My Dad drove trucks, he called himself a <tractor driver>. My Dad used earthmoving equipment to level out building sites and then drove his equipment-laden truck from site to site. It was what he did for most of his working career.
One of my earliest memories was being on a site with my Dad. While he was off working, my sister and I played Uno in the shade of the truck. Workplace safety laws have changed a little since then.
I guess that’s why I’ve always liked trucks and truck drivers so much. I understand that, as my Dad did, they call a spade a spade and expect the same in return. He was a man who worked bloody hard in sometimes-harsh conditions and couldn’t tolerate slackers, whingers or incompetence. He looked after his gear and expected others to do the same.
All he wanted was to be told the truth, not be treated like an idiot, for his pay to be right and his tools to be there when he went back for them.
He was so proud of me: I had joined a big transport company and was moving up the ranks.
I worried about him: he had a bad heart and talked of faulty truck brakes.
All too soon, he was gone.
For his funeral, he was dressed in his work uniform. Some people looked at us a little funny but it was only fitting, as work was such an important part of his life that it be a part of his death.
Transport, postal and warehousing kills more people in Australia than any other industry. Anything that protects people like my Dad and the families that they belong to, can only be a good thing.