Category Archives: Bus Driving

Bus Driver Diaries: And Then She Was Gone

I dropped the speech and debate team and then drove to the library. I found a parking spot for my bus and shut it down. The library was up around the bend of this narrow, one-way road that circled a large city park. Before I got out of the bus I pulled a sandwich out of my lunch box and starting munching.

The day outside was gray with heavy clouds. The wind was picking up. It looked cold, but my outside thermometer said it was 55 degrees. A little girl caught my attention. She was riding one of those push scooters with the tiny wheels—push, push, coast, push push coast. She may have been eight years old and couldn’t have weighed fifty pounds. She wore brightly colored stretch pants and a purple coat.

She swerved off the sidewalk onto the grass hopping off the scooter as she did. The little wheels didn’t want to turn in the grass. The front end bounced along while the back end flipped flopped one direction and then the other. The flipping and flopping didn’t seem to bother her.

Then she hopped back on the scooter and started pushing again. By sheer will power she made the scooter work on the grass although the moment she quit pushing the scooter stopped. She was heading toward the empty playground.

She let her scooter drop to the ground as she exploded into a run. She flung off her coat as if she were uncovering a superhero costume on the way to a dramatic rescue. She didn’t seem to notice the gusting wind, the dark gray sky, or the fact that she was completely alone. There was no hesitation or wonder at this playground—it was as familiar and unworthy of comment as the light switch in her bedroom.

She leapt onto the wiggly stepping stones and deftly ran across them. She navigated the rope bridge and then climbed he slide tower. She slid down one slide, then ran up another. She disappeared into the covered slide. I watched as her feet appeared at the bottom. Without touching the ground she turned around and climbed back up. She was inside that slide so long that I began to worry. She had just disappeared. I had to look at her scooter and her purple coat, both lying haphazardly feet apart on the lawn, to assure myself a little girl really had been there.

To my relief she finally emerged from the top having completed her mission inside. She retraced her route back across the equipment until she came to the monkey bars. Like said monkey she swung from bar to bar, her body sometimes turning 180 degrees as she hung by one arm, until she reached the other side. Then she turned around and went back.

As suddenly as she had started she was finished. She dropped from the monkey bars and ran to her coat. She put it on, both arms at once, with one swift movement. Picking up her scooter she rode it across the grass forcing it push by push with her skinny leg until she came to the sidewalk. There she picked up speed.

I don’t think she noticed me or my big yellow bus once. She was lost in another world. Her face expressed one emotion after another as she spoke or sang out loud.

Then she was gone.

I’ve been outside on calm days when dust devils, as unexpected as snow in July, have overtaken me. They throw up dirt and debris into my face and then end just as quickly leaving me breathless and wondering. That’s how I felt as the girl disappeared.

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Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories from the Driver’s Seat is now available on Amazon.com

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

A Perfect Activity Run

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I had a perfect activity bus run today. I dropped off the speech and debate team at the two venues and then I drove to the local public library. In this case it was the South Jordan Public Library. Although I always try, I can’t always make it to a library on activity trips. Some of the trips require me to shuttle kids back and forth during the activity so I have to hang around. Other activities occur when the library is closed. Other times the library is in a downtown location where there is no place to park a forty foot bus. Today, everything worked out perfect.

Today I had nine hours between drop off and pickup times. You heard that right—nine uninterrupted hours of library time. The library was just a few blocks away from the venue, which is great, but parking looked like it might be a problem. The library is in a highly populated area where space is tight. Where you don’t think twice going in a car in a bus you are running over curbs and grazing light posts. To my delight I found a vacant lot off a back street right next to the library. Downtown library parking doesn’t get much better than this.

The library didn’t look like much when I approached it. I need to explain. Many of the small town libraries I find are quaint in their own ways. They are in old, multistoried houses, or in old buildings of quirky architecture built back in the twenties. They are the kind of library that, when looking from the outside, you can’t wait to go in. The South Jordan library was gray and plain. I didn’t expect quirky, but I did expect something a little grander for such a populated area. I suppose the fact that it was a cloudy, January day didn’t put it in its best light.

When I walked in I saw that I had judged too quickly. It was far bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. It wasn’t just its size that surprised me, but I felt like I had walked through the door into the secret garden after the kids had it in full bloom. There were colors and textures and well-planned lighting. The help desk is right in the center with busy librarians. Beyond them is a well-stocked paper rack. Beyond that are computer friendly study tables with easily accessible power connectors. That combined with the WiFi, which is easy to connect to and very fast, made it a writer’s dream. Beyond the study tables are a forest of comfortable chairs around a gas fire with wooden shelves stocked with new fiction.

Off on either side are well-lighted sections full of shelves that are full of books, cds, and dvds. There is a children’s play area that tempted me. There were plenty of computer stations for adults for both research and alternative usasage such as gaming. Something I haven’t seen in other libraries isthe section of children’s’ computers that were seeing great use. I was led there by the sounds of music the kids were making as a by-product of the games they were playing.

Overhead there was a wandering river of letters and numbers. I thought it was just a random jumble, until I looked closer. It turned out to be a river of names, dates, places, and zip codes. I still need to spend more time finding all it has to offer.

I spent several productive hours at a study table writing my novel. The library is noisy, but in that pleasant way that speaks of life and good use. I found it not distracting, but comforting and pleasant.

After lunch I wandered around the shelves peeking at what they have to offer. I eventually stumbled into a section containing collections of my favorite comics such as Foxtrot, The Far Side, and Zits. There, lit by a pair of corner windows, I found another of those study tables looking lonely. I made friends with it and settled in for the afternoon. All too soon the speech and debate coach texted me. It was time to go. I’ll probably never get back up to this library again on such a perfect day, but what a memory.

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Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories from the Driver’s Seat is now available on Amazon.com

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

Bus Driver Diaries: Breamly Smiles

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I didn’t meet her until three months of the school year had passed. It was about 6:50 am and very dark. She was lucky I saw her at all. If I had taken any other route to my first stop, as I sometimes do, I wouldn’t have noticed this little girl standing on the corner. Her mother was with her. I almost drove by them because they weren’t at the official stop; I wasn’t sure they were waiting for me. But then how many elementary children are waiting at the curb at 6: 50 am with an expectant look on their face?

I pulled over just in case it was me they were waiting for. It turns out they had just moved in to the basement apartment in the house on the corner and they wanted Breamly to take the bus to school. I explained to the mother where the stop actually was—a half block up the street—and that Breamly wouldn’t need to be at the stop for another hour. At the moment I was picking up high school students. The mother understood, but since Breamly was already up and ready she got on the bus and disappeared into the darkness behind me.

I continued on my way picking up mainly secondary school students on my long, winding country route. The sun was almost peeking over the mountain by the time I dropped the older students off at the high school. Next I drove back past Breamly’s house to the stop where fifteen elementary students were queuing up. After one more stop I drove them to their elementary school on the other side of town. It was 8:00 am when they filed off the bus at the school. I was turning to get out of my seat to check for any sleepers when I noticed Breamly standing quietly at my elbow.

“Do you know where the office is?” she asked in a small voice. I could barely hear her. Her green eyes looked frightened.

“What?” I said “Haven’t you been here before?”

She shook her head.

I didn’t understand. Had her mother really just sent her off on her own on her first day to a new school?

I could give her directions to walk around the school to the front doors. The office was just inside. Or I could get out of my seat and take her there myself. I was just getting up when two other of my riders came up to the front of the bus. It turns out they had been checking for sleepers for me. They had heard that she was looking for the office.

“She’s new here?” the sixth grader asked.

“Yes, and she needs to go to the office,” I said.

“Oh, we can take her there,” they responded. They were enthusiastic, maybe overly so. I noticed they were treating her with the care they would give a first grader even though Breamly was in third grade. Breamly was all smiles that night when got on the bus to go home.

In the afternoon I drop around forty-five other kids, including Breamly, at Breamly’s stop. Most of them walk down the street toward the back of the bus after they exit. Breamly walks up the street in front of the bus. She usually gains a half block on me while I wait for the last kid to hop out the door. Then I cruise slowly up the street until I pass Breamly and a few other kids who go that way, too.

I think it was Breamly who started it; she would smile and wave with an outstretched arm as I passed. At some point I started honking as I passed her—two short bursts of the air horn. She got to where she would pretend not to hear the bus coming until she heard the two blasts. Then she would turn, stretch out her arm in a graceful wave, and give me a smile that reminds me of the sunrise in the morning. I looked forward to that moment each afternoon.

Sometimes the rest of the kids were slow to get off the bus. They might stop to talk to me, complain, or tell me a story. When this happened Breamly would reach her home before I reached her. I would see her disappear down the stairs before I could honk for her. I would honk anyway as I passed her house in the hopes that she would hear and know I was thinking of her.

Suddenly, just last week, I noticed that Breamly wasn’t in the large group of kids getting off the bus at her stop.

“I wonder where Breamly is,” I said out loud as kids passed by my seat. One of them happened to hear me.

“Oh, Breamly moved,” he said.

My heart missed a beat at this news. I realized he must be right because I hadn’t seen her in the morning or night runs for a few days.

That street seems empty to me now. The sun doesn’t rise anymore in the afternoon. As I pass that basement door I can still feel the warmth as I remember her smile.

All is not lost. There are three other kids who walk the same direction that Breamly did. They are siblings. They always got off the bus quite a ways after Breamly and trailed her by quite a distance. One of them is in kindergarten. He will hear me coming and start to run up the road as if he is racing me. I will honk at him—two short blasts—as I pass. He will give me some body language that says, “Dang it, you beat me again,” and slow to a walk. It isn’t the sun rising, but it’s still fun.

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Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories from the Driver’s Seat is now available on Amazon.com

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

Bus Driver Diaries: Just Follow Me

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Just Follow Me

Getting assigned activity trips in addition to regular routes is generally a good thing. First, it’s good for the extra hours, which means more money. Second, more often than not I find the activities fun and the time with the kids a pleasure. Still, there are times when I look at the destination on the trip sheet and cringe. “Capitol Building” is one of those destinations.

The Utah Capitol Building itself is a fine place to visit. The architecture is fascinating and there is so much history located there. It’s just that the Capitol Building is located in downtown Salt Lake City with its heavy traffic, narrow streets, and well-hidden “one-way” signs. I’ve been on many trips to downtown Salt Lake City, and so am getting familiar with it, but I still have that initial cringe and low-key anxiousness as the trip approaches.

On a previous trip to the Capitol Building I took the Sixth South exit, traveled through the heart of downtown Salt Lake City, and made my way up on East Temple. On a whim I turned to Google Maps to see if there was another way. There was. It recommended I travel on to the sixth north exit, travel east on Sixth North to Wall Street, and it’s a short way to the Capitol Building from there. While waiting for the children to load I mentioned this route to the two other two bus drivers who were driving that day. It was clear that neither of them liked downtown Salt Lake City either.

“We’ll just follow you,” one said.

“And if we get lost, it’s your fault,” the other laughed.

When I approached them I was hoping that one of them would corroborate the route I was suggesting. After all, both of them have driven much longer than I have. It wasn’t to be. I learned that neither of them was very clear on how to get to the State House on any route. I found myself the reluctant leader.

Off we went on the eighty-five mile drive north with my bus in the lead. The traffic was very heavy and flowing unevenly. It was difficult to keep the buses in sight of each other.

“Doesn’t anyone work anymore?” one driver called over the radio. After all, it wasn’t rush hour, so why were so many on the road?

As we approached the Sixth South exit I had to recommit to my new plan. I had traveled the Sixth South route before and understood it. But the Sixth North route seemed so much shorter and it bypassed downtown. Feeling determined, I drove on past the Sixth South exit. The other two buses followed me.

I exited on Sixth North as planned and headed east. I started to relax as everything appeared in order as Google Maps suggested. I didn’t start to worry until I noticed that beyond an upcoming intersection Sixth North got considerably narrower. Looking up to the Wall Street where Sixth North teed off it got narrower still. I became uncomfortable when I stopped at the intersection before Wall Street and saw a sign. It warned that trucks over forty-five feet were prohibited from entering. I swallowed hard. I could turn at this intersection, but then I would be off my memorized route with two other buses following me. The Capitol Building is up on top of a hill with bus unfriendly roads surrounding it. I needed to get on a proper approach. Holding up traffic I took my phone out and double checked my route. It showed that once I hit Wall Street the Capitol Building was very close. I recommitted and drove on. After all, the sign said trucks over forty-five feet were not permitted. Our buses are only forty feet in length.

My anxiety spiked when I turned onto Wall Street. Saying it was narrow was an understatement. It was a residential street with trees that formed a canopy over the road. With the cars parked on the street in front of the houses there were just a few clear inches on either side of the bus. If a vehicle happened to be coming the other way we would have been at an impasse—somebody would have to back up and it wasn’t going to be three buses.

It got worse. Going our direction Wall Street was all up hill. However, at one point the rise increased suddenly and dramatically. Oh my gosh, I thought. Will my bus go up that?

I had no choice but to push my pedal to the floor and lean forward to urge the bus on. The bus did not accelerate; instead the engine just groaned under its load of seventy five students. I’m fairly certain that if I stopped the bus would be unable to begin moving forward again. I could feel angry, sarcastic thoughts from the bus drivers behind as they followed me up.

“Wheelie!” a child in the bus shouted. Others took up the call. The teachers and chaperones were all silent in fear.

We made it to the top. I felt such relief. The trial wasn’t over yet, though. As we approached the narrow road that circles the Capitol Building there was a line of buses that brings dismay to any bus driver’s heart. It appeared that half the schools in Utah had chosen this day to come visit. The turn-around, drop off lanes were clogged with buses. That didn’t really matter right away because the entrance to the drive-through was blocked by other buses that pulled in front of it to unload. There were buses behind me waiting to turn left into the drive-through. We would have to wait for the buses that had pulled in front the drive-through to leave, but they were blocked by buses in front of them. What a mess. Even the state troopers were scratching their heads. It was time to take a big breath and decide that waiting in the middle of busy road for who knew how long was just part of the day’s adventure.

In the end we got all the kids safely unloaded and the day went pretty well from there. When I met the other two bus drivers I expected them to let me have it. Kindly, they didn’t. With a smile one said, “Let’s not go back that way, okay?”

I agreed.

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Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories from the Driver’s Seat is now available on Amazon.com

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

Bus Driver Diaries — Faces Like Music

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Unlike teachers who spend hours, days, and weeks with the local youth population, school bus drivers only see the kids for a few seconds each day. Although the drive to and from school takes longer than that, we only actually see the kids when they are getting on or off the bus. My contact with each child each day may be short, but in those few seconds I get snapshots of the children’s lives that, while not telling me much, do tell me something.

I took the junior high school run the other afternoon. When I opened the doors, a line of preteens and early-teens streamed in. Awkwardness and angst sloughed off of them like dust from Pigpen in Charley Brown. I had an unexpected flashback to my own junior high days, with all its memories of loneliness and confusion. The face of one boy stood out as he got on the bus—pimples, rough, raw. I saw this face again near the end of the route when I walked to the back of the bus to investigate a spitting incident. A girl reported that this boy had spit out the window. The airflow through the open windows caused the spit to fly back into the next window and onto the girl’s face. I didn’t look forward to confronting him. His face had a large amount of “I couldn’t care less” written all over it. His “I couldn’t care less” expression faded into nervousness as I approached. This gave me hope. We chatted for a moment. I helped him understand what happens when you spit out a window on a bus. He understood there would be greater consequences if he did it again. As I walked away it struck me that he really hadn’t intended to be rude to the girl he accidentally spit on. He just didn’t have a lot of common sense.

Early one Saturday morning the girls’ volleyball team got on the bus. I said “Good morning” to one girl as she passed. She didn’t respond—didn’t even glance my way. I noticed she walked halfway back and took a seat some distance from the other girls. It may have been she wasn’t a morning person. Maybe there was trouble at home or with the other girls. I couldn’t tell. One of the other girls came up to the front of the bus to offer me a muffin. Somehow, within the horizon of her early morning ride, she saw the bus driver. I was touched.

I was dropping a load of elementary kids off at school. One third-grader was dressed in a colorful dress and leggings. As she stepped onto the sidewalk I called out, “That’s a pretty dress.” There were lots of kids filing out right behind her so I didn’t think she would hear. She did. She looked over her shoulder and flashed a happy smile of pure sunshine that warmed me for a week. The last girl off the bus that day wore a blue blanket with a shark-head hood. It looked like her head was in the shark’s mouth. It was cute. As she walked down the aisle I said, “Sharks are not allowed on the bus.” She wasn’t sure if I was seriously scolding her or not. Then I said, “I like your blanket.” She stopped beside me, smiled, and gave a big, happy, sigh.

One day when I was a substitute driver I picked up eight kindergarteners. We drop kindergarteners off at their homes. I had never driven this route and didn’t know where they lived. I asked them for help and they excitedly complied. There were no “drive to the highway and turn left” kind of instructions. Instead I had eight kids calling out, “Drive this way. Then turn that way!” I had to look in the mirror and try to decipher their finger pointing. One little boy adamantly indicated I should go down “this street.” I did. Two other kids overrode his instructions telling me it was the street with the “rocks” on it. It took a moment, but then I realized they meant the gravel road by the edge of the subdivision. I knew where that was. As we approached a pasture with cows they told me to honk. “Our regular bus driver does,” they said. My bus has an air horn. It sounds like a train when you pull the cord. I look for opportunities to use it. I gave it a yank. Eight voices yelled out in unison, “Hello, cows!” And they waved. Heading up the highway I saw three bored-looking horses in a dusty corral. I yanked the cord again and pretended I was a train. The five remaining kids yelled out, again in perfect unison, “Hello, horses.” Once more they waved. I eventually got each child home and watched him or her run happily to the parent waiting in the doorway.

Some cars, not very many, still have radios that are tuned by a dial. If the dial is turned fast, voices and music quickly resolve and then disappear in fragments. A practiced ear can get a sense of what the fragment of sound was about. Being a bus driver is much like turning the radio dial. Instead of sounds, faces flash past giving a momentary glimpse into a child’s day or life. It isn’t much of a glimpse; it is just enough to make me care.

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