We have two-way radios on our buses. These come in extremely handy for taking care of bus business.

We have two-way radios on our buses. These come in extremely handy for taking care of bus business.

On Monday mornings the transportation supervisor will announce the weekly activity runs and which sub drivers are driving for who. He does it during the morning run when all the drivers are in their buses where they can hear the radio. A captive audience is very convenient.

The drivers use the radios to alert other drivers of problems on the roads or to confirm changes in driving schedules and so forth. Sometimes there is just some friendly chit chat.

Each of the schools in the district have radios specifically to communicate with the buses. Quite often a school will call a bus to alert them to a student who is on the way to the bus late. Other times bus drivers returning from a field trip need to contact the school to let them know the will be arriving ten minutes late. This allows the school to prepare to hold the kids until the buses are ready for the afternoon run.

Life on the buses without he radios would be much more difficult. Even so, there is one radio call that always makes me sweat.

“Bus 13 this is Redcliffs Elementary.”

I know what’s coming. It’s usually something like, “Did Thad Danielson get on your bus?”

Why would this be something to make me sweat? There are a couple of reasons. First, just being able to hear what the caller is saying is a challenge. In the mornings my bus is relatively quiet, even with a load. Understandably this is because it is the morning—the kids have just woken up. They are groggy and haven’t had much stimuli yet.

Fast forward to the afternoon. The kids come running out of the school screaming as they come. I’m not exaggerating. I’m not sure what goes on in schools nowadays, but . . . wait a minute . . . we did the same thing fifty years ago. Never mind. Anyway the kids come screaming to the bus. Once on the bus all that energy bounces off the ceiling, floor, and walls. It’s hard to hear a call on the radio even when it’s turned way up.

“Hey everyone, quiet down,” I say into the intercom.

No one hears.

“Hey, be quiet! I can’t hear the radio.”  I try to make eye contact with the kids in my mirror, but they’re popping in their seats like popcorn in a pan.

Finally I go with the nuclear option.

“SHUT UP!” I yell into the intercom.

Yes, those aren’t nice words. In fact I don’t let my kids use those on the bus. But sometimes they’re the only words the kids can hear in their frenzy. We have an understanding and still love each other afterward.

Finally, when I can hear, I ask the office to repeat the name.

Now the second problem. I possibly have 70 kids on the bus. The office lady is asking if one of them got on the bus. How am I supposed to know that? I could just get on the intercom and ask for that child, right? I try that as a last resort sometimes, but it’s hard to decipher the “Yes, he is’es” from the “No, he’s nots” I get from the kids trying to be helpful.

A better way is to pay attention to each kid getting on the bus. This is made more difficult by the kids who want to stop and talk with me as they get on. In the blink of an eye I miss two or three as they run by. The other problem is that it’s assumed that the bus driver knows the names of all the kids. Can you memorize the names of 70 kids? Kids you only actually see for a few seconds each day as they get on and off the bus? Kids who may only ride the bus two times one week, take two weeks off, then suddenly show up again? As one who can’t keep the names of the children who live in his own house straight, this is difficult for me.

Did Thad Danielson get on my bus? I think fast of all the faces I saw flash past me a moment ago. Yes, I saw him. Wait. That was yesterday I saw him. I think.

I better check on the intercom.

“Is Thad Danielson back there?”

“Yes!” some scream.

“No!” others scream.

I don’t see his face, and I think it was today that I didn’t see him get on the bus, so I go with “no.”

“No, Thad Danielson didn’t get on the bus,” I radio back.

“It’s okay. We found him,” the office lady says.

“Thanks a lot,” I mutter. All that work for nothing.

“What was that?” the lady says.

“Nevermind,” I say, remembering to take my thumb off the “talk” button this time.

We’ve never lost a kid, yet. But it’s always a worry.

“Thank you!” the office lady radios.

“Why is she thanking you?” asks the third grader with the blue glasses sitting in the front seat.

“I don’t know. She’s just cool I guess,” I say.

He nods his head while I pop the break and we begin our journey home.

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