Tag Archives: bus driver

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

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:

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:

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: 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 – The Honeymoon Is Over

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This is my second year driving a school bus. I’ve looked over all the posts I made during my first year and realize that the honeymoon is over. My first year’s posts are true to my experience, but they were written with a certain amount of naiveté. I was new to the kids. The kids were new to me. I saw the best in them. They saw a “nice” bus driver in me. That’s all changed now (wry smile). Every weekday morning at 7:00 am the doors hiss open to let the same kids on to ride the same thirty mile route with the same eighteen stops on the way to the same school. Every afternoon at 2:30 pm we do it again, but going the other direction. I think what the kids and I look forward to most are the days that we don’t have to do this. Last Monday another bus driver told me it’s “a week and two days to Thanksgiving break.” I’ve only driven a year and I find myself yearning for the next break. It all may be routine now, but I still rebel against the mundane.

In the afternoons while waiting for the elementary school bell to ring I stand outside the bus and juggle. My third son inspired me to learn. I have seen him juggle five items successfully. I can just manage three items. Since the beginning of the school year I have been working on juggling three items with one hand. I don’t have it yet, but it is coming—maybe by the end of school next year. I don’t do this to entertain the kids, but to develop myself and to keep my mind off all the energy that is coming my way in a few minutes. The kids have seen me, though, and think it’s great.

The afternoons are difficult because the bus is just sitting there while I wait for all the kids to make their way to the bus. It takes about ten minutes. It’s a very long ten minutes because when the bus is not moving and the engine not running the kids want to use the bus as a playground. It takes a lot of energy on my part to keep the kids from reaching critical mass which precedes a runaway nuclear reaction. The bus right next to mine is supposed to wait for me to leave the loading zone first. If I haven’t moved by the time she is ready she will pull forward a few feet to let me know she is getting impatient. The last few afternoons I have watched the clock more closely and started a countdown with my kids at thirty seconds. Most aren’t paying attention at first, but as the kids up front pick up the count it gradually spreads to the back and we all get the 10, 9, 8, 7 . . . together. I have the bus in gear and the parking brake off so that when we get to “0” we begin to roll and all the kids cheer.

I started naming the stops and calling them out over the intercom when we approach like on a subway.

“Next stop Lucky Hill,” I call. It’s actually Turkey Hill, but it’s the first stop and the kids getting off the crowded, noisy bus are lucky.

At the third stop I call out, “Grand Central Station.” This is the stop where up to twenty-five kids will get off.

There is Cameron Corner and Peyton Place both named after kids getting off there. One of my favorites is the very last house on the route when there is only one little gal on the bus. I look in my mirror, but can’t see her. I know she’s back there somewhere behind one of those tall seats. “Jaida Junction,” I announce. I stop and see her appear from halfway back. “Thank you,” she sings out without looking at me as she plunks down each step and she’s off. The bus is now empty.

Quite late into the year I handed out the “Bus Rules” papers that require parent’s signatures. How likely is it that a bus driver can hand a paper to students and expect to get them back? Every week I sweep up a considerable amount of “thrown away” homework papers from the bus floor. One bus driver told me she offered candy to those who bring them back. I handed out the sheets as students got off at each stop. They rolled their eyes unenthusiastically as I made them wait to get their copy. I told them there would be a reward if they brought them back. I heard a third grader talking behind me about how the reward would probably be a just a fun size candy bar. It was just after Halloween. He didn’t sound motivated. I decided to take out a loan and buy full-size Hershey bars to raise the motivation factor. The next morning about a third of the kids brought their papers back. My gamble worked. Their eyes lit up when they were able to pull a full-size Hershey Bar out of the container. The other kids were hitting themselves on the forehead for not bringing theirs. I heard a lot of bargaining in the dark behind me, “I’ll give you a quarter for a bite.” Those papers kept coming in all week and I made sure I had candy bars ready.

The problem is now that the kids are expecting me to have full-size candy bars all the time. I’ve learned that it isn’t such a problem—it’s actually useful and fun. Isaiah, an eighth grader who looks like life has been weighing a little heavy on him lately, got off at second-to-last stop. As he passed me he said, “Do you think I could have a candy bar just for being me, today?” I gave him one. As we pulled onto the gravel road that leads to the dairy an eight-year-old girl saw her family van coming down the road to the dairy from the other direction.

“That’s my mom,” she said with a proud smile. “I called her and she is going to give me a ride home today. Usually she won’t do that.”

This girl, her siblings and cousins, usually have to walk a half mile from the dairy up a hill to where their homes are. After she got off the bus I called her back to the driver’s window and handed her a candy bar. “This is for your mom,” I said. “She deserves one.” Instead of being disappointed that the candy bar wasn’t for her she smiled brightly at the prospect of handing this over to her mom.

Tomorrow morning at 7:00 am I’ll be opening the door at that first stop. I’m not looking forward to it. The kids won’t be any more excited about it than I am. I am determined that somewhere in the AM or PM run I will find some fun. Maybe someone will need a candy bar. Maybe I’ll finally juggle three items with one hand. One of the kids might come to the front and ask me to tell them a story on that long stretch out in the country. I might get one of the high school kids to smile. I refuse to surrender to the mundane.