The Driver on The Bus
I can hear her approaching
for a good while before she arrives. The rhythmic chugging begins as she climbs
the hill near our home and then slowly grows louder. The metallic squeals of
stops along the way can be counted like the seconds between the thunder and
lightning to pinpoint her location. The call goes out through the
house...”Bus!” I learned to
listen for the morning sounds of the bus when I was a kid. In the early sixties,
my folks had one of only four homes on our entire end of the gravel street. I
could hear the bus clearly as soon as it turned on to our road nearly a mile
north. From there the big yellow Carpenter rolled gently over a sea of loose
stone, coming to a noisy halt at the neighbors’. It was that gracefully
controlled, sliding stop that my brother and I adopted as a signal to race out
through the garage and down the drive. I loved riding the school bus; it was
among the best parts of the school day. Our driver was a tough, middle-aged mom
with big sixties sunglasses and clam diggers. And our bus cruised along like her
rolling boot camp. Two kids in every seat, nobody in the aisleway. Hands inside
the windows at all times, and no food or beverages allowed. Those big shades
probably covered two sets of eyes; one that never left the road, and another,
glued to the giant rear-view mirror hanging over the windshield.
I’ve always been impressed with any girl who can drive a stick shift,
and our bus had this huge lever that must have stood about four feet off the
floor. Its well-worn handle jiggled
hard under her gloved hand as she moved it effortlessly in and out of gear. And
in all the years I road that bus, I can’t remember even having a near miss,
much less an actual brush with another vehicle. The other morning, I caught
myself thinking about my childhood driver while I waited for the bus that picks
up our youngest. As the bus rolled
to rest in front of us, I asked Ben how she liked her bus driver, and she yelled
back over her shoulder, “She’s really neat”. I smiled and waved as they
pulled away. Ten hours every week, I allow my daughter’s life to be placed in
the hands of someone who transports my kids more than I do. Though we
occasionally meet at the driveway’s end, there’s hardly time for more than a
wave. So, this last week of the school year, I’d like to say an earnest thank
you to you Sharon, on Highland Local School District’s bus 18, the coolest bus
in the whole darn county (if kids are to be believed). Thanks for keeping my
daughters safe going and coming, and for being patient with us when we’re
running late. As a former kid, I want you to know that I still listen to hear
you coming in the morning. And when you pull away from my driveway with the
precious cargo we’ve entrusted to you, I never worry. And that means a lot to
me. I hope you have a great summer.
The Driver on The Bus
I can hear her approaching
for a good while before she arrives. The rhythmic chugging begins as she climbs
the hill near our home and then slowly grows louder. The metallic squeals of
stops along the way can be counted like the seconds between the thunder and
lightning to pinpoint her location. The call goes out through the
house...”Bus!” I learned to
listen for the morning sounds of the bus when I was a kid. In the early sixties,
my folks had one of only four homes on our entire end of the gravel street. I
could hear the bus clearly as soon as it turned on to our road nearly a mile
north. From there the big yellow Carpenter rolled gently over a sea of loose
stone, coming to a noisy halt at the neighbors’. It was that gracefully
controlled, sliding stop that my brother and I adopted as a signal to race out
through the garage and down the drive. I loved riding the school bus; it was
among the best parts of the school day. Our driver was a tough, middle-aged mom
with big sixties sunglasses and clam diggers. And our bus cruised along like her
rolling boot camp. Two kids in every seat, nobody in the aisleway. Hands inside
the windows at all times, and no food or beverages allowed. Those big shades
probably covered two sets of eyes; one that never left the road, and another,
glued to the giant rear-view mirror hanging over the windshield.
I’ve always been impressed with any girl who can drive a stick shift,
and our bus had this huge lever that must have stood about four feet off the
floor. Its well-worn handle jiggled
hard under her gloved hand as she moved it effortlessly in and out of gear. And
in all the years I road that bus, I can’t remember even having a near miss,
much less an actual brush with another vehicle. The other morning, I caught
myself thinking about my childhood driver while I waited for the bus that picks
up our youngest. As the bus rolled
to rest in front of us, I asked Ben how she liked her bus driver, and she yelled
back over her shoulder, “She’s really neat”. I smiled and waved as they
pulled away. Ten hours every week, I allow my daughter’s life to be placed in
the hands of someone who transports my kids more than I do. Though we
occasionally meet at the driveway’s end, there’s hardly time for more than a
wave. So, this last week of the school year, I’d like to say an earnest thank
you to you Sharon, on Highland Local School District’s bus 18, the coolest bus
in the whole darn county (if kids are to be believed). Thanks for keeping my
daughters safe going and coming, and for being patient with us when we’re
running late. As a former kid, I want you to know that I still listen to hear
you coming in the morning. And when you pull away from my driveway with the
precious cargo we’ve entrusted to you, I never worry. And that means a lot to
me. I hope you have a great summer.