Forced dispatch

One of the best parts of the Mid-America Trucking Show is seeing the families in attendance - families who bring the kids.

It always brings a smile to your face to see some 4- or 5-year-old boy standing next to Dad eyeballing the new trucks. As Dad talks business with the sales reps about the latest offerings for the model of interest, little man puts on his serious face, arms bearing the "Born to Truck" logo crossed across his chest.

Yesterday in the West Wing, where the swag was flowing and crowds were wall-to-wall, I saw one such family.

They had obviously made their pass through the West Wing, bags fully loaded with the good stuff, and were ready to move on.

Well, almost all of them.

Little Man wasn't done. Now I'm not sure if it was a light-up ball, a yard stick, flashy pen or what he apparently had missed, but he wasn't budging an inch.

He stood his ground, trying in vain to explain to his dad why they should not leave the bountiful West Wing. He might as well have been saying, "But you know there aren't any loads back out there. Don't make me go there."

Alas, Dad the now-dispatcher, told Little Man that he didn't have a choice.

Little Man dropped his head and moved out.