United Nations of Laredo

Those of you who read most of my posts already know about my reputation as a kid.  I was the nesheah, the kid who endlessly pommeled his dad with questions - about farming decisions, about farm chores, and why did this have to be done that way, etc. etc.  Lord have mercy, I have already apologized to dear old dad a number of times as he reposes in the neighborhood Saskatchewan graveyard. Now the adult version of that boy is simply 'the thinker'.  Yes, even at end of a certain blogpost, my thinker often gets another twist on it and the impulse is to keep going on that too. 😏  Even in retirement I still spend considerable time thinking about things happened during my working years - and yes, dear dad, now also wondering why I did it that way. 

Anyway, I suppose still in character as a 'thinker' I cannot but share an article I wrote in 2014 - already past retirement age even then, but still going.  This was an incident now serving as considerable grist for the mill in my post-retirement thinking, reminiscing - education actually. Physical retirement is a reality we need to comply with, but I'm quite convinced that education never needs to end. In fact, I have a number of questions I want to ask of God just as soon as I traverse to the other side. 😑 Interfaith encounters are my latest learning edge. Some of my recent posts have touched on that. The following 'incident' is as heartwarming to me in hindsight as it was then. "United Nations of Laredo," I entitled it then, and same title still. 

Texas is known for its independence of spirit, its 75 mph speed limit even on two-lane highways, its no nonsense judicial system regularly served by capital punishment, and a large complement of evangelical militaristic nationalistic churches who provide the philosophical/theological backdrop for all of this.

Recently, however, it was this Lone Star state which provided an exception to all the above.  I encountered an occasion of inspiration and inclusiveness. It was in the border town of Laredo that I was staged to pick up a load of Mangos. This fruit comes out of Mexico on Mexican trucks and then Canadian truckers transit the loads In-Bond through the U.S. up into Canada. Duly parked in the staging area of a Freight Forwarder, waiting to get loaded, another truck parked itself beside me.  I recognized it as Canadian, a Manitoba Carrier.  After brief introductory conversation with the driver on the pavement between our trucks I pushed my hunch based on his accent and slipped into Low German, the language of Old Colony Mennonites. Bingo, with a look of relief he slipped into high gear in the lingo which flowed so much easier because it was his mother tongue. That camaraderie was short-lived, however.  In short order we were joined by another Canadian trucker, this guy from Ontario, an immigrant from the Ukraine still struggling with a very thick accent, and then another, this guy very likely a Pakistani living in Montreal, and then one more, an East Indian this fellow from Toronto, complete with turban, young, handsome and spoke an excellent English. Intrigued by this new circle, I took some leadership in accommodating friendliness and some inclusive conversation – also enjoyed my Mennonite friend’s full participation! Obviously he recognized that on this occasion our new little bond needed to include others.  No more low German; at least not on this occasion.

Just as I was beginning to describe a mechanical problem which seemed to be threatening my reefer, my cell phone rings, and voila, it's the shipper! I am the first one to back up to the dock to get loaded! Young Mr Turban also gets to back in right beside me. In a couple minutes there we are backed in and loading side by side.  While the forklifts are bumping in back of each of our trailers, I query him seeking some further wisdom for my reefer situation.  He knows less than I do!  No problem, we enjoy some congenial conversation anyway.

Mercifully, then a miracle!  In the gathering darkness my indicator light begins to flash Green-Amber, green-amber like a beacon across the parking lot. My reefer is in trouble and it is for all to see! Then I can hardly believe my good fortune! Our three other new friends had continued conversation in mid parking lot. They see my reefer's distress and head right on over.  Corporate diagnosis rapidly ensues!  It is Mr Montreal, the guy with the oldest truck whom I had humored about extra skills he probably has because it takes that to know how to drive an old truck! Indeed he knows his way; asks for a hammer – which I promptly procure from my toolbox. He looks strategically at my battery, wiring, taps and wiggles a key connector and presto, green light solid, temperature settings stabilize and problem solved!  Cheers!  Right beside my truck there is laughter and chatter in all of our languages.  Our new exuberance cannot quite be contained in English, our common language. Happiness; I also think of tongues of fire as on the day of Pentecost (Acts chapter 2).

In addition to gratitude for a small mechanical problem fixed, I drive away from this Laredo shipper with a surge of goodwill and even inspiration.  In my mind there is more; there is an irony, given my Texas impressions above.  Border town Laredo, a so-called dangerous place for tourists, has provided a perfect opportunity for this bunch of Canadians, all hailing from other countries and all sporting different accents and mother tongues. Not only did we briefly enjoy each other’s company, but also we participated in some healthy problem solving!  All of us, in community fashion (dare I say Canadian style?) rise to the old-fashioned idea of being neighbors to one another. 

My mind goes on, like usual.  I chuckle a cynical thank you to all the American truck stop CB rambos, those cowboy know-it-alls who pollute the airwaves with their words, words, blah, blah, and nobody listens.  Right under their noses a few Canadians discovered that United Nations is still alive.