I have up to eighteen stops on my bus route. Each stop has its own smell, flavor, and color. My second stop, right at 7:00 am, is a buffet of all of the above. Some are waiting at the edge of the road. Others are waiting in parent’s cars because it’s cold out. Others are waiting in their homes from which they come running when I stop. They are neighbors, but not necessarily united. Some are friendly and sit up front to talk with me. One girl always makes a point of giving me a cheery “good morning.” Most of them don’t give me much more than a glance before making their way back into the dark of the bus. I’ve had some dramatics from the kids at this stop when two different families were feuding. There were tears and yelling as a close friendship broke apart. Someone in this group complained to their mother that the bus was cold in the morning. The mother called the district. The district called my boss. Of course the kids don’t wear coats even when it’s below freezing outside. I start the bus twenty minutes before I pick them up. It takes over thirty minutes for the bus to warm up. There’s not much I can do for them. This stop is complicated.

At the fourth stop I pick up a family of four kids. The high schooler and sixth grader never say much, but the second and first grader are always lively. They, a boy and a girl, will stop at my seat to point out the cat crossing the road or the foxes over in the field. They will point out their hideout they are making out of a piece of fencing and a railroad tie. Sometimes their dog Loki is at the stop with them. I’ve seen Lizzie dancing with the dog as I’ve pulled up. I’ve seen Danny feeding weeds to Hercules, their miniature horse. Once after I dropped this family off I went up to the cross roads where I made a 180 degree turn and came back down their road like I always do twice a day. Lizzy was up on the landscaping rock waving at me with both arms. She’s never done that before. I waved happily back and went on my way. It wasn’t until three miles down the road that someone discovered Danny asleep on his seat. Lizzy was trying to let me know Danny hadn’t gotten off. He had to ride another half hour before I could get him home. I radioed the office who called his home to let them know. The fourth stop is always interesting.

Then there is the dairy. The dairy is far out of town up on a hill. There is the big milking barn down lower where I stop the bus. Farther up the hill, about half a mile, are a row of houses. The dairy is family owned and operated. The residents of those houses are related. Even so they all have different last names. There are Sherwoods and Englands and Blackhursts and others. The kids are cousins. I can easily tell which kids are siblings because they look so much alike. Some of the kids are always waiting inside the milking barn where it is warm. They come running out when I pull up. Another group of kids are waiting in a white pickup with their dad. A third group of kids may or may not catch the bus at this stop. They want to catch it, but often they are late and miss the bus. I will sometimes find them waiting at my eighteenth stop with my churchyard kids. Their mom had to drive them eight miles to get them there. When they don’t miss the bus it is usually because I see tail lights pulling out of a driveway far up the hill and decide to wait for them. I’ll watch the headlights guiding a speeding vehicle down the gravel road. A van skids to a stop near the bus and all the doors open and the kids spill out. They will be smiling as they get on the bus and more than one will thank me for waiting.

Just the other day at the dairy an eighth grader got on. He had been waiting in the barn with some other kids. At my seat he leaned down to look out the window and said, “My sister is coming.” I looked back to see a small figure running full speed down the gravel road. She is a first grader and very short in height. I don’t think she comes up to my waist. She ran like the wind through the dim, pre-dawn light to the bus steps. She climbed up breathing and smiling hard. I complimented her on her swiftness. She was proud. I shut the doors to go, but glanced once more over my shoulder. I saw more car lights swinging onto the gravel road from a driveway. Here came someone else. I didn’t know who they were, but I knew it was the bus they were coming to. They were very late, but I didn’t want to make them chase the bus for eight miles so I waited. The car came to a stop beside the bus. I still couldn’t see who it was because the windshield was frosted over. The door opened and, remember the little girl who just ran the half-mile in record time? This was her second-grade sister. A brother and two sisters all arriving at the same stop at different times and in different manners. This stop never gets old.

I’ve already dropped the high schoolers and middle schoolers when I arrive at my eighteenth stop at the church parking lot. As I come the two blocks down the road it usually looks like they are having a party. The fifteen kids are scattered all over engaged in different activities like at recess. When they see me turn the corner they hurry and form a line next to their bags which they placed previously. Sometimes a family of kids is arriving late. They see the bus and start running down the sidewalk ahead of me. It’s a race. I honk my air horn to encourage them. The sun is up when I get to these kids. Their noses are red from the cold. These kids range from kindergarten to fifth grade. They seem homogenous, but they have their differences. I hear about who was mean to who; who said the swear words; and who was bold enough to “butt” (butt in line). And yet they all seem like friends. The little kindergartener with the buzzed head climbs up the steps (not easy for him) and says in a bold, husky voice, “Bus driver! I hope you have the heat on because I’m cooollllddd!” I love him.

The town I drive school bus in is a small town. To an outsider the kids may appear to be the same. After all, how different can you be and still get along in a small town? I suppose there are many similarities and conformities, but if you really can’t see the differences, perhaps it’s because you aren’t their bus driver.