Tag: autobiography

A foundational childhood memory is driving with my family through South Georgia and seeing Spanish Moss hanging over U.S. Highway 319 between Thomasville, Georgia and Tallahassee, Florida. Here is an excerpt from my upcoming autobiography where I wrote about this.

Our family drove from Iowa to visit Tallahassee, Florida, the place Father lived after re-uniting with Grandfather after his release from prison. Family lore is Grandfather’s conviction for draft evasion was a misunderstanding. He hadn’t meant to be a draft dodger during World War II, according to his late son Eugene. Apparently, there was a problem with the U.S. Mail service, he said. Father spent time as a teenager in the area and graduated from Leon High School. He then enlisted in the U.S. Army with his brother Don.

That trip was to visit relatives in Wise County, Virginia, according to a conversation with Mother. The Tallahassee stop was a side trip, although look at a map and see it was not on the way. I don’t recall whether the memory occurred southbound or northbound, maybe both.

I sat in the back seat of the family automobile as Father drove on two-lane Highway 319 where Spanish Moss hung from oak trees with branches extending over the road. I suspect it was live oak trees, yet I don’t know. Mother was in the passenger seat, I was in back with my brother and sister. Except for Dad, we had never seen Spanish moss before. We did not have that in Iowa. We visited the plantation where Father stayed, the high school, and maybe stayed over with a relative, I can’t remember. These events and the long trip at slow speed along U.S. Highway 319 rolled into one with my trips commuting back and forth between Tallahassee and Thomasville for work.

For three months in 1997 and 1998, I was assigned to a logistics project in Ochlocknee, Georgia. I flew home from Tallahassee every other week, driving the same road I had as a child, U.S. Route 319. Oak trees lined the highway, their branches leaning over the highway were hung with Spanish moss. I lived there long enough to recognize other flora and fauna, in particular, pine forests and pecan plantations. I made this regular trip between Ochlocknee and Tallahassee for most of my stay.

The main memory, of this drive is essential. It is an unchanging remembrance of something seen as a child in a way that shaped me. It has no time or place. Some days I don’t know if it’s real. It is the human condition to believe it is real, and eternal. So, I do.

Editor’s Note: This is fifth in a series of posts about my creativity while living in Indiana. Check out the first post here.

When we lived on West Post Road in Cedar Rapids, our child was transitioning to talking in human language and walking. Singing and running soon followed. I determined the best time for my creative endeavor was in the early morning hours before the rest of the household woke and I had to leave for work. On good days, I got in two solid hours of reading and writing.

After moving to Indiana before our child started preschool, working in the garage became a main creative activity. The ranch-style home on a crawl space had inadequate room for much of my creative inventory except for some book shelves in the living room and a place to put the word processor. In the garage I had a workshop, a writing desk, and boxes of stuff brought from Iowa. My longer spells of creative activity occurred on weekends and vacations and included all aspects of my life muddled into one process. I continued through winter by acquiring a propane construction heater.

Elizabeth is in the driveway washing the car windows. I am in the garage, writing at my desk, listening to the radio WJOB.

The garage is a place where we can let our imagination go. Much time is spent organizing and moving supplies, but the creative endeavor is what we live for.

What assumptions are behind this garage and the endeavors in which we engage? (Personal Journal, Merrillville, Indiana, Sept. 12, 1992).

Our child was often outside with me playing in and around the garage. It was a main activity we did together. Some days they would ride the Big Wheel tricycle up and down the driveway, sometimes play on the small deck where there was a sandbox shaped like a turtle (called Shelly), sometimes playing in the backyard and garden, and much time hanging out with me inside the garage. All of those memories combine into one of just being together. I felt it was what fathers did.

I built a workbench out of two by fours custom designed to match my 73-inch height. At times I would use it to build or repair something. At times I would spread out papers on a project in progress. It was well built and survived the move to Iowa in 1993 where it occupies a prominent place in the current garage.

Characteristic of warm days in my creative space was to open the garage door and hang an American flag on the door frame. The flag was one I used in Mainz while on Autobahn road marches with armored vehicles. Garage door up! Flag hung! I was open for business!

In my journal I described some conversations about what we should call this space. We tried out names and settled on The Deaton Family Workshop. I wrote that on a student-sized chalkboard and placed it where all who entered could see. We possessed a secret life with each other in the garage and were co-conspirators regarding our lives in the Calumet.

Today I continue to put the garage door up and hang a flag. It is not the same one. This American flag once flew over the U.S. Capitol and was acquired through my congressman. It is fading from exposure to sunlight and needs to be replaced.

When I’m open for business in the garage today, it is not the same feeling as before our child left home. I do the best I can. I don’t mind remembering what once was when we simply went outside and played together. Days like that are no longer commonplace. Once in a while we get together and simply be with each other. I look forward to those days.

Editor’s Note: This is a draft chapter from my memoir. I was assigned to the Schererville, Indiana trucking terminal of Lincoln Sales and Service for most of the time from 1987 until 1993.

On my first day of work, as I crested the railroad bridge just south of the Schererville terminal, I saw a car had driven under the trailer of one of our tractor-trailer rigs while it was making a left-hand turn onto Indianapolis Boulevard. I didn’t know it then, yet this would become the typical start of a day. During the time I worked there, about four of the six years we lived in the Calumet, there was always something happening. It was nearly impossible for a human to keep up. Thankfully, no one appeared to be hurt in this specific accident.

The Town of Schererville, Indiana is called the “crossroads of the nation.” Situated in Saint John’s Township in Lake County, it has been a crossroads since before becoming a state when Native American trails crisscrossed not far from the current location of the intersection of U.S. Highways 30 and 41. At one time, Standard Oil Company owned all four corners of that intersection. The Standard Oil Trust had lots of money and was buying desirable locations to sell automotive fuel and lubricants across the country. Locations along the Lincoln Highway, which ran coast to coast, were prime. Their corporate descendant, BP, still operates on the northeast corner which currently has a large gas station and convenience store. Our trucking terminal was about two miles north on Highway 41, which is also called Indianapolis Boulevard.

Because the company fuel island was close to the main roads traveled by our truckers, almost all our drivers stopped to get fuel, drop off payroll paperwork, use the restroom, check in with the company trainer, and if needed, get their equipment repaired or serviced. Our fuel island attendant J.J. knew Chicago like the back of his hand and gave directions to help out-of-state drivers find their customers using routes safe for an 18-wheeler in the city and its suburbs.

In 1987, Lincoln Sales and Service in Schererville was a full-service trucking terminal. During my two tours of duty there, we evolved into a driver recruiting station when the shop and fuel island were closed after a union organizing attempt, and training was moved to the corporate office in Cedar Rapids to provide a consistent, documented process when the U.S. Department of Transportation audited us. Driver payroll had already been centralized in nearby Griffith, Indiana. Our terminal staff shrank from more than 25 employees to half a dozen over the years. There was less traffic after the fuel island closed, yet it was busy enough for us to hire an outside security service. I was young and could keep up with the workload which often bled over into family time.

I described terminal operations in Chapter 18, yet I want to bring focus to the story of my work.

The many driver interviews I conducted were a story of dehumanization. Workers were laid off by companies that felt they had to be competitive, whatever that meant. It was a time of ubiquitous management consulting firms who restructured businesses to direct more revenue and earnings to owners, shareholders, and high-level managers. CRST followed this path eventually. It was busy at our terminal because most of the time I worked in uncharted territory in managing a recruiting operation with little guidance unless there was a lawsuit, workers compensation claim, or union activity.

In the crucible of manufacturing in transition, tens of thousands of workers in our area were trying to adjust. I was there listening to them and found one heck of a story. I hired some of them, doing what I could to ease their transition.

I officed in Schererville yet traveled a lot. By the end of my time there I was managing trucking terminals in Schererville and Richmond, Indiana, and starting recruiting operations in West Virginia, Georgia, Pennsylvania and Missouri. I would wake up on airplanes unsure of where I was, or where I was going.

I’m glad for the experience. I hated the experience. My life in the Calumet, and everywhere else I traveled, taught me about unionization and the consequences of change sparked by the Reagan Revolution in a way I believe gave me a unique perspective. They were days of hope for an intangible future that included success. In retrospect, I don’t know what that means. It was a busy time and there was little time and energy left for family.

Drafting Part II of my memoir is proceeding well. During the last ten years I did so much work writing bits and pieces that paragraphs now fall quickly into place. I have a solid draft of chapters 1-17, which is before we moved to Indiana. Because the time is so recent (1988), and because I wrote a lot while living through it, there are ample documents and memories available. Too many, really. I have choices to make. Sadly, the choice is what to leave out.

I wrote this description of where we lived last week:

The dominant geographic feature in the Calumet is Lake Michigan. I remember endless flocks of geese migrating above our house, noise of their honking entering through open windows continuously and for hours at a time. There was “lake effect” snow that piled up quickly during winter. Outside our house, it never really got dark because of the proximity of Chicago and Gary which indirectly illuminated our yard. The hum of traffic from nearby Highway 30 was a constant white noise, muffling the broader world.

I don’t remember much of what we ate in Indiana but my grandmother gave us money to buy a stove and refrigerator for the kitchen. We bought them at Sears, which was a short drive from our house. Grocery stores were not open on Sundays, so we had to plan. We got to know several family-style restaurants, many run by Greek immigrants, where we would get away from home for a dinner out. (Excerpt from a draft memoir, March 16, 2025).

The Calumet Region can be characterized by its proximity to Lake Michigan, and being the home of the largest concentration of steel mills, oil refineries, and chemical plants in the world during the 20th Century. I adapted the name to characterize my life as “living in the Calumet.” The havoc wrought by the Reagan Revolution resulted in many tens of thousands of unemployed industrial workers who were the raison d’être for our company to establish a driver recruiting operation there. During my six years working in the Calumet, I personally interviewed some 10,000 job seekers spread out across the states north of the Ohio River. A person learns a lot about American culture while doing that.

That’s the problem. I’m stuck with getting out a literary funnel to narrow the scope of my narrative. There are simply too many stories to tell.

My time in Indiana has a fixed beginning and end point which can be dealt with. Long time readers of this blog have likely heard some of these stories, like the post Flint and Reagan’s Wake which tells about my experience in Flint, Michigan in 1988. The balance a memoir writer must achieve is in the mixture of hardened memories and rediscovering our past lives through research. Including some of the hardened narratives is a must. They just can’t dominate the overall story.

Achieving this balance is the real work of autobiography. In my early years, the stories remaining are fewer and the inclination is to include them all because it was reasonable to do so. Not so when the main work of a life begins. The issue of my ideology, combined with specific experiences that stand out is not a given. We need to turn more pages to make sure we get the narrative to align with our intentions.

Like many Midwestern homes, ours has become a cornucopia of stuff. I think about downsizing, and had better get on that or face an estate sale at the end of the line. For now, though, the accumulated memorabilia is the equivalent of a limestone quarry: the stuff of which to build my literary edifices.

Instead of disciplining myself to write a book of fiction in 1986, I continued to collect writings, journals, photographs, clippings, books, musical recordings, posters, and such until they would press hegemony into my 2025 writing space. One book into my autobiography, I am now mining this personal memorabilia to tell my story.

Let’s frame this with a passage from a letter I wrote to a friend:

I got a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald On Writing from the Book of the Month Club. Though I had little good to say about Fitzgerald before now, there is much of what he says here I find pertinent. I recommend this book; much of it makes sense to me. He speaks of an attic of albums, files and clippings being the bank account of a writer, I look around my study and say, ‘Of course.’ This spring I hope to draw on my account and invest in creative endeavor. Appreciation will come close behind. (Personal Letters, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, April 6, 1986).

I’ve been back and forth with Fitzgerald, but he got this right. The part he missed is the role living memory plays in writing. Sometimes memorabilia can trigger living memory, and that is the point of keeping it. The trouble I’ve found is letting go of it, both literally and figuratively. The best use of attic findings is to allow them to be a springboard for new ideas or a germ of creativity. What writers do here isn’t coal mining. It’s more like panning for gold in California. If an artifact doesn’t present value, we should get rid of it.

Organizing personal memorabilia for use is not a straight forward task. Like anyone, my tendency has been to throw things in a box or folder and tuck them away wherever there is space. As a result, memorabilia is scattered all over the house in a semi-organized mess. The wall of boxes outside my writing space is intimidating and inadequately marked. Boxes are seven high and seven wide, or 49 of them. This doesn’t count the other two walls of boxes, or the trunks, desks, and stashes in the living room and bedroom closet. Since I am following a chronological narrative, it would be best to arrange everything by date order. That in itself would be a too-long task.

There is a lot of writing to be found in memorabilia. That raw material is the easiest to convert to new narratives. Sometimes I quote directly from the past with minimal editing. Sometime I take previous pieces and completely rewrite them while preserving the essence. Either way the presence in the original usually shines through its new use. That’s what a writer wants. By the time I finish book two I expect I won’t have touched half of the memorabilia. If the narrative is good, I’m okay with that.