslake Park District had two trucks at the time, but they never thought to number them.  There was no need.  Truck number one would have been the fancy new Chevy driven by my boss (typically to the alley behind the bar when the college kids were back working).  That left the Scout as truck number two through infinity.

Truck 991 doesn’t use any radio bandwidth tonight.  Art gave me three maps with twenty two cul-de-sacs to work on, so my job is pretty straight forward; move snow to someplace more convenient than where it lies, and don’t hit anything we don’t own.  Easier said than done in the tight confines of the circles, places and courts developers have packed homes into.  The key to the enterprise is to take a few moments and look where everything is, and preserve that mental map as your head gimbals around while pirouetting a pick-up on a slippery stage.

It’s huge fun at the scalpel edge of the fight, but I don’t kid myself that I’m any match for the guys in the big rigs.  Piloting a half dozen tons of metal and salt through narrows, hills and snowstorm nights takes tremendous skill, and my Carhartt hat’s off to everyone at PW who is working twelve hour shifts to dig us out.  The radio chatter is a constant stream of employees taking care, doing their best and delivering excellent service.

The phone buzzes and I stop to read the e-mail.  Alds. Matson and Gordon are following protocol, passing on concerns on specific streets.  These normally get forwarded on to snow command and turned into work orders, but hey, I got a plow myself, so let’s go see.  Most of the concerns are specific issues at specific addresses and as I coerce the snow someplace better than where it fell, the personalized service Davenport provides is one newly happy citizen (they’re better than customers, they’re citizens) added to the mix.

Warren Street is a different story.  We haven’t yet made a pass down this small street so I’m first on scene.  A car is stuck and we need to get that taken care of first so the street can get cleared.  A few neighbors come out to help and I’m welcomed like MacArthur wading ashore at Leyte.  But MacArthur wasn’t served hot chocolate.  The street’s a little bigger than what a pick-up plow is best at, so it takes a few passes.   I give the driveways a custom touch and someone asks my name.

I give them the first name and as Truck 991 strobe lights its way to the next assignment, I appreciate the peace of working at night.  With my twenty two cul-de-sacs complete and every e-mailed assignment taken care of, I head downtown to watch the clearing operation for a few minutes.  I’m momentarily distracted by the beauty of the Figge trees at night and then take in a mechanized rumba that puts my marginal hydraulic fluid dispensing skills to shame.  Excellent work, everyone.  Take care, and stay warm.