Author Archives: toryander

Bus Driver Diaries: It’s Going to Be Okay

The West Fields route is unique. I have a couple of stops on the west side of the city, and then head out among the farmers’ fields on narrow country roads. The stops are miles apart. Unlike other routes where multiple buses crisscross paths, on out in the West Fields there is only one bus. I like the solitude.

Then there are the kids. I’ve driven the West Fields route for eight years. I’ve watched kids grow from kindergarten to eighth grade. I’ve watched other kids move through elementary school and graduate from high school. The kids on your bus become family. You don’t’ always get along. You don’t always like them. But you are stuck together and you end up caring about each other.

When I got word this summer that I would be changing routes my heart stopped beating for a moment. It was like getting “the call” informing you that someone close to you has died. The thought of being separated from my kids sent a pain through my chest. They were asking me to let go of the West Fields. What would the West Fields be without me? What would I be without the West Fields?

When fourteen year old son heard what route they were asking me to take, he sat straight up in his seat and yelled, “Don’t do it, Dad!” That’s the bus route he rode home on through middle school. He often would skip that bus and wait for my West Fields bus even though it would take him an hour longer to get home. The middle school bus—my new route—has a reputation.

Taking the Middle School route made too much sense. It starts in a small town thirteen miles away from the school. I live in that small town. The first stop is just a half block away from my home. I start at my home in the morning and end at my home at night. The other driver in town moved on and that left me. I made the change.

I’ve driven the route four days now. It’ll be weeks, maybe months, before I build any relationships. Right now it is awkward, like a blind date. I pull up to a stop and open the door. I see a line of young strangers staring up at me. They see a stranger behind the wheel of their bus. Conversation is stilted and difficult. I try to memorize a few names and get them wrong. I turn the wrong direction and have to go around the block. The kids think it’s funny while at the same time being a little impatient—the difficulties of putting up with a new bus driver.

I do miss my West Field kids. I had a line of them waving at me at school as I drove past. It was touching. Strangely enough, even though it’s only been four days, I’m starting to see individuals among those lines of strangers getting on my new route. There’s a sporadic smile, “good morning,” or “thanks for the ride” that catch me off guard. I sense the possibility of being able to love these kids like my West Fields kids. Is that all right? I’m not going to be able to help it.

Just the other morning little seven year old Faith got off the bus at school. Instead of running straight for the school like most kids, she stopped, turned, smiled at me, and waved. Everything is going to be okay.

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

Is Thad Danielson On the Bus?

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

Bus Driver Diaries: Sixth Grade Love

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Most people think that being a school bus driver is difficult because of the children. Perhaps that’s what the new substitute bus driver meant the other day when we were talking. He said, “There’s more to it than I thought.”

It’s true, the children take bus driving from just being the operator of a long, yellow vehicle to something infinitely more complex. At the same time the children take bus driving from something that quickly becomes mundane (like driving a semi), to something infinitely more interesting.

I drive all grade levels on my daily route. You may think that the middle school or high school kids would be the most troublesome. That’s the idea I had in my head when I started. I quickly learned from experience that it’s the grade school kids who try your patience the most. I would be rich if I had a dime for all the times I yell “sit down,” and “get out of the aisle.” And this is with a fairly good set of kids. Ironically, these same grade school kids are also far more fun than the older students.

The other day a little sixth grader named Jonie got on the bus. I say “little” not just because of her age, but also due her short stature. Jonie doesn’t ride all that often. Usually, when she does ride she rides with a couple of her girlfriends. This group of girls naturally separates itself from the boys and sits together toward the front of the bus. On this particular afternoon her friends weren’t with her. Jonie is a social girl, and without her friends she gravitated to the back of the bus with sixth grade classmates, almost all of them boys.

I wasn’t aware of her location until I heard the singing start up—a hearty rendition of “The Wheels on the Bus.” It was so hearty that I found it annoying all the way at the other end of the bus. The kids in the middle of the bus found it so annoying that they put their hands over their ears.

I checked my mirror and saw the familiar group of boys grinning as they sang even louder. This was unusual behavior. They always sit in the back. I’ll hear talking, teasing, and laughing, but never singing. It was then I spied a few wisps of blonde hair sticking up above the seat among the boys. Today they had inspiration.

Joanie has glowing blonde hair and sparkly blue eyes. Her skin is as fair as her hair. Her short height multiplies her cuteness by ten. Although small and pretty, Joanie isn’t prissy. On a field trip last spring I watched her doing backflips on the grass in the park. It was no wonder that with her unexpectedly in their midst the boys were showing off.

The singing continued with “Once There Was a Snowman” and then a belated “Jingle Bells.” Oh, they did sing loud. The younger kids in the middle were miserable. They made everything even more miserable by trying to make there be less noise by making more noise. They appealed to me to make the kids in the back stop singing. I seriously considered it, but when I checked my mirror again the smiles on the faces of the sixth graders were so big that I couldn’t bring myself to kill the fun. It helped that I knew most of the kids would be getting off in three minutes, anyway.

At Happy Stop Number 1 twenty-five kids exited the bus. Each one complained to me on the way out. I felt for them just a little, but what they have put me through in rides past checked my sympathy. At Happy Stop Number 2 another twenty-five students exited the bus. Again, more complaints. I just smiled and waved. Secretly I was as relieved as they were at the now quiet bus.

There were only eight kids left on the bus now. They moved to the front because I don’t like the elementary kids mixing with the high school kids, who I would be picking up next. Four of those left were sixth grade boys. Three of those were guests of one of my regulars. They were going to his house for a sleep over. Joanie was still on and still in the middle of the boys. She was glowing from the attention.

“How did you like our singing?” asked one of the boys.

“It was just like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” I said.

They smiled at this. I saw them take in a breath to begin again.

“But I think we’ve sung enough for now,” I added. There was no way I could take their enthusiasm so close to the front. They were disappointed for about a second, before they lost themselves in light banter and teasing.

I picked up and dropped the majority of the high school kids before heading out into the country where Jonie and the boys were going. At Jonie’s stop, which was the end of her driveway, her overgrown puppy sat waiting for us. He knew Jonie was getting off, but didn’t know where the door was. The black lab puppy loped along the wrong side of the bus, tail wagging, in search of his girl.

“Watch out,” I said, as Jonie went down the steps. “Your dog is coming.” I had watched before as her puppy, happy to see her, jumped up on her. He’s taller than her when he does that. She has to use karate moves to survive. She took my warning seriously and looked both ways before jumping off the bottom step. That was when her puppy came around the far end of the bus and saw her. She ran, but the puppy easily caught her.

The boys were watching with great interest. When Jonie crossed in front of the bus they all moved in a group from one side of the bus to the other. I heard a window slide down and cheering as Jonie took evasive action. It was no use. The dog’s loving enthusiasm overwhelmed her. In spite of it all she was grinning as she struggled with the puppy. Her hair shone in the afternoon sunlight as did her fair skin. The attention of cheering boys made her glow even more.

She escaped and I started up the road. The boys closed the window and sat down. The scene reminded me of the simple sweetness of sixth grade love. Young crushes from my youth emerged from lost memories. Now that Jonie was gone the bus darkened a little as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Even so, the glow from the scene still warmed my heart.

I have driven that afternoon route hundreds of times. It has almost become automatic. On cloudy days, when the route seems a little long, the image of the glowing girl and the sound of the cheering boys comes back to my mind and makes my world a little brighter.

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

Bus Driver Diaries: I’m a Celebrity; Who Are You?

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Being a school bus driver makes me something of a celebrity. Okay, so I’m no Taylor Swift or Dwayne Johnson, but in Nephi, Utah, I’m pretty big stuff. Although I may have to admit that most of the people in Nephi wouldn’t know my name, the people on my bus route know who I am. Scientifically speaking I have no data to disprove that it’s the yellow school bus they are responding to instead of me, but one thing I know is that people wave at me all the time. You can’t take that away from me.

No one told me that becoming a school bus driver would throw me into the public spotlight. Even though my bus driver training didn’t include ‘Paparazzi Management,’ I’m proud of the way I’ve adjusted to the attention. The truth is, I’m doing really well. People wave at me all the time, and I love it!

I first noticed the attention in the schools themselves. I was assigned to take the band to the elementary schools. The band gets a captive audience with whom it can strut its stuff and hopefully recruit future music legends to their ranks.

Before I say any more, let me tell you that what a bus driver does while waiting for students on activity trips is considered a trade secret. I can tell you that they are not required to attend the students’ activities. However, rather than waiting on the bus like a zombie—whoops, I might have said too much—when it’s possible, I like to go watch the students in whatever activities they are engaged in.

In the case of the jazz band I snuck in a side door to find a seat and watch. I was confused when I heard my name being called. I looked through the throngs of squirming elementary students to find one standing and waving at me. Then I spotted another, and another. Some I recognized as students who regularly ride my bus. Others I didn’t recognize and guessed that knew me from activity trips where I had been their bus driver. Although I wasn’t used to the attention I rose to the occasion and unabashedly waved back.

Next, my quiet trips to the grocery store were often interrupted by the wide eyes of children staring at me as they walked the other direction with their moms. They would wave shyly and then pull their mother down to where they can whisper in their ear. I can only imagine they are saying, “He’s my bus driver.” Of course it could be “Why is there jelly at the corner of his mouth?” or “Why does he dress so funny?” but I’m going with the bus driver hypothesis.

Lately I’ve noticed people waving at me as I drive down the street. This is heady stuff. I have to remember that just because people love me I am not actually better than anyone else. It’s not me; it’s the bus driver mantle I wear.

Sometimes it’s a child in the car stopped at the stop sign just ahead of me. They’ve swiveled around in their seat and are looking up through the back window and waving at me excitedly. Sometimes it’s kids walking home from school. I don’t know how they know me, but they perk up as the bus approaches and wave as I pass. Sometimes they only want me to blow my air horn, pumping their arms in the air. Oh, I blow it alright. I’ll take any excuse I have for the pleasure of blowing that air horn.

What intrigues me is the number of adults waving at me. They are usually in passing cars. Many of them catch me off guard. In my bus I sit high off the ground behind what amounts to a large picture window. I have to remember not to pick my nose or scratch because I am visible to the public. The drivers of the cars aren’t nearly so visible and I don’t notice they are waving until it’s almost too late to wave back. I usually don’t recognize these adults, but I’m fairly certain it’s me they are waving at. Why are they waving? It’s completely possible that it’s because I’m really hot stuff. Being fair minded I have to consider that it may only be that they are waving at a happy yellow symbol of their childhood or to someone they see as connected to their children. I’m going with the Hot Stuff hypothesis.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I enjoy the attention so much sometimes I dig for more. Some children walking home from school don’t seem to know who it is that is driving by. I will wave from behind my picture window to give them the opportunity of experiencing some really hot stuff. Some will look confused (celebrity can dazzle a little), but usually they will wave back. That makes me happy. Sometimes I’ll give a little squelch of the air horn first to get their attention, then wave. That usually makes them happy.

There is much more to being a school bus driver than most people understand. There is driving the big beast, and regulations, safety rules, and regulations, student management, and regulations, washing the bus, and regulations. Have I mentioned regulations, yet? But the best part of being a school bus driver is definitely all the waving. Yes, the waving is great.

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

Sleeping With the Dead Cats

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He’s strange boy. Just enough to take him out of the running of every being “cool” or “popular.” Well, maybe a little more strange than that. He’s the kind of boy that can be purposefully annoying. Sometimes he would get on the bus and make “cat fight” noises—repeatedly. He’d stop when I asked him too, but it wasn’t easy for him. Other kids avoided him. That didn’t appear to make him feel bad. He was always full of energy and expression.

A couple of years ago I went to a fathers and sons outing one evening. John happened to be there with his father. I took the opportunity to speak with his father and become acquainted. He was a little reserved, but friendly overall. He was returning to school and working on a degree that would give him good prospects. He clearly loved his son even as he watched him doing somersaults on the lawn while making weird noises.

A few months later John was sitting near the front. He wore his usual air of nonchalance as we chatted.

“How’s your father?” I asked.

“He’s in the hospital,” John said.

Surprised, I asked him what was wrong.

“He tried to kill himself.”

John told me this in the same manner he might tell me about the cartoons he watched on Saturday. It was totally possible that he was making it all up. A slight hesitation in his voice, and a detail he threw out, suggested that just maybe he was telling me the truth. I told I was sorry and didn’t pursue it anymore.

Weeks later I inquired if his father was back on his feet. John said, “Sure,” and acted like nothing had happened at all. I was happy to hear that.

A year later John had changed schools. I was picking him up at a different stop. He was that same John, older, but still a little loud and annoying. Once again he sat behind me. I wondered if his Dad had finished school yet.

“He’s sleeping with the dead cats,” he said.

“What was that?” I asked. I didn’t understand the reference.

“He’s dead.” He told me this simply, flatly as if telling me the weather is a little cooler today.

I was speechless for a moment. His manner suggested nothing was wrong. His words told me everything was wrong. I just couldn’t tell if he was telling me the truth.

“What happened?” I chanced.

“He was sick for a long time and didn’t wake up one morning.”

I was searching for any signs of pain or discomfort on the subject so I would know what to say or to say nothing at all. I got nothing from him. I asked a couple more questions and found out it had just happened. They were still trying to figure out which cemetery to bury him in.

As before, his manner through me off completely. I had heard no news of this through the bus or community grapevine, but again he threw out a couple of details that indirectly confirmed what he was saying. This was devastating news, yet he was completely self-composed.

I told him how I had lost my dad a year before. My dad was old and ready to die. He had lived a good life and he and I had no regrets between us. I knew he was going to die any day. I thought I was ready. When the call came I was surprised when I cried for an hour straight.

I don’t know if this story was helpful or annoying to him. When I finished telling it he nodded and simply said, “Uh huh.”

I learned I had his little sister on the bus the other day when I heard someone making loud, repetitive cow noises. When the kids pointed her out I realized there was a resemblance to John. I asked her and she confirmed my suspicion. She sat near me today and I chanced a question about her father’s health. She was confused by my question, but then she brightly told me her dad was fine and running a business. Well, that helps me understand John a little better.

John’s still on my bus and still the same John. I’m not quite the same bus driver, though. Anymore I see John as more than the slightly annoying kid. In fact because of John I see all the kids at slightly more than face value. It’s not like I fully understand what I’m seeing. It’s just that I have a sense of the existence of the untold stories behind their sometimes moody, often emotionless faces.

I’ve come to realize that if you apply a single label to a child you are doing him and yourself a disservice. Every student who rides my bus is far more than what I see. This knowledge doesn’t make driving a bus any easier, but it does make it more meaningful. I’m not angry at John for deceiving me; I’m happy he still has a father.

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

Bus Driver Diaries: Where’s the Pee?

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In the afternoons my first job is to pick up about seventy elementary students. They come running—sometimes screaming—to the bus. As a bus driver you have to be up for this. I deliver all but about ten of them in two stops: Blessed Happy Stop Number One and then Happy Stop Number Two. I call out these names each afternoon over the intercom. I’m pretty sure the kids don’t know that I named the stops for how I feel about them getting off, not how they feel getting off.

Next I stop at the high school and junior high school where I pick up fifty or so secondary students. Most of these are on for a fairly short ride of no more than three miles in three stops: Turkey Trot Stop, Red Cliffs Twice, and finally Grand Central Station.

At this point I am down to those ten elementary students and a four or five secondary students. We head out into the country where we travel back and forth on country roads another twenty-five miles to deliver the rest. The bus is normally much quieter at this point and the ride isn’t unpleasant.

A couple of weeks ago the “country” kids were singing and laughing and making a bit of a ruckus. One of them decided that we should take turns telling jokes. I suffered through some long, badly told jokes that, to tell you the truth, I really didn’t understand. I prepared for my turn. I’ve heard thousands of jokes in my half century of life, but of course I can’t think of a one when others are waiting. Just in time I dug up a joke I learned as a kid, probably on a bus.

Little Jimmy needs to use the bathroom. He asks the teacher for permission while doing his bouncy “really have to go” dance. The teacher is very strict and makes Jimmy recite the ABC’s first. He sings the Alphabet Song leaving out the “p”—“. . . l, m, n, o, . . . q, r, s . . .” and so forth. “Very good Jimmy,” says the teacher, “but what happened to the P?” Jimmy responds, “It’s running down my leg.”

The joke was a big hit. After all, the joke had “pee” in it and my audience was mostly fourth and fifth grade boys. Unfortunately it was too big of a hit. It’s been two weeks and Fall Break and the kids still retell this joke every day about the time we hit the country. Today the boys, joined by the girls, sang it with real feeling.

I overheard one of the boys tell the others that his teacher had told him, “That’s not an appropriate joke.” Great, I thought. I have to remember that what’s spoken on the bus doesn’t stay on the bus. The next day another boy improved the joke. When asked where the P is Jimmy says, “It’s running down my left leg.” The boy explains that it’s funnier when it’s the left leg.

I never planned on being a bus driver. Who knew that bus driving would lead to a career as a comedian? Being a comedian isn’t so hard, especially on Bus 13. You only have to tell one joke, and only tell it once, and they laugh forever.

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

Bus Driver Diaries: We Still Play Our Games

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It’s been seven years and I am still driving bus. I was hoping this wouldn’t happen. The plan was to drive bus for a short while and then move on to bigger and better things. I haven’t given up on that plan yet. In the meantime I’m trying not to fall into a rut.

Some of my fellow drivers, mostly women, have been driving over twenty years. They are fine drivers and get their children to school and back home safely. I respect that. I listen to what they say and learn what I can. But some of them look tired. Like many people who get up and go to work every day, their job is a job they have to do. There is no fun or growth involved. For as long as I have to do it I refuse to let bus driving be just a job. I refuse to get bored.

In my book Bus Driver Diaries: Stories From the Driver’s Seat (available on Amazon) I write about the games I play with my kids in order to stay out of a rut. I’ve been playing one for a couple of years now. To this I’ve added another.

Lucky Seat Number

I have seat numbers posted above every seat. This was originally to aid in assigning seats to my students. On paper this is a good idea. In practice, for me anyway, it is difficult to implement and even harder to maintain. It negates the good I may get out of it.

Instead I use the numbers to call out the Lucky Seat Number each day. Whoever is sitting in that seat gets to come up and get a stick of licorice. Sometimes it’s one kid. Sometimes it’s three. It’s such a simple thing, but it’s a hit with the kids. The very first kids to get on the bus each day are begging me to tell them the lucky seat number so they can go sit in it. I’m mean. I don’t tell them. After the majority of the kids are on they start to yell, “Lucky seat number! Lucky seat number!” It sounds like I’ve created a problem, but I’ve turned it around. I begin a countdown from five. They know that if they are not sitting and quiet there will be no game. Also, we have to finish the game before the buses begin to roll. It works. Even more, it’s fun.

State Capitals

I love to teach. Nothing pleases me more than to see a child’s eyes light up when they gain a new understanding or perspective. I can’t do too much teaching as a bus driver, but what little I can do, I do do.

Years back I found a website that my children loved. It helped them learn all the capitals of the United States. Recently, when I ran into a boy on my bus who knows a large number of the capitals, I had an idea. None of the other kids seemed to know any of the capitals except that of their own state. I couldn’t play the game with just one boy so I expanded it a little.

I pick a different student’s name each day. Then I get on the intercom and say, “Ricky, if Bradley can tell me the capital of Maine you can have a piece of licorice.” Of course if Bradley (the boy who knows many of the states) gets it right, he gets a piece of licorice, too. I remind the winner to thank the boy who won the prize for him.

This has been a bigger success than I imagined. A few other students have begged me to let them be the one to name the capital. They want the fun of showing off their knowledge. Of course they also want a piece of licorice. I am surprised at their knowledge. I think others are studying state capitals now.

I’ve added a clause that says if the person to receive the gift licorice just happens to know the capital in question without the help of the boy whom I call on, he or she will get a candy bar. I’ll have to be careful with this to make sure it doesn’t break me if the kids really start learning their capitals.

Conclusion

It took several years, but bus driving has become routine for me. I’ve seen kids grow from first to the eighth grade. Still, it has not gotten boring. Kids who used to sit in the front and ask me to tell them stories have grown to sophisticated middle schoolers now and sit in the back. But there are new kids I am discovering who want to talk with me. And we are still playing our games.

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

Driving the Amusement Park

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I drove the Juab High School Marching Band to Lagoon last week. Lagoon is an amusement park in Utah. The band wasn’t there to perform; it was there to play. The amusement park was a reward for all the early morning practices and the many long, hot, hot, (did I say ‘hot’ yet?) parades.

Driving the Lagoon trip is a long day for the bus driver starting around 8 am and ending at midnight. I wasn’t scheduled to drive this trip initially. I requested it when my sons reminded me that they were in the band and would be going. My youngest son indicated in a roundabout way that he hoped I would be there to go on some of the scarier rides with him. I wanted to be there for him.

When we arrived the band director organized the kids into groups and assigned them chaperones to check-in with. Both my sons were assigned to groups. They ran off happily with their friends. I found myself on my own. I considered feeling sorry for myself, but then decided it was too nice a day for that. It was good knowing my boys were having a good time even if I wasn’t at the center of it. Besides, I am an avid people watcher and Lagoon is full of fascinating people.

I rode a few rides alone, but the ride I always enjoy most is the Skyride. It’s just a chair lift that carries you from one end of the theme park to the other. The fun part is that it takes you up to sixty feet above the ground and you float through the tree tops. I love the peace and quiet of the ride and the bird’s eye view. I also love the momentary contact with those individuals riding the other direction. For a moment it’s just you and them. It’s hard not to make eye contact.

“Hello, Sir,” one twelve year old girl said. An eight year old boy smiled and waved at me.

The most fun was when two young girls caught my eyes by giving me the fist-on-hand Rock, Paper, Scissors challenge sign. I took the challenge and lost. Not a word was said, but we exchanged smiles. Playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with complete strangers while passing each other sixty feet in the air brings me a joy.

At different times groups of the marching band recognized their bus driver from below and waved as they called out to me. I’ve driven these kids on other trips many times before.

It was in the afternoon that I ran into my son and his friends. Story had yet to find the courage to ride any of the big roller coasters. When he ran into me he said he was ready if I would come along. I was more than happy to be a part of the group. We rode Wicked first. It shoots you straight up. You go over the top and then go straight down. Then it’s on to tips and turns and a few rolls. After conquering that ride he was ready for all the other big rides. He couldn’t be stopped. I rode a few more rides with him until he didn’t need me anymore. I saw him in passing once or twice paired up with a female friend his age. He’s thirteen. I was happy to see him relaxed and having fun with a girl.

My older son, who has always hated the crowds at Lagoon, had a blast this time. It was some good band friends that made all the difference. I only glimpsed him once or twice the whole day. He was all smiles.

At 10 pm I went to the bus and waited. The kids arrived in twos and threes and fours exhausted, happy. It was a two hour drive home, but I didn’t mind. When I tell people I’m a school bus driver I see it in their eyes, How do you put up with those horrible kids? Let me tell you, the majority of them are not horrible. All the happy smiles and hellos I got in passing during the day, the thank yous as they got off the bus that night, make for a pleasant experience.

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

The Last Girl on the Bus: Part 2

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About six years ago I wrote a blog post about the last girl on the bus. That was during my first six months as a bus driver when I was still a substitute. I can still see that girl’s face when she looked up at me from her book and surprised me by still being on the bus when I was checking for sleepers. That girl is gone now. She is married and school bus rides are long behind her. Other girls have taken her place on the bus. One gets off last.

Liesl just started riding the bus. Her mother moved to Nephi a few months into the school year and brought her two daughters with her. Liesl gets on in the dark of the winter mornings at the first stop. She rides for thirty miles and then gets off at the high school. In the afternoon she gets on at the high school, rides for thirty miles, and then gets off where she got on in the morning, only now it is the last stop.

Liesl could walk to school in much less time than it takes to ride the bus. She doesn’t because many parents today don’t believe it’s safe for their children to walk to school, and it’s probably also because kids today don’t see walking as a desirable thing to do. So, for whatever reason, Liesl takes a long ride morning and afternoon.

I certainly don’t mind having Liesl on the bus. I can’t think of any bus driver who wouldn’t classify her as the perfect passenger. Liesl is twelve years old and in 7^th grade. She is pretty with blue eyes and long brown hair. She takes care in the way she dresses. The way she walks reminds me of girls from the 1950’s who have been to a prep school—her back is straight and she carries her books in her arms up against her chest.

I notice that when Liesl gets off at the school in the morning she walks alone to the building. I take that as a sign of strength and independence. Most of the other girls who get off—good girls—walk in groups and might not know what to do if they found themselves alone. At night so many kids get on and the middle school that I often don’t see Liesl among the crowd.

It isn’t until the last eight to ten kids get off way out at the dairy that Liesl suddenly appears. When the last voice says good-bye to me I’ll see her get up out of the middle seats and move up to the seat right behind mine. I’m glad she does this because I often forget she is there. Once I was nearly back to the bus compound before I noticed her.

I typically have a bag of mini-candy bars on my bus as treats for kids who complete requirements for little games we play. I always have to resist the temptation to dig into those candy bars myself after I drop the final big group of kids at the dairy. Anymore, when it’s just Liesl and me on the five mile ride to her stop, I can’t resist pulling a couple of candy bars out and offering her one. To my delight she has the grace to happily accept. We don’t talk much because her voice is quiet and I can’t make out her words over the ruckus the bus makes. Instead, we drive in silence eating our chocolate until I pull up at The Last Stop. I usually call out “Last Stop” over the intercom even though she is the only one on the bus and sitting right behind me.

It usually takes her a few moments to gather her things after we stop. That’s because she is usually lost in a book or some content on her iPad and doesn’t realize we have arrived already. Then she will get up, give me a slight smile without quite meeting my eyes in the mirror, and start down the stairs. Even though she is only twelve, she is self-possessed and appears to feel quite mature. Her ‘hop’ off the bottom step to the road betrays the young girl she still is. She hops every time. In my rearview mirror, as I start to pull away, I see her make her way up the sidewalk to where she turns the corner.

She’ll grow up and move on into adulthood never realizing the dash of color she added to my life.

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

Bus Driver Diaries: A Scolding from Someone Who Loves You

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Chapter 11 from Bus Driver Diaries: Stories from the Driver’s Seat

I wake up to five inches of snow with more falling. It’s just about six a.m. when I pull out of my driveway into the unplowed street. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself having to get up at five a.m to go to work. It feels like I am the only one leaving so early. The freshly fallen snow tells me a story that takes away some of my self-pity. On my way out of the small town where I live I see tire tracks coming into the road from four other driveways. They all left before me.

My Cummings diesel engine growls from behind as I pull out of the bus compound at 6:50. The houses across the street are still dark in sleep. I wonder if they are accustomed to my morning routine. Perhaps they use the sound of my engine and the flash of my headlights across their bedroom windows as an alarm clock.

I pick up my first stop of fifteen kids at the edge of town. Everything from kindergarteners to high school seniors get on. As usual, a kindergartener trips on the third step.

“Watch yourself,” I say.

It’s so routine that generally there’s no response. The child catches himself and files silently past me with the rest into the dark seats beyond.

“Merry Christmas,” I say to a tall high school boy as he climbs in. I’m surprised when he actually gives me a grin.

In just two blocks I reach the train tracks. On go the emergency flashers. I open my window, pop the parking brake, and open the door. I press the noise canceller and all the blowers on the bus turn off. The morning murmurings of the kids die with the blowers. I like to think they are helping me listen for trains, but I think they are only embarrassed to have their voices heard in the sudden silence. When I let go of the button the blowers kick back on and the murmurings begin again .

Once I enter the country I enter a world of black and white. It is black above and white below. The snow is falling heavily, but it isn’t an angry storm. It’s more of a scolding from someone who loves you . The narrow road is nowhere to be seen. The fallen snow is level from the field on the right to the field on the left. There are fences on both sides of the hidden road. I place the bus right in the middle and drive on faith . At the next house three of the four brothers and sisters are wearing Davy Crockett style raccoon hats. Furry tails trail down their necks and disappear behind their coat collars .

“Tory! Tory!”

I have just released the park break and we are beginning to roll when the little girl with the raccoon hat calls me from two seats back. She asks me if I like raccoon hats. I tell her I used to watch the Davy Crockett show on TV when I was a kid. She moves to the seat behind mine and tries to put her hat on me.

“Your head is too big,” she says.

She tells me about her mom “petting” her dad’s hair during morning prayer. “He said, ‘I don’t even have my Crockett hat on.’”

I drive down Airport Road, watching the big flakes of snow arc into the oversized windshield. I feel a childish gratification at making the first tracks on this road. Now, telephone poles on each side of the road give me my bearings. As two poles pass by, two more appear up ahead standing solid against the moving snow. Eventually I see the lights of the home that is my next stop. I squint and see three shadows moving up the driveway toward the road. Clusters of flakes lie on their hair like lace when they board. I see the wonder of the unexpected snow in their eyes as they pass me. I drive five miles to pick up one elementary girl. She walks slowly down her driveway and across the road—much more slowly than usual. She seems to be floating with the falling flakes. Her mind is elsewhere as she boards.

After dropping off the high schoolers I make my last elementary pickup in front of a church. One of the kids tells me that three of the others still haven’t picked up “their rocks,” which they threw in the church parking lot the day before. They had ignored my instructions to pick them when I dropped them off the night before. The rocks are big and create mounds of snow in the road. I call them up to the front and tell them to go put their rocks back. They obey without even a roll of the eyes. Three other boys ask if they can help. It’s a chance to stretch their legs and get out in the snow. In thirty seconds they have the landscaping rocks back where they belong and we are driving to their school.

The snow makes us late arriving at the school. Four girls from the back of the bus take their time getting off. As the other kids make their way toward the school doors these girls stop to play. They don’t seem to be aware that they are late. One girl puts snow in her mouth. The second girl kicks snow at the others. The third girl, the one with the brown eyes and freckles, tries to escape the snowball aimed at her neck by the fourth girl . She is laughing and waves to me as the bus doors close. Today there will be atrocities and horrors committed around the world, I know. But the beauty of this morning will be every bit as real and even more lasting .