Tag Archives: bus

Like a Miracle

Everyone knows that being a school bus driver means taking your load of kids to school and then taking them home again, day after day after day. You arrive at the first stop at the same time each morning, turn at the same corners, and tell the same kids to sit down and be quiet. The routine is comforting—and maddening—at the same time. This is what you sign up for when you choose to be a bus driver. What they don’t tell you during training is that there are these things called activity trips. You are vaguely aware of them, but you are blissfully unaware of the high-level skills it takes to complete an activity trip successfully.

While bus drivers call them activity trips, they are actually the exciting “field trips” you remember from your elementary school days. You might be driving the second grade to a pumpkin patch on a golden autumn day. It might be taking the fourth grade across town to hear the Utah Symphony Orchestra on one of their outreach programs. One of my favorite trips is taking the fifth grade to the aquarium. Most of these activity trips reoccur each year. When you’ve driven bus long enough, these runs become part of your routine and cause little to no stress.

When it comes to high school, these activity runs are no longer “field trips.” They are important events in the students’ educational preparation. Scholarships may be on the line so getting the kids there on time is important.

Many of these activity trips are straightforward enough on paper. One is taking the football team to a certain high school for a game and then bringing them back home. Simple enough. Others are more complex. FFA (Future Farmers of America) comes to mind. One of their events is a state competition that lasts three days. The bus driver is involved every hour of all three days. Each day the fifty kids you are driving split up among five different venues. You are the one that has to take them to each location. The first difficulty is learning where is each venue? You are supposed to pick up group 1 at a certain time and transfer them across town to where group 4 is. Group 4 is going to where group 2 is. Group 2 has an hour off and wants to go to Walmart. This all starts at 6am and, with their nightly entertainment activities, doesn’t end until 11pm. It keeps a bus driver on his toes.

The skill and preparation required to pull off these high school trips is considerable and never appreciated except by other bus drivers. In my district this is how it goes. The transportation supervisor gives you a trip sheet. The sheet lists the group (let’s say Speech and Debate), leave time (5:30 am), and destination (West Valley City). Clear enough, right? But where in West Valley City are we going? You assume you are going to a high school (speech and debate is always at a high school). On google maps you type in West Valley High School. It doesn’t exist. You scan around the city in “Layers” mode looking for a football field that indicates the presence of a high school. There are two. Finally, you contact your supervisor who contacts the coach and you learn it is Hunter High School. You go back to google maps and study the route to get there. We don’t have GPS on our buses and aren’t allowed to use our phones while driving. You have to memorize freeways, exit numbers, and street names, and landmarks for left and right turns.

The kids sleep while you navigate the dark freeways which, by the way, are far busier than they should be for early Saturday morning. You feel proud of yourself when, after an hour-and-a-half, you hit the right exit. Now you are navigating through side streets. There are only a couple of turns left and you will see the high school. Suddenly you come upon a road closed sign. Oh no! Not to worry; you memorized an alternate route just in case. You are right on track when a confusing traffic pattern makes you miss your turn. With your stress level rising you call to the coach and ask for navigation instructions (she can use her phone). She directs you to another street and you figure it out from there. You finally pull up in front of the high school. The kids—there are twenty-five of them—are ready to rumble on the debate floor and you got them there on time.

The thrill of finding a destination you have never been to before is short lived. The next challenge is finding a place to park your bus while you wait for the activity to end. For instance, you are driving kids to the state capitol building in downtown Salt Lake City. Don’t get smart and take the back road to avoid downtown traffic or you will find yourself on a one-way road so steep that your bus groans as it slowly carries your load of 65 kids to the top. At the capitol there is a nice turn around for buses where you can drop your kids. The State patrol is there directing traffic. Now what? When they built the capitol, they didn’t think ahead to the busloads of kids who would be coming to visit. There is no bus parking. You are in downtown Salt Lake City. One does not simply park a bus on the street in downtown. Luckily, you know a spot in an industrial area near the train tracks about fifteen minutes away. You are relieved when you find that the spot is still open for buses. You park and wait for the pickup call. Uh oh, you did trade phone numbers with the lead teacher, right?

The most exciting and challenging part of the activity trips is piloting a 40-foot bus with sixty students on board in rush hour, freeway traffic. It’s much like a car . . . except that your vehicle is 40 feet long . . . and you have 65 kids as passengers. Cars and trucks move in and out in front of you. Speeds change suddenly. You focus intensely on keeping your distance while watching exit numbers. To simplify things, you move over into the HOV lane. This works very nicely, but there are five lanes to your right and they are all packed with small cars, sporty SUVs, and semis carrying huge roles of steel. Eight miles out from your exit you start looking for the broken white line that indicates you can exit the HOV lane. When it arrives, you turn on your right blinker and look in your mirror to see if someone is going to let you in. You do this while guarding against a dangerous red wave of taillights in front of you telling you that you are going to rear end someone if you don’t slow down quickly. Two vehicles have no intention of letting a bus in front of them. Finally, a Cadillac Escalade lets you in. You make double sure he is actually behind the rear end of your bus before moving over. You go through this process four more times. With a mile to spare before your exit you finally reach the far right lane. Whew.

A simple request from a coach to stop so the kids can get some dinner will ramp up the stress level. They will often suggest a place they know but you don’t. Where is this place? Can you park a bus there? Usually not. The coaches never think of that. One doesn’t simply pull a bus into a McDonald’s parking lot. You’ll never get it out. Even if they are in a hurry, you tell the coach to wait while you look up the suggested place on google maps. You see that you will have to drop the kids at a curb and then drive several blocks where there is a parking lot where you might be allowed to park the bus for an hour. Halfway there the coach changes his mind. He wants a Texas Roadhouse that’s just a few miles away. You are in the HOV lane again and the five lanes to your right are packed with slow’n go accident traffic. You tell the coach you will take them there if you can make the exit. It’s going to take miles to get across those five lanes. Once again you go through the high-stress process of blinking, waiting, watching, moving x 5. You make it. The coach rewards you by inviting you eat with the team at their expense.

At this writing I have been driving for ten years. I’ve driven probably more than 200 activity trips. Many of them were routine. I like routine activity trips. I know the route. I know where to park. I know where they may want to go to eat. So many other activity trips are new to me and no matter how well I prepare, they are adventures. Whether the activity trip is routine, or something new, what never changes is the relief I feel after I’ve safely dropped the kids at the school at the end of the trip. It feels like a miracle every time.

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

The Little Princess On Bus 13

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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 19^th 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.

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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:

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:

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: 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 – It’s Starting All Over Again

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I neglected to write a “Last School Day of Bus Driving” post. I think that is because I felt so much relief the next morning I didn’t want to think about buses for a long time. It was a wonderful summer. I didn’t miss the fear of sleeping through my alarm. I didn’t miss the busload drama that takes place every day. I did miss the faces, though. I didn’t know I missed the faces until I saw them again last Tuesday on the first day of school.

It was good to see all the kids again, but a few of the faces stood out. For these kids the happiness behind the recognition in their eyes when they looked at me was gratifying. Of course it wasn’t long before I was telling these kids to turn around and sit down and to stop the therapeutic screaming. It’s like that on a bus. We love each other while at the same time driving each other nuts. Come to think of it, it’s like we’re family.

My bus is extremely full this year. My roster lists ninety-three kids. A bus with three in every seat will carry eight-four. My bus gets around this because I don’t have all ninety-three kids on my bus at the same time. In the mornings I drop off the high school and middle school before I pick up the Church Yard Gang of some eighteen kids. In the afternoon I drop off the Church Yard Gang before I pick up the high school and middle school kids. The Church Yard Gang is comprised of elementary school kids who join the other twenty-seven elementary kids I pick up at other stops.

My bus carries kindergarteners through eleventh graders. There is definitely a pecking order on the bus. It isn’t too bad, but there is a strong desire to sit in the back of the bus. My high schoolers are a little on the quiet side. Middle schoolers who have gotten on the bus first have been taking rear seats pushing the high schoolers forward. Elementary school kids—mainly fifth and sixth graders—have been pushing some of the middle schoolers forward. My high schoolers were rather quiet about this injustice although I’m sure it would have boiled over eventually. It was the middle school that boiled over first.

In my rearview mirror one afternoon I noticed that some kids were having a hard time finding a seat. I walked back to see what was up.

“Tory,” a seventh grader called. “Look at this! Look at this! This is ridiculous!” I don’t want to overuse exclamation points, but it does get across his tone of voice. I looked and you know what I saw? I saw the unhappy boy sitting in a seat with two other kids. Imagine that. To give him a break he was so upset because a couple of seats up were elementary students with only two to a seat. Without saying the words he was suggesting it was an outrage to have younger students with better seating arrangements. I thanked him for his input and told him I would see what I could do about it tomorrow.

I took counts of kids by grades and then divvied the seats up as best I could. I put colored tap on the walls that indicated where elementary school ended and middle school began. I did the same for high school. The high schoolers are very happy about this. No one else is, though. They all think they should be able to sit farther in the back than they are currently allowed. The bus is so full seating control is necessary. The tape isn’t a perfect solution. Different numbers of kids ride on different days and sometimes we get spillover. When we do, I hear about it.

What’s fun is that almost all of the kids riding this year rode last year, but they are a grade older. Last year’s kindergarteners have proudly moved one seat back to first grade. I have a couple of girls who were in sixth grade last year. They felt ultra-mature and always tried to sneak the high school seats. They’ve already tried that this year, too. One of them got off at her stop the other day and said to me in passing, “I’m sure glad I get to get off here and get away from these children.” She said it loud enough for the remaining elementary children to hear. It’s amazing what graduating from elementary school to seventh grade will do for a person. On second thought, she’s not that different from last year.

Friday I was dropping the Church Yard Gang. Cars were stopped behind me as well as in front of me waiting for me to pull in the flashing Stop sign. Two different kids, wonderful kids, stopped at my seat to do an elaborate hand slapping goodbye routine that I didn’t know. They were determined to teach me. The last part of it was “down low” then “up high” then “in space” (really high) then “in your face.” They pretended to push a pie in my face. I tried to hurry them. I wasn’t so sure how patient the people in the cars were going to be. They could clearly see what was going on.

When the hand slapping was over I noticed a mother standing outside my door expectantly. She was waiting for someone. I checked my rear-view mirror and saw no one coming. She called the name that I recognized belonged to a kindergartener. Fear iced through my chest. OMGosh, I’ve lost a kindergartener. That is one of bus drivers’ greatest fears. Then something stirred right behind my seat and the kindergartner got out. I glanced at the cars with a “We’re almost done” look. But we weren’t. The proud mother stopped her child on the bottom step in order to get a “first day on the bus” picture. I think she took three or four. Finally they were walking off hand in hand and I let the traffic go.

It has only been one week and I am already tired. At the same time I think of the kids’ faces and feel warm inside. My stress level is up somewhat, but so is my life level. I believe some of the stress is just me readjusting. I know ladies who have been doing this twenty five years and they are doing fine. Let’s see what this year brings.

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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