No Students Beyond This Point

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I’m a bit of an interloper in the speech and debate tournament tabulations room (tabs room). You see, I’m just the bus driver and the tabs room is for the tournament judges and tournament administrators. It is a sacred room where the student competitors are not allowed on pain of death. Speech and Debate is as serious to speech and debaters as football or basketball is to their respective athletes. Scholarships are on the line, not to mention pride. The judges must be kept separate from the competitors, some of whom would do anything to tip the scales in their favor. Thus, the NO STUDENTS BEYOND THIS POINT sign is very serious.

As a bus driver I don’t really belong in the Tabs room. There is no worry about me trying to tip the scales, but I am taking up space belonging to those hard working judges, all of whom have given up their Friday and Saturday to work long hours as volunteers. Although I got up early to drive the kids to the tournament, I get to sit around all day while the judges run from debate to debate and frantically write up their score sheets in-between. Also, who is to say I won’t eat the complimentary lunch that is brought in for these dedicated judges?

For the most part, they don’t know that there is a bus driver in their midst. With my master’s degree in English and training in critical thinking I could be used as a judge. I keep my mouth shut because I get to spend the day writing homework for classes that I teach and also time to work on my novel. The tabs room is perfect because it is usually in the library where there is wifi and comfortable tables to sit at. I notice other bus drivers sitting out in their buses the entire day. I keep my secret to myself. One bus driver doesn’t rock the boat. Two might sink the opportunity like the Titanic.

My surreptitious situation made me hesitate when I exited the tab room one afternoon heading for the restroom. Standing outside in the rotunda a respectful distance from the Tab Room door was a little gal. She couldn’t have been much more than a sophomore. The look in her eye caught mine–it was one of fear and need. She looked miserable and desperate. It was clear that, unlike me, she was an active participant of this tournament. I, the interloper in the tab room, had no authority over any of her tournament troubles. I very nearly walked on past her, but her eyes . . . they pleaded. 

Feeling like I was making a mistake, I stopped. “Do you need help?” I asked.

She grabbed onto my words like a drowning person a passing log. “Yes,” she said, visibly relieved to have someone to talk to. “I went to the room where the schedule said I was supposed to go, but the judge told me I wasn’t on her list. I don’t know where to go.” And so, feeling lost and like the world was ending, she wended her way through the halls until she ended up at the tab room. This was the only place she knew of where she might find help, and yet going inside to find help was expressly prohibited. She had reached a catch 22. She felt that her whole future might be ruined if she didn’t make it to her debate, yet she wasn’t allowed to call for help.

I had passed the tournament director on the way out of the tab room. From what I had seen of her I was of the opinion that she wasn’t going to be executing any competitors that day.

“Just a minute,” I said. I went in and explained to the director the plight of the forlorn girl just outside the door. 

“Well, bring her in,” she said, her tone giving full confidence that she could quickly resolve this girl’s problem.

I went to the door and motioned to the girl to come in. Even with the permission from one whom she thought was part of the tournament, she moved hesitantly toward that forbidden room. I smiled as warmly as I could and motioned again. She did enter and the director emotionally scooped her up and got her taken care of. Feeling a very real relief for the young competitor, I felt the need for a relief of another kind and began the trek down that long hallway to the restroom. It occurred to me that I was still an interloper, but not completely useless.

These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

Like a Miracle

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Everyone knows that being a school bus driver means taking your load of kids to school and then taking them home again, day after day after day. You arrive at the first stop at the same time each morning, turn at the same corners, and tell the same kids to sit down and be quiet. The routine is comforting—and maddening—at the same time. This is what you sign up for when you choose to be a bus driver. What they don’t tell you during training is that there are these things called activity trips. You are vaguely aware of them, but you are blissfully unaware of the high-level skills it takes to complete an activity trip successfully.

While bus drivers call them activity trips, they are actually the exciting “field trips” you remember from your elementary school days. You might be driving the second grade to a pumpkin patch on a golden autumn day. It might be taking the fourth grade across town to hear the Utah Symphony Orchestra which is on one of their outreach programs. One of my favorite trips is taking the fifth grade to the aquarium. Most of these activity trips reoccur each year. When you’ve driven bus long enough, these runs become part of your routine and cause little to no stress.

When it comes to high school, these activity runs are no longer “field trips.” They are important events in the students’ educational preparation. Scholarships may be on the line, so getting the kids there on time is important.

Many of these activity trips are straightforward enough on paper. One is taking the football team to a certain high school for a game and then bringing them back home. Simple enough. Others are more complex. FFA (Future Farmers of America) comes to mind. One of their events is a state competition that lasts three days. The bus driver is involved every hour of all three days. Each day the fifty kids you are driving split up among five different venues. You are the one that has to take them to each location. The first difficulty is learning where is each venue? You are supposed to pick up group 1 at a certain time and transfer them across town to where group 4 is. Group 4 is going to where group 2 is. Group 2 has an hour off and wants to go to Walmart. This all starts at 6am and, with their nightly entertainment activities, doesn’t end until 11pm. It keeps a bus driver on his toes.

The skill and preparation required to pull off these high school trips is considerable and never appreciated except by other bus drivers. In my district this is how it goes. The transportation supervisor gives you a trip sheet. The sheet lists the group (let’s say Speech and Debate), leave time (5:30 am), and destination (West Valley City). Clear enough, right? But where in West Valley City are we going? You assume you are going to a high school (speech and debate is always at a high school). On google maps you type in West Valley High School. It doesn’t exist. You scan around the city in “Layers” mode looking for a football field that indicates the presence of a high school. There are two. Finally, you contact your supervisor who contacts the coach and you learn it is Hunter High School. You go back to google maps and study the route to get there. We don’t have GPS on our buses and aren’t allowed to use our phones while driving. You have to memorize freeways, exit numbers, and street names, and landmarks for left and right turns.

The kids sleep while you navigate the dark freeways which, by the way, are far busier than they should be for early Saturday morning. You feel proud of yourself when, after an hour-and-a-half, you hit the right exit. Now you are navigating through side streets. There are only a couple of turns left and you will see the high school. Suddenly you come upon a road closed sign. Oh no! Not to worry; you memorized an alternate route just in case. You are right on track when a confusing traffic pattern makes you miss your turn. With your stress level rising you call to the coach and ask for navigation instructions (she can use her phone). She directs you to another street and you figure it out from there. You finally pull up in front of the high school. The kids—there are twenty-five of them—are ready to rumble on the debate floor and you got them there on time.

The thrill of finding a destination you have never been to before is short lived.  The next challenge is finding a place to park your bus while you wait for the activity to end. For instance, you are driving kids to the state capitol building in downtown Salt Lake City. Don’t get smart and take the back road to avoid downtown traffic or you will find yourself on a one-way road so steep that your bus groans as it slowly carries your load of 65 kids to the top. At the capitol there is a nice turn around for buses where you can drop your kids. The State patrol is there directing traffic. Now what? When they built the capitol, they didn’t think ahead to the busloads of kids who would be coming to visit. There is no bus parking. You are in downtown Salt Lake City. One does not simply park a bus on the street in downtown. Luckily, you know a spot in an industrial area near the train tracks about fifteen minutes away. You are relieved when you find that the spot is still open for buses. You park and wait for the pickup call. Uh oh, you did trade phone numbers with the lead teacher, right?

The most exciting and challenging part of the activity trips is piloting a 40-foot bus with sixty students on board in rush hour, freeway traffic. It’s much like a car . . . except that your vehicle is 40 feet long . . . and you have 65 kids as passengers. Cars and trucks move in and out in front of you. Speeds change suddenly. You focus intensely on keeping your distance while watching  exit numbers. To simplify things, you move over into the HOV lane. This works very nicely, but there are five lanes to your right and they are all packed with small cars, sporty SUVs, and semis carrying huge roles of steel. Eight miles out from your exit you start looking for the broken white line that indicates you can exit the HOV lane. When it arrives, you turn on your right blinker and look in your mirror to see if someone is going to let you in. You do this while guarding against a dangerous red wave of taillights in front of you telling you that you are going to rear end someone if you don’t slow down quickly. Two vehicles have no intention of letting a bus in front of them. Finally, a Cadillac Escalade lets you in. You make double sure he is actually behind the rear end of your bus before moving over. You go through this process four more times. With a mile to spare before your exit you finally reach the far right lane. Whew.

A simple request from a coach to stop so the kids can get some dinner will ramp up the stress level. They will often suggest a place they know but you don’t. Where is this place? Can you park a bus there? Usually not. The coaches never think of that. One doesn’t simply pull a bus into a McDonald’s parking lot. You’ll never get it out. Even if they are in a hurry, you tell the coach to wait while you look up the suggested place on google maps. You see that you will have to drop the kids at a curb and then drive several blocks where there is a parking lot where you might be allowed to park the bus for an hour. Halfway there the coach changes his mind. He wants a Texas Roadhouse that’s just a few miles away. You are in the HOV lane again and the five lanes to your right are packed with slow’n go accident traffic. You tell the coach you will take them there if you can make the exit. It’s going to take miles to get across those five lanes. Once again you go through the high-stress process of blinking, waiting, watching, moving x 5. You make it. The coach rewards you by inviting you eat with the team at their expense.

At this writing I have been driving for ten years. I’ve driven probably more than 200 activity trips. Many of them were routine. I like routine activity trips. I know the route. I know where to park. I know where they may want to go to eat. So many other activity trips are new to me and no matter how well I prepare, they are adventures.  Whether the activity trip is routine, or something new, what never changes is the relief I feel after I’ve safely dropped the kids at the school at the end of the trip. It feels like a miracle every time.

These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

Things Happen

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In a Stepford Wives world bus driving would be a breeze. The kids would line up at their bus stop, greet the driver politely, and then find their seats. They would stay sitting, facing forward while chatting quietly with their seatmate or, perhaps, getting their homework done early. They wouldn’t get up until the bus has come to a full stop and the air break has been set. They would get off and wait in a group twelve feet in front of the bus until I give them the signal to cross. Yes, that is the Stepford Students version of things. As nice as that sounds to me on many days, in the end it would make bus driving unbearably boring. While a lot of what I just described does occur at one level or another, the truth is, things happen.

A couple of days ago I had picked up my 50 elementary students and was just pulling in to the high school. Twelve big kids got on there. When I was preparing to pull away from the curb, I saw Bella, one of my elementary students, walking up the aisle. I couldn’t leave until she was back in her seat. Feeling a little of the usual afternoon orneriness—the after-school energy level of the kids fills the bus with electricity—I asked a little brusquely, “What’s up?” This girl is bright and has quiet, knowing, eyes. She knew better than to be wandering around the bus right then.

“Lessy is eating,” she said.

“What?!” I had just lectured the kids that there would be no more eating on the bus. I was tired of sweeping up their discarded trash. I reached for the intercom to give Lessie a public lecture. Just as I lifted the mic I noticed that Bella was reaching for the paper towels resting on top of my big rearview mirror. What are you doing?” I asked. “Did Jessie spill something while she was eating?” I wondered why it was Bella up front getting the paper towels if it was Lessie who did the spilling.

“Lessy is bleeding,” she said.

“Bleeding?  I thought you said ‘eating.’”

Bella smiled. “Do you have any band aids?” She was really looking after her friend.

I put the mic back glad that I hadn’t started yelling at Lessie yet.

A couple of weeks ago it was Valentine’s Day. When the bell rang, kids poured out of the school carrying the Valentine’s Day Boxes they had created. The boxes were adorable. I saw horse boxes, monster boxes, bear boxes (complete with fur), Barbie boxes, Minecraft boxes, and so many other great examples of creativity. The kids were all smiles and good vibes feeling the joy after their class parties that had been complete with valentine cards, candy, and chocolate. There’s hardly enough room on the bus for the kids by themselves; with their valentine’s boxes they were really jammed into their seats. In one seat I could barely see the three 1st graders underneath their boxes. They grinned up me.

Once again I was just getting ready to pull away from the curb when I saw a student walking up the aisle. “Hayley, get back in your seat. We’re leaving!” I became more annoyed when she ignored me. She’d never given me a bit of trouble before. When she arrived at my seat I snapped out a, “What?”

“My hand is stuck.”

“Your hand is what?”

“My hand is stuck.”

She raised her hand. I stared. It was inside a very pretty valentine’s box.  “Well, pull it out,” I said, with a mixture of impatience and laughter.

“I can’t,” she answered, calmly. Her calmness calmed me a little. She had put her hand in through the slit where you were to slide valentine cards.

Ignoring the bus that was waiting behind me for me to get going, I took the box under my arm and pulled on her wrist. She was right. Her hand was really stuck. The cardboard of the box was thick. If I tried to yank her hand out it would hurt her.

“I’m going to have to rip the box to get your hand out. Is that okay?” I asked because her box was decorated so prettily.

“Yes,” she answered, with that same calmness.

After some careful effort, I managed to rip and loosen the opening enough for her to pull her hand out. That was a new one for my bus.

Just a few days later I had completed the journey from the school, over the ridge, to our small town. I was making my way through the usual stops enjoying how the bus was getting quieter and quieter as each group of kids got off. I pulled up to Topper’s stop and opened the door. In my mirror I saw Topper, a fourth grader, making his way to the front. Just then Alicia jumped up beside me.

“Do you want to hear a joke?” she asked excitedly. She was in my way so that I couldn’t see the stairs and door.

“Alicia, this is not the time to tell me a joke. Get back in your seat. You can tell it to me in a minute when everyone else is off the bus.”

As I said these words I became aware of the noise of struggling on the steps. When Alicia moved, to my horror, I saw Topper trapped in the doors which I had inadvertently shut on him. Half of him was outside and the other half was inside. These doors cannot do any harm, but I could see that Topper was frightened and confused as to why the doors had shut on him. In my distraction with Alecia I had pressed the “Close” button too soon. Of course I checked to make sure Topper was okay and apologized profusely, but he will probably never trust me again.

On days when Joey decides to give a concert with her whistle, or the kids in the middle are throwing a coat around the bus, or the Sinclair sisters are calling my name because one of them is “being mean” I feel like a Stepford version of students would be nice. But when I really think about it, if things didn’t happen, I would have no stories. And a life without stories is no life at all.

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

Say My Name

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I’ve never prided myself on my memory. In some odd ways I have a great memory. I can remember the plotlines of movies I watched 50 years ago. Ironically, I struggle with people’s names. I like people. People are important to me. That’s because I am one of them. Yet, in the grocery store I will have people come across me in an aisle, greet me by name, and chat. While we are talking, I’ll be wracking my brain for any memory of them to no avail. I am not famous in any way, so I don’t know why the person speaking to me knows my name and I don’t know his. I feel bad when this happens because the person speaking to me is usually very friendly and a person I would like to know. I wonder what is wrong with me. You would think this problem would make it hard to be a bus driver where I have so many children’s names to remember. Surprisingly, when it comes to the bus, remembering names is something I do pretty well.

Learning the names of all my bus kids is no small feat. After all, there are eighty of them. Learning their names doesn’t happen all at once. This year I began a new route. I didn’t know even one of the children getting on my bus. As I looked in my mirror at the animated faces of so many kids my heart sank. Learning their names seemed an impossible task. Not one to give up easily, I searched for a way to make the impossible possible.

First, I have to get all their names on paper. This is a matter of procedure for bus drivers in our district. At the beginning of the year we hand out sheets to the students to be taken home that requests names, ages, grades, addresses, and telephone numbers. Getting all of the sheets back is no easy task and is never fully successful. But when I start giving out candy bars for a returned sheet, things begin to happen.

Now that I have all the names in my hand, I still have the problem of figuring out which name goes with which face. Since the Rider sheet organizes names by stops, I am able to compartmentalize certain names to certain bus stops. This helps immensely. Two or three weeks drag on as I try to make connections between a face and a name. It’s important for me to say the name out loud as I see the child get on the bus. This would be no big deal except that the kids hear my struggle and don’t understand it.

“Um, what’s your name again?” I ask the kid with blond, curly hair. The look of disappointment on his face is heart-breaking and aggravating. Heart-breaking because clearly my not knowing his name has hurt his feelings. Aggravating because he’s too young to understand that he’s just one of eighty kids I’m trying to keep straight.

“Your name is McKell? I ask a second grader with freckles and a bob.

“NO!” she yells and walks back to her seat in a huff without telling me what her name is.

Once, in my frustration, I yelled back, “Do you know everyone’s name on the bus?” She actually stopped and considered. It was clear she didn’t. Still, she didn’t give me a break and climbed into her seat with a tired sigh.

I finally had to resort to my old trick to get the kids to help me more—candy bars. As the kids got off the bus, if I said their name right, I would give them a Hershey Bar. If I couldn’t say their name without their help, no candy bar. This motivated them to tell me their names and help me find a way to remember them. I didn’t make a general announcement, but after the first couple of candy bars were given out word spread fast. Kids were stopping at my seat and looking at me intensely. If I couldn’t remember a child’s name, she was motivated to tell me and not just walk away angry. This was very effective in reaching my goal. Now I know all their names—all eighty of them.

Being able to call them by name isn’t just a party trick. It’s important. When I see someone misbehaving while I’m driving, it’s important to be able to say their name to get their attention.

“LeeAnn. Turn around and sit down!” I say into the intercom. She whips around and plops into her seat.

What is even more important is the moment of self-esteem hearing their names gives them. They know they’ve been seen and acknowledged.

At the elementary school in the morning as they are all trundling off the bus, I’m busy watching them in my mirror as they file forward. That’s when I’m calling out their names (before they reach me and turn their backs to go down the steps).

“Have a good one, Sara.”

“See you later, Aaron.”

“Careful on the steps, Maycee.”

“I love the earrings, Cali.”

Most don’t say anything in return—they don’t even look at me—a but the look on their faces tells me they heard their name and feel good about that.

When the end of the line of kids is nearing I see a little gal with blue eyes and two buns on top of her head. I know her but her name won’t come to mind. I call out the name of the boy in front of her, but then hesitate as I struggle for her name. The girl slows down almost imperceptibly as she nears me. Her body language tells me that she really wants to hear her name before she passes. It’s a great relief to me when her name suddenly flashes into my mind.

“Charley,” I say, warmly.

Just like that her face brightens, her pace quickens, and she is off to school.

Yes, knowing their names is important.

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

“What’s Going On?”

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Being a bus driver is much like being the captain of a ship. You are ultimately responsible for the safety of the ship and those on it. It begins each morning before the initial bus run. Even in the pitch black of a December morning I have to do a bus safety inspection. This involves checking the oil and coolant levels, checking the tire inflation, making sure the air brake will pop when the air level gets low, checking all of the many required light systems and more. Does the emergency door open? Do the emergency window alarms work? The purpose is to make sure my bus can safely and dependably carry the children to and from school. If something goes wrong, it’s all on me, the captain.

Being the captain also means I have to solve problems that may occur in the course of my daily runs. This can be something simple like helping tie a shoe. 

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat when the tiny second grader asks me for help. I pat my leg and she places her foot on my thigh so I can tie her laces in a double knot.

 That’s an easy one. 

Early this year I was subbing an elementary route in a raging blizzard. Even after clearing the windshield, and with the windshield wipers going full bore, I only had a small clear space to see through. I couldn’t remember where the first turn was. I asked the kids for help, but it was such a whiteout that they could be sure either. It was only after I made a best-guess turn that they informed me, “This is the wrong street.” That wouldn’t have been so bad except that the street turned out to be a dead end. While staring at the ditch at the end of the narrow road with forty vociferous kids behind me I had to decide what to do. It was simple. I had to find a way to turn the bus around without backing into any cars or knocking down mailboxes. The solution was simple, but in a snowed-in forty-foot beast it wasn’t easy.

Some situations are trickier. 

I’m at the end of my bus run far out in the country of a town that is ten miles south of the city where the school is. Who should be my last two riders are walking to the front of the bus to get off at their country lane. I notice a kindergarten age boy walking up the aisle with them. I am alarmed.

 “Who is that?” I ask.

The teenage girl and her brother shrug and get off. This is my problem, not theirs.

I alter my question. “Who are you?”

The little boy whispers something.

“What?”

“Jimmy Spinder,” he says, a little louder. 

The school year is only a week old and I’m still not sure who’s supposed to be on my bus and who isn’t. Did this boy just not get off at the correct stop earlier or is he supposed to be on one of the other two buses that bring kids to this small town? 

“Do you know which bus you usually ride?”

The boy shrugs. “I think it’s this one.”

“I haven’t seen you before. Have you seen me?”

The boy shrugs.

“Do you know where you are supposed to get off?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “I get off at the dairy.”

Ah, that’s the other bus that comes to this small town. In fact, the dairy is only three miles away. I get on the radio and call the other bus driver. “Bus 17,” I say, “I have your Jimmy Spinder on my bus.”

 I’m thinking I’ll just run him out to the dairy and drop him off when Bus 17 says, “I don’t have a Jimmy Spinder on my bus.”

I sit for a confused moment trying to figure this out. The answer comes from another bus driver who has been listening in. “Which dairy?” she asks.

I look at the boy and say, “Do you live in Levan or Nephi?”

“Nephi,” he says.

I roll my eyes. This boy really got on the wrong bus. He’s about twenty-five miles from the other dairy where he is supposed to be. What to do? I have another job starting in fifteen minutes. I can’t take him all the way to the other dairy. That will take an hour. Fortunately Bus 17 is going back into Nephi. We arrange a meeting place and transfer the boy. He gets home safely to his very worried mother who has already been calling the school to find out where he is.

Some situations are just strange

On another morning I am cruising slowly up the street to pick up my last stop of kids. I can see all fifteen of them lined up nice and neat watching as I approach. Suddenly, a big yellow cat wanders out in the road in front of me. I press the brake and my bus squeaks to a stop. I think the cat is going to keep crossing until it is out of my way. Instead, it stops right in front of me and sneezes violently three times. 

“Poor cat has allergies,” I say to anyone sitting up front who might be listening.

With the sneezes done, I think he will continue crossing the road. He doesn’t. Instead, he raises his nose high in the air and tilts his head this way and that. This is one strange cat. Suddenly he sneezes again. In the yellow rays of the morning sun filtering through the tree limbs I see cat spit shoot up into the air like a fountain. I shake my head in empathy, but begin to turn the wheel to see if I can get the bus around this poor cat without squishing it under my duals. My kids are going to be late for school. Suddenly a fourth-grade girl leaps out of the line and runs out into the road. There’s a cat in danger and a bus that needs saving. She is just the one for the job. She scoops the large cat up in her arms and moves him to the side of the road. She then runs back to take her place in line. 

What a little superhero. She solved the problem before the captain figured out a solution. It’s good to have people with initiative on the crew.

Sometimes ordinary confusion and extraordinary confusion are hard to tell apart. 

I’m riding on another driver’s morning run to learn his route. I’m chatting with the driver while the kids laugh, chat, and tease behind us. I hear a girl calling out louder than the other kids. I wonder if she had had too many bowls of Sugar Bombs cereal for breakfast. After a few more blocks I hear the little girl again. 

“What’s going on?” she yells. 

I wonder what it is she’s playing. We’re stopping to pick up his last four children when I again hear, “What’s going on?” I ignore the overly energetic girl but notice the smell of hot coolant in the bus. I know the smell of bus coolant well, but usually don’t smell it in the bus. As the driver brakes to a stop, I tell him I am going to go back and see where the smell is coming from.

I quickly identify the girl who has been yelling because as I walk back, she meets my eyes and yells one more time, “What’s going on?” I can see confusion and fear on her face. As the bus brakes to a stop my shoes are suddenly awash in steaming, green coolant as it runs up the aisle to the front of the bus. The coolant runs through the heaters that are under some of the seats and fans blow the warm air. Apparently, the hose to the heater under her seat has broken and coolant is pouring into the bus. It’s no wonder this poor girl is wondering “What’s going on?”

The bus driver is a good captain. He stops the bus with a splash as the coolant hits the dash at the front. He radios and reports the problem to the transportation supervisor. He opens the front door and has the kids outside move back so they won’t be caught up in the flow of coolant which flows in a small waterfall down the bus steps. Then both of us help the kids off the bus. The driver counts to make sure we have them all. About this time another bus pulls up and we escort the kids onto it so they can finish their ride to school. It all goes pretty smoothly considering.

Bus driving has a weight of responsibilities, but it is usually pretty straightforward—pick the kids up and drop them off. It can be boringly routine. The universe takes care of “boring” with the “What’s going on?” situations. It may be anything from a foot in your lap with a shoe needing tied or steaming, green coolant splashing down your aisle. It could be a sneezing cat holding your bus hostage or a little, misplaced kindergartener and neither you nor he knows where he lives. “What’s going on?” is a question a bus driver needs to get used to. Finding the answer and a solution makes the job more satisfying than many would believe it could be. It’s all part of the bus driving adventure. 

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

“Bye. Love You!”

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On my school bus this year I carry pre-school and kindergarten, 1st to 5th grade, and then about twelve high schoolers. For me, it’s a crash course in childhood development. The funny thing is, I’ve lived all those ages myself, but at 62 you forget most of the details of what it was like.

The one pre-schooler I take to school is too small to even climb the precipitously steep bus steps by herself. Her 8th grade sister helps her up and then buckles her into the front passenger side seat. Often I can tell she’s been crying as her mother has gotten her ready to catch the bus. She sits next to her kindergarten sister who still wishes she was being buckled into a seat. They are both cute as buttons.

At other stops kindergarteners walk to the bus carrying backpacks as big as they are. Often, worried parents are watching as they climb the steps. These little people are fresh and innocent. Their eyes are bright as they say hello to me and ask if I remember their names. They love sitting next to their new found kindergarten friends. It’s like a playdate on the way to and from school. I hear all kinds of imaginings being spoken along with shouts and gleeful laughter. This sounds nice, but sometimes they get so loud and rambunctious I struggle a little to keep my calm.

The 1st through 5th graders are a wonderful menagerie of faces who pass by me on their way on and off the bus. There are usually a lot of smiles and a couple of sweet “Good morning, Tory.”

I definitely see a rise in sophistication from 1st to 5th grade. In general their innocence level falls while their intellectual and emotional complexity grows. All of the growth is within the bounds of childhood, but I’ve learned it must be taken seriously. Many children are neighbors and they bring their outside relationships onto the bus with them. This means many are friends and love to sit near each other. Of course, the opposite is true, too. I’ve already been informed by my supervisor that she has gotten a call from a mother asking that I make sure that so-and-so doesn’t sit near another child. 

I know that most of these elementary students dream of the day they will be high schoolers. Although the high schoolers are just older children to me, the elementary kids look at them and see maturity, sophistication, and freedom. These children are so enamored with the idea of being a teenager that even if they looked in my driver’s rearview mirror and saw what I saw they would misinterpret it as “coolness.”

What do I see? I see a group of teens in the back who are unnecessarily isolated from their classmates, staring at their phones. I sense an invisible cloud of anxiety around them in the form of questions they have: Am I popular? Am I cool? What if I say the wrong thing? Compared to the exuberant elementary children in front of them, they look utterly miserable.

My last stop, at the intersection of a lonely, paved country road and an even lonelier gravel road, is where a pair of siblings get off. The big sister is 15 and in 9th grade. Her little brother just turned 13 and is in 7th grade. These two are unusual among the morose group of “big” kids. I hardly ever know they are back there until, as we approach their stop, they get up and start working their way to the front closing all the windows as they come. I’ve never asked them to close the windows; they just do it because they come from exceptional stock.

On this day sister comes forward alone. She sits near me and we chat as I pull up to the gravel lane. As I open the door she looks back and says, “Where’s my brother? I think he’s sleeping back there!”

I find this amusing. I’m used to small kindergarteners falling asleep on the way home, but not a more sophisticated middle schooler. She strides quickly back and I see her shaking someone behind the seat. Suddenly a head with confused eyes appears. “I scared him,” she says with a laugh as she runs up the aisle and gets off the bus. I watch with concern as brother stumbles up the aisle. At one point he falls over into a seat. Apparently his leg is asleep.

“Are you going to be able to make it home?” I ask. His house is a mile up that gravel road.

“I’ll crawl if I have to,” he answers with a sleepy grin.

He makes his way down the steps then turns and waves. “Bye. Love you!” he calls.

I raise my eyebrows. Had a sophisticated middle schooler just told me, his bus driver, that he loved me? His body language tells me that he realizes what he just said. Rather than make it awkward I just smile, wave big, and say “See you later.”

I shut the door and drive on. I know that he is planting a palm slap on his forehead and thinking, “Love you?”

What he doesn’t know is that he made my day. He didn’t just make me laugh; he let me know he comes from an affectionate family where “See ya, Mom,” or “See ya, Dad. Love you!” is so common that it slipped out to his bus driver during a sleepy moment. The world needs more mistakes like that.

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The Little Princess On Bus 13

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My route begins in a very small town. At the last census the population came in at around 900 people. It’s so small there are no schools. The kids in town are bused to the big city nearby. It has a population of 6000. You have to be careful of getting lost in the crowds around here.

Even with the small population three buses leave this small town each morning chock full of kids. I criss cross my way through the town to the nine different stops. Finally I make a left turn onto the highway and we start our thirteen mile descent to the neighboring town.

It takes about fifteen minutes to make the drive. With all the pent up energy on the bus the minutes don’t go by very quickly. The view has a beauty of its own, but when you’ve driven it a thousand times it doesn’t keep your attention as strongly. As a bus driver you stare at the road, then glance up into the mirror to see what everyone is up to, then stare at the road, then back up into the mirror, mile after mile, morning after morning. You get the picture.

This morning I found myself telling a story. I picked a likely fifth grade student in the first seat and called out his name. Usually that’s a sign that they are doing something they shouldn’t, so the boy looks up defensively. He’s a little confused when I tell him I’ve been reading a book.

Without any preamble I tell him the book is called The Little Princess. The title loses his interest and he goes back to his phone. Since he isn’t wearing any earphones I continue. I begin speaking aloud the story of the rich little girl whose father leaves her at a boarding school in 19th century London. Her father is a good man and buys her everything she could possibly want. All she really wants is to be with her father. Somehow the rich clothes, carriage, and toys don’t spoil her. She’s intelligent, kind, and thoughtful. The other girls sense something special about her. One is jealous, the others are intrigued. The headmistress, a sham of a woman, secretly disdains her, but treats her well-enough to keep the father’s patronage.

When I glance up into my mirror I’m surprised to see the boy is listening to the story. That makes me happy. I go on to tell him about the girl’s father losing all his money and dying. The headmistress’s disdain comes out in the open and the destitute girl finds herself used as a servant and treated like a beggar. In spite of the fact that she is slowly starving to death the girl maintains her composure and acts with dignity, like a little princess.

By the time we reach town I am to the point in the story where the girl wakes in the night to see that her freezing attic room has been transformed by a fire in the grate, food on the table, blankets on her bed. When I glance up into the mirror I am amazed to see all the kids back to the sixth row listening intently to my story. That’s the fifth, sixth, and some of the seventh graders.  I feel like pumping my arm in joy. I refrain.

These are good kids, but not angels. I’ve tried to tell stories before, and when I glanced into the mirror  saw that not a one was listening to me. That’s why this morning was so special.

Once I reach town I have to stop the story to concentrate on traffic. The disappointment I feel behind me is kind of sweet. Like most jobs, some days being a bus driver are better than other days. Today was a good day.

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

If My School Bus Route Were a Woman

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If my bus routes were women my date last year was a woman who liked reading books in the park and taking long walks on the beach. She might surprise you with a water balloon sneak attack on a hot day, but not often enough to make you nervous.

My afternoon bus route last year consisted mainly of picking up a large load of kids and dropping them off relatively in town. By the time I left town I would only have ten to fifteen kids, depending on the day. My route then meandered on long country roads through alfalfa fields and past grazing cows who may or may not have looked up when I honked at them. Many of the kids would move up near me to chat. It was a pleasant route to end the day.

My date this year is a woman who is pretty enough, but high maintenance. She wants to spend a lot of time with me, which is pleasant, flattering even. She can dance like no other and has great taste in clothes. It’s just that I better pay attention to the hidden meanings in her conversation. Oh, and don’t not notice that she had her hair done. Time with her is exciting, but fatiguing.

Unlike last year’s route, where I picked up big loads and got rid of them quickly, except for the few with whom I meandered through the countryside, this year I pick up one large load and we are together for sixteen long miles. The difference is like taking your wife and child out to dinner at a quiet restaurant four blocks away versus loading your wife and eight kids into a van and driving across the country on a family vacation. It’s an entirely different commitment level.

It takes a while to load fifty to sixty middle school students. They have seating assignments, but I gave up on trying to enforce them within a couple of weeks. Once the chaos of seating is over I get the bus rolling. I cruise at about 5 mph through the circus of the school grounds. There are other buses coming and going, kids crossing the bus lanes in and out of the crosswalks, and new sixteen year old drivers trying to force their parent’s cars into the driveway between the buses.

It’s not until I exit school property and turn onto the city street that I begin to feel the pressure of all those kids behind me. I can feel their energy pressing at the walls of the bus, pushing me toward the windshield. It’s just potential energy, but it could ignite at any moment.  

I have a short stint on the Interstate before I exit. At the exit I turn onto a highway that will take me up over the ridge to the small town where these kids live. This is the point of no return. If I were in The Matrix this is the scene where I have to choose between the red pill and the blue pill. Once I make the turn there is no turning back.

I’m speaking quite literally. Highway 28 is well-enough maintained, but it’s just two lanes with no shoulder and no turnouts. Just a few feet to my left semi-trucks come roaring by at 70 mph. Just a few feet to my right is the edge of the road with an incline that will roll the bus should drift that way. If the bus breaks down I’m stopped in my lane with 65 kids, worrying about being rear-ended.

On the highway the kids have an advantage over me. I have nowhere to stop to correct behavior problems that may arise. In such a narrow lane I can hardly glance in my mirror to see what’s going on in the back of the bus. If the kids ever understood the bad situation I am in on the highway I could be in real trouble. Bus drivers have State secrets.

 When I commit to the highway I focus on the road. The kids behind me are talking, laughing, teasing, yelling. I’ll check my mirror briefly at times. Usually I see a kind of motion among the seats, like choppy seas, although most students stay out of the aisle like I demand. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of hat being stolen from behind and a kid turning to pursue it. Other times I detect a basketball arcing across the aisle. I can get on the intercom and address these issues verbally. So far that’s been enough.

When I top the ridge I can see our little town sitting like a green splotch amid the miles of yellow grasses. It’s just five miles away. Did I say “just”? There’s the saying, “so close, yet so far away.” There is wanting to buy a hamburger, but being a dollar short. There is needing to use the toilet, but somebody beat you into the stall, and you can tell they are sitting there browsing on their phone.

As I feel the energy in the bus growing (I see somebody hop seats) the miles become longer. The bus is moving in slow motion. I hold out my hand and reach, but town ignores me and looks the other way (“Tory, Bart is swearing”). Oh, just let me make it to town one more time.

Finally I reach the sign telling me of the lower speed limit ahead. I slow down to 35 mph as I reach the park. I make a right turn, two blocks, and then a left. Half a block later I stop and open the door. As the first large group of kids get off the pressure is released. The bomb is defused. The world isn’t going to end after all. I will hear the birds sing tomorrow.

I actually like driving bus. Believe it or not, I enjoy getting to know the kids. Many of them are pleasant, and some are downright polite. But to get to the enjoyment part you have to be able to deal with the pressure. The pressure is real . . . especially during that last five miles.

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

A Fifth Grade Babe Magnet

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I drive every fifth, sixth, seventh, and eight grader in my little town thirteen miles to school each day. When they all ride, they fill up the bus. These kids are neighbors in town, and very close neighbors on the bus. The fifth graders sit up front. The sixth graders come next. Then there are the seventh graders with the eighth graders in back. How could it be any different?

In the very front passenger side seat, across the aisle from me, sit two fifth grade boys. An angry mother brought them to my attention on the first day of school. That’s why they have the seat of honor.

One of these two boys intrigues me. He’s your basic rural, small town boy. He rides his motorcycle one block to the bus stop. He wears the mandatory farmer’s cap high on his head. He’s blond and has a bright smile that doesn’t quite hide the mischievousness in his blue eyes.  He’s healthy, but slightly on the small side. He’s definitely gregarious. He talks loud enough for most on the bus to hear him. That’s no accident. He likes attention.

Outside of the incident that brought him to the “seat of honor,” what caught my attention is that one of the eighth grade girls always bops him on the head with her hand when she passes his seat during loading or unloading. He grins broadly and protects his head as she takes a couple of shots on the way by. It appears to be a game he enjoys. One day the girl walked by without noticing him.

“What? No walloping?” I asked. “You must be having an off day.”

He nodded and looked disappointed. The next day things were back to normal and he got a thumping.

There is another eighth grade girl who just moved into town. She doesn’t know many people yet. She asked if she could sit up front for a couple of days for a reason that wasn’t clear to me. We talked and I got to know her a bit. Before we reached her stop on the second day I heard scuffling and laughter just behind me. I glanced in my mirror to see her wrestling with the fifth grade boy over his hat. These two live on opposite sides of town and don’t know each other. She is three years older than him. Still, he got her attention. It became clear to me that this fifth grade boy is a babe magnet.

Within the next few weeks my suspicious were verified. I pick up the fifth graders at the elementary school before traveling to the junior high school for the rest of the kids. I assigned the boys seats up front and noticed that the girls would sit close to them. There would be a general ruckus on the bus as the boys showed off with loud, boy nonsense talk followed by fake fart contests. For some reason the girls ate this up. They seemed fascinated by the boys. My fair haired fifth grader was the center of attention.

To help contain the ruckus I allowed the boys to sit in the back until we got to the junior high. The next thing I knew, the girls were back there with them. The ruckus continued.  I moved the girls to the back and made the boys sit up front. The girls were happy they got to sit in the back until they realized the boys were way up front. I can still see the disappointment on their faces. The distance between them and their star was too great.

My regular bus with the assigned seats broke down. I was assigned a loaner bus. This messed up my seating arrangement for the kids. The other day I looked in my mirror to see my fifth grader sitting between two girls. It’s pretty crowded with three in a seat. Across the aisle was a seat with only one boy in it. My fifth grader was smiling at me.

The next day I saw my fifth grader slip from his seat with his assigned seatmate and try to scoot in with two girls. To their credit they didn’t scoot over for him.  To my credit I made sure he went back to his seat and stayed there.

Whatever this fifth grade boy has there are many high school boys who wish they had it.  Whatever this fifth grade boy has I wish he didn’t.  He’s on my bus for the next three and half years. It’s going to take a special seating assignment each year to keep girlkind safe from him on the way to and from school each day. I’m glad that off the bus he’s not my problem. Of course, he will be somebody’s problem. I’m wondering if I should alert the principal. Oh, well, he probably already knows.

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format:

     

The Party Bus

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I was assigned the middle school route this year. The previous driver has driven this route for over a decade. She told me that I would need to stay on top of discipline. “All that puberty in one bus can make things difficult.” I was really worried about taking over this route. I had heard many stories about it, none of them good.

Luckily for me the previous driver was strict. The kids had been well trained. At each stop the kids are supposed to be twelve feet off the road waiting in a line. They aren’t supposed to move toward the bus until I open the door and indicate they can approach and load. Guess what? This is exactly what happened. At each stop these pubescent middle schoolers stood staring at me until I gave permission. The kids on my previous route did pretty good with this, but not like her kids. Her kids are now my kids and I appreciate her hard work. I promise not to let things slip.

My previous route had, at worst, a moderate load of kids. The middle school route can barely be contained in the bus. When all are riding, at least half the seats have three kids in them. The rest have two kids. The seats with two kids are eighth graders, so they are full anyway. A third eighth grader in a seat means only half a cheek on the seat. Seeing this big of a crowd worried me. They have to ride for thirteen miles on a highway with no shoulder to get to school and then the same on the way back home in the afternoon. They looked uncomfortable. It seemed to me it would be hard for them to control themselves. It turns out that although they aren’t little angels, they are reasonably well behaved. I was surprised at this. I still stay on them for leaning out in the aisle or turning backwards in their seats. Gotta keep up the discipline.

I put all the fifth graders in the front of the bus. They are packed tight, three to a seat. I could feel them eyeing me over. They would say or do things to test me and see what my limits were. They didn’t do anything outrageous, but I knew what they were up to. Then I surprised them. One of the boys in the seat just behind mine and across the aisle turned up some music on his phone. It was a popular song about “gonna ride a horse until I can’t ride no more. . . .” It had a nice beat. Almost instantly all the kids started singing along. They sang with gusto. I rather enjoyed it. That’s the part that caught them by surprise. From their reaction I figure the previous bus driver would have put an end to that immediately.

I wasn’t trying to win points with the kids. It’s just that the music was good and it was fun hearing them sing so happily. They did “Baby Shark” next with all the movements. Then they did a few others. I asked them to turn the music down as we approached a stop. I only asked once but they remembered at each stop from then on. Remarkable.

About the third morning I stopped at one of my stops and opened the door. A fifth grader sitting in the front seat called out to his friend as he climbed the steps. “Welcome to the party bus!” Other bus drivers know that “party bus” isn’t really a good reputation to have. In fact the first thing I envisioned was an alcohol fueled sorority or fraternity party at a college.

I looked up in my mirror to examine what was going on on my bus. What I saw was a large number of middle schoolers packed tight, enduring their thirteen mile ride to school. Finally I realized that this boy was referring to the singing. Or perhaps he was referring to the freedom to sing on the bus. Whatever it was, it made him and the others feel happy. If being the “party bus” means my kids are happy, then bring it on.

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These books by Tory Anderson are now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format: