A driver is a father. A driver is a mother, a son, a daughter, a lover, a friend. A driver is someone special. A driver is responsible for almost every comfort we have, because somewhere along the line it came on a truck.

A driver is a white knight on the highway. A driver is someone you can trust, depend on and turn to if you need help. Drivers are on the front line of every emergency in this country be it a famine, a flood, a tornado or whatever. Drivers are out in front leading the way, bringing aid, bringing comfort, helping and leading.

Drivers spend lonely hours, eat lonely meals, and don’t get to kiss a loved one goodnight, spend the majority of their lives among strangers, and most do it with a friendly disposition, ready to meet the next challenge. Drivers sacrifice seeing children grow up, miss those special birthdays, miss a child’s first step, first word, first day of school.

They do it by choice because it is their job and they take pride in doing it. They miss their families every minute of every day. Drivers’ hearts are as big as the highway is long. They always want to help. They always have time to listen. They always have something new to say, something they saw that gave them the belief in this life that assures them that we are not just striving selfishly, that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

They see sunsets and moon rises that make them cry. They have heartache where no one can help or even listen. And still they hold the wheel in all kinds of weather, all kinds of environments, and in all kinds of traffic.

And these drivers do it safely at the controls of an 80,000-pound deadly weapon. They do it in cities of millions of people, on roads where traffic barely moves and then moves at 70 mph. They do it in towns that we’ve never heard of, on roads and in lots that are narrow, and places barely big enough to get into.

Drivers are red and white and black and yellow and tan and short and thin and tall and stocky. They are well read, knowledgeable on a wide variety of subjects, possess great common sense, are quick with a smile, like all kinds of music and all kinds of food, are mostly slow to anger, have strong opinions, wear their feelings on their sleeves, want to be a part of decisions and are the backbone of this country. We’ve been trucking since Plymouth Rock, and long after the Internet, intranet, iPods, email, faxes, satellites and cell phones have moved on, we’ll still be trucking across this country.

Maybe the trucks will be different, maybe the roads will be different, but the one constant that won’t be different are the truckers. These men and women who meet the challenge everyday are unique. They are special. Some are less open than others. Some speak when they should listen, but who doesn’t? The point is that when the times are tough, when the chips are down and when your back is against the wall, these are the people I want to look up and see. Truckers aren’t scared, aren’t weak and never run from a challenge.

This country was built on the back of truckers. Think about it. We owe them respect, courtesy, consideration and dignity. My best friends are truckers and I am proud to say that. Truckers are interesting, thoughtful and insightful. They manage a family from hundreds of miles away. They spend their lives looking out for other people—on the highway, at a customer’s loading dock, in every interaction.

They have an expansive viewpoint on things from years spent seeing the world from a viewpoint most of us miss. They see things that humble them. They see things that give them pride in who they are, who they drive for and the country they live in. They see the deepest night, the brightest moon, the warmest sun and the coldest wind. They know every hour the clock ticks and have watched it go by in every imaginable moment.

The trains are gone except for what Steve Earle calls, “that AMTRAK thing,” but trucks are here forever. I learn something new from truckers everyday and I am thankful for those that show it to me. All of us should appreciate them. The country should appreciate them. But mostly the drivers should appreciate what they do themselves.

And when they do, I am sure they will note it in the same quiet way they go about their work every day. When I think about the tremendous effort drivers exert on the fiber of this country, and the little they ask I liken it to the lines from Martin Grosswendt’s song, “Dog on A Dance Floor.” Drivers go through their day, “unnoticed, unheard and unseen.” We oughta try to change that.