Trumper at the Wine Counter

Typically, when I visit my local grocery store, I don’t expect to become embroiled in a contentious discussion. I frequent this higher-end establishment weekly. It has everything I like to eat during my five days on the road. When you enter on the west side, there’s a fridge section full of wraps, sandwiches, salads and sushi that are tasty and nutritious. That’s the gateway to my trucking provisions. I know where everything is and often, I’m in and out in half an hour.

Sometimes things don’t go as planned, and that was the case on Saturday March 1st. I was in the store the day after the infamous meeting between Ukraine President Volodymyr Zalensky and US President Donald Trump, accompanied by Vice President JD Vance. In case you live in a cave and didn’t catch it, Trump and Vance seemed to ambush Zalensky, whose country is embroiled in a bitter war started by Russia. They insulted him and embarrassed him and his country, calling them ungrateful for past American financial and military support.

This meeting wasn’t front of mind when I walked into the small wine store that’s nestled inside the store. Rather I was thinking more of Trump’s economic campaign against Canada, which he had just begun with promises of tariffs and encouraging Canada to become the ’51st state.’ I wanted to support the fast evolving ‘Buy Canadian’ movement.

Yup, me, a trucker who spends almost five full days each week in America. Until now, I’ve never considered myself much of a ‘homer.’ I’m more a ‘man of the world.’ But a swift and unprecedented attack on my homeland changed that in a heartbeat. Suddenly I’m backing my country to the glorious end.

My wife wanted me to get a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon for guests coming to our home that evening. So, I went into the store and asked the middle-aged lady behind the counter for a Canadian-made bottle of Cab Sauv. She walked in the direction of the sign that said California wine. I said I wasn’t interested in American wine.

On the nearby racks, I saw selections from Wayne Gretzky’s winery. I pointed and said I also didn’t want that. Remember, Gretzky, a Canadian hockey icon, had recently seemed to disrespect the Canadian team at the recent Four Nations Hockey Tournament final game against the US. He seemed to give full support to the American side while barely acknowledging the Canadian team. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in supporting his company.

The lady huffed and her facial expression was stern. She was clearly irked. I was irked by her being irked. I asked what the issue was. She said, with notable irritation in her voice, that the American wine they carry is just fine. I said that may be true but I’m not buying it. I don’t know much about wine but I know that the Canadian kind is world-class. So why not choose it? Plus, why can’t I get the wine that I want?

This lady grudgingly showed me a good local wine, which I immediately planned to buy. I even went for the more expensive blend. At the counter, I asked her if other customers hadn’t asked for Canadian wine over American wine, considering the economic attack on our country. I don’t recall if she answered the question but I clearly recall what she proceeded to say about our government. She said that Canada would be lucky to have leadership as strong as America does because ours is clearly weak and useless.

I was irritated but curious. Besides, I have ardent right-wing neighbours and family members so this stance isn’t unfamiliar territory for me. Also, I’m on social media a lot so not much surprises me anymore. Oh, and I spend three days a week in the US south.

I asked if she’d seen the Zalensky interview. She said something like “Yes, and that man should be embarrassed.” I thought she might have meant Trump. But she went on to disparage Zalensky for failing to wear a suit as a sign of respect and for failing to bow down to Trump and Vance for all the support that America has given Ukraine. Oh God, she’s one of ‘those,’ I thought.

As I paid for the wine, I said I clearly disagree and told her I wondered if we had watched the same news conference. She held firm to her view, her stern face unwavering. I said something about people thinking differently for their own personal reasons. I left laughing to myself. Afterward, I wished I had asked if she had expressed her viewpoint to any Canadian Ukrainians.

Solace at Food Basics

The previous day, I was shopping at my nearby discount food store, where I buy everything that’s wrapped, bagged, boxed, canned or frozen, because it’s cheaper there than anywhere else. I was by the freezer section, where I choose my frozen fruit for the Vitamix-blended smoothies that I enjoy when I’m home. I saw a guy that I’ve seen there before. He was stocking shelves. I was looking for items marked with a ‘Made in Canada’ label. I asked him why these markers were few and far between.

Remember that the ire of Canadians was suddenly high, as the Trump administration had begun singling us out for economic attack. The guy wasn’t too aware of these markers and the escalating trend toward using them in stores, especially grocery stores. I got to talking with him and we developed a quick rapport. He said that he’s American born and raised and I asked where he was from. He mentioned a few places he had lived and said that he has family in the south. I asked where and he said South Carolina. I told him that I’m a truck driver who works entirely in the US south and have been to most parts of South Carolina. He said his family is from the Florence area and they’re pretty worried about the current state of affairs.

I immediately understood. The reason I understood is sad and simple. He’s black and his family lives in Trump heaven. I’ve been in their neck of the woods often enough to know this. In that area, there are beacons to the current President everywhere: signs, billboards, even a large shack transmogrified into a makeshift Trump ‘store,’ placed brazenly on an unpaved corner lot. Their level of devotion to him is frightening. It’s especially chilling if, like me, you’re not used to an unfettered level of cult-like adoration of … well, nearly anyone not religiously anointed.

As we talked, I got to like him, as I do with so many black folks down south. They ‘disagree’ with Trump as much as I do, so I can typically let my tongue wag a little when I’m in their company.

Any time I’m at the store I look for this gentleman. He’s usually busy and has little time for talking. We pass a few pleasantries back and forth and we each move on.

He’ll never know that he’s my antidote to the lady in the wine store. Maybe one time I’ll remember to tell him.

Jimmy in Cornelius

Cornelius, North Carolina is as nice a town as you’re going to find anywhere in the U.S. It’s located just north of Charlotte and lies on the eastern shores of swanky Lake Norman. The main drag is lovely, lined with mature trees and dotted with coffee shops and restaurants, a barbershop, nail spa, hair salon, law firm, vape shop, cannabis dispensary, a really cool arts centre, among other businesses and services. It’s a pleasure to drive through, even in a big rig that doesn’t fit easily on the thin lanes.

I travel there on the way to a small custom cabinetry shop that’s located around a few tight corners and across railroad tracks. The loading dock is in a small parking lot that often has too many cars and small service vehicles parked in it. But I still like going there. As do at least two other drivers with my company. The reason is the guy we meet there each week. His name is Jimmy and he’s an upbeat, easy-going gentleman who’s always helpful and quick to unload us.

Jimmy is the manager at his company and I’ve been there a good dozen or so times; enough visits to get a decent handle on him. I found out early on that he’s a big-time sports fan. We talk about his NC-based pro teams (good hockey team, terrible basketball and football franchises) and my Toronto-based teams (good hockey team, average baseball club, and a winner of a recent championship in basketball).

I can’t recall how we got to talking about politics, other than perhaps I made some sort of joke and he didn’t mind sharing his views. It turns out he’s a moderate Republican who has a lot of issues with Trump and his cronies. He calls the whole MAGA movement ‘cult-like’ and says its evolvement is scary to see. He says the GOP (Grand Old Party) that he’s grown up with is a thing of the past and is worried about the future of the party and the country. I concur wholeheartedly. He certainly understands my views, seeing that Trump focused his ire on my country not long after he was sworn in as president for the second time, this past January.

Jimmy is a sincere guy and maybe that’s why he’s so likeable. He’s the good neighbour type that you hope to bump into when you leave your house, to put you in a good mood with just a nice word or two. I swear I haven’t seen even a glimmer of negativity from him. I pride myself on being able to size people up quickly and I’m comfortable that I have him pegged: a guy that’s easy to get along with regardless of whether you agree on things or not. Like me, kind of, sometimes, on good days.

He Might Be Their President But He’s Not Ours

A delay at a customer is never nice but once in a long while you learn things while you wait. That’s if you’re interested in the people who are there. It was around the middle of February this year when I was sent to deliver a single skid to a steel factory in northern Charlotte. There was no dock immediately available for me to back into, plus this skid was further back on the trailer and couldn’t be removed by a forklift. So, I had to make alternate arrangements for delivery. Typical stuff in our industry. Anyway, I had to wait until my company and theirs agreed on what should be done.

I started a conversation with two guys – two black dudes – who were part of the shipping and receiving crew. I jokingly asked how things were going business-wise at their company with the new president (Trump) in place. One of them huffed and said “He may be their president but he sure ain’t mine.” The other guy nodded his head readily in agreement.

I mentioned the tariffs that were then rumoured to be eventually levied against Canada, and Trump’s talk about annexing us. These guys had heard some of the talk but didn’t know the details. I gave them a few of the rumoured details. They shook their heads. I couldn’t imagine how they’d handle the next four years.

Nice guys. Easy to deal with. I’ve met many like them in my trucking travels. There can never be enough of them.

My Favourite Redneck

There’s a guy somewhere in rural South Carolina who will really deceive you. He’s not what he seems to be. Not by a long shot. When I first met this guy, I was ready for him to behave the way he appeared: a stereotypical southern redneck: a barrel-chested and thickly bearded white dude. I envisioned a confederate flag, a closet full of overalls and some degree of fury for folks who “ain’t from ‘round here.” Man did this guy prove me wrong, and quickly. When he emerged from inside his warehouse to unload me, he seemed open and friendly from the outset. He was intrigued by my being from Canada and had some knowledge about us Canucks and our ways. He inquired about various parts of our country and where it’s best to hunt and fish. It wasn’t long before we were talking politics.

This was 2019 and Kamala Harris had just been announced as Joe Biden’s running mate for the Democrats. This guy told me that his family were hardcore southern Republicans and Trump lovers. He said he was looking forward to them losing the election so he could rub in their faces that they’d have a woman for vice-president. I asked him, jokingly, if that wasn’t a dangerous thing to do. He said that he could get away with it while probably no one else could. He said that most folks would get shot. I asked if he was joking. He shook his head.

I don’t recall what town this gentleman was from and have no idea when or if I might see him again but I know that if and when I do, I’ll get a refreshing “Hey, I ain’t seen you around here in a loooong time.“

The Good Thing About Short Visits

On the perimeter of Anderson, South Carolina sits a sizeable factory where they produce custom fabrics, including heavy duty netting designed for military use. I haven’t been there in a few years but I used to go bi-weekly and I remember it well.

When you pull in as a trucker, you check in at the main gate then turn right and drive slowly a quarter mile around the building to the centre of the back side. You park off to the side and check in at the office, and the receptionist assigns you a dock. Typical shipping procedure.

After an easy back-in, you return to the office area where you’re given a reflective vest and safety glasses, if you don’t already have them. Then you’re escorted by a member of the dock crew through a couple of doors and into the large shipping area.

This place is procedure and rule heavy. Truckers aren’t allowed on the shipping room floor while their trailer is being loaded and the only exception to the safety glasses rule was during the height of the COVID pandemic: you were allowed to remove them so they wouldn’t fog up from moisture emanating from your face mask. In a state where many folks didn’t believe what medical experts were saying about COVID and few companies enforced even simple safety (mask wearing or social distancing) protocols, this place was an exception.

Leading the charge of enforcement was a slight but sturdy-built middle-age guy, a bit older than me, with a well-trimmed mustache and tidy haircut. I initially got on well with this man, whose name I don’t recall. I learned early on about his military background, because we were talking about the kind of workouts we each preferred. He mentioned the high-impact exercises he focused on during his service time and how he has scaled back from them considerably due to age and muscle discomfort. We joked about how being well over fifty makes you re-think punishing your body.

I knew that this guy ran a tight ship because I saw him speak to a couple of newer crew members who weren’t doing things ‘by the book.’ It was also obvious by their controlled reaction to him that they respected his leadership. I could appreciate that.

As per usual, same with just about every factory or warehouse I visit, I had nothing more than minutes-long conversations with the guy. These chats are comprised of simple anecdotes about companies I’ve visited recently and my annoying or amusing experiences there. For example: “You guys are getting me loaded quickly today. Good thing because I started the day with a two-hour wait for a three-skid pickup.” This guy’s reply would be something like: “That’s no way to run a dock. We do things differently here.”

This place ran efficiently, like I’ve noted. They were always aware that I would be arriving that day, freight was always loaded accurately and within reasonable time limits, and paperwork was always prepared and processed in quick order. It was the kind of customer I figured I could always count on. I’d go back there again in a heartbeat.

Except there might be one minor but appreciable difference now. The last time I was there, near the end of Trump’s first presidency, I made some kind of remark that didn’t seem to go over well. I don’t recall what it was. Or whether it was remotely political in nature, or perhaps an attempt at humour. Possibly both. Probably even?

The guy’s response was a straight face and no comment. I double-checked his expression to confirm. I wasn’t wrong. He was busy at the time and continued moving about the factory floor, and didn’t return to talk to me. No big deal, I thought. It wasn’t the first time that my commentary missed the mark. Good thing I’m in and out of these places so fast that there isn’t enough time to make enemies. There also isn’t enough time for them to remember me well or build any lasting animosity toward me. Or me toward them. I simply commit their stories to memory.

I wonder what this guy would have to say about Trump 2.0? I suppose I don’t want to know. Actually, I’m sure of it. Whatever he might have to say, it would surely make me feel even further away from home, my Canada. Far from the very place where the lady in the wine store is the exception rather than the rule, a fairly invisible minority, there but not easily noticed, so easy to overlook … so un-American.