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