Tag Archives: bus driving

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:

Things Happen

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In a Stepford Wives world bus driving would be a breeze. The kids would line up at their bus stop, greet the driver politely, and then find their seats. They would stay sitting, facing forward while chatting quietly with their seatmate or, perhaps, getting their homework done early. They wouldn’t get up until the bus has come to a full stop and the air break has been set. They would get off and wait in a group twelve feet in front of the bus until I give them the signal to cross. Yes, that is the Stepford Students version of things. As nice as that sounds to me on many days, in the end it would make bus driving unbearably boring. While a lot of what I just described does occur at one level or another, the truth is, things happen.

A couple of days ago I had picked up my 50 elementary students and was just pulling in to the high school. Twelve big kids got on there. When I was preparing to pull away from the curb, I saw Bella, one of my elementary students, walking up the aisle. I couldn’t leave until she was back in her seat. Feeling a little of the usual afternoon orneriness—the after-school energy level of the kids fills the bus with electricity—I asked a little brusquely, “What’s up?” This girl is bright and has quiet, knowing, eyes. She knew better than to be wandering around the bus right then.

“Lessy is eating,” she said.

“What?!” I had just lectured the kids that there would be no more eating on the bus. I was tired of sweeping up their discarded trash. I reached for the intercom to give Lessie a public lecture. Just as I lifted the mic I noticed that Bella was reaching for the paper towels resting on top of my big rearview mirror. What are you doing?” I asked. “Did Jessie spill something while she was eating?” I wondered why it was Bella up front getting the paper towels if it was Lessie who did the spilling.

“Lessy is bleeding,” she said.

“Bleeding? I thought you said ‘eating.’”

Bella smiled. “Do you have any band aids?” She was really looking after her friend.

I put the mic back glad that I hadn’t started yelling at Lessie yet.

A couple of weeks ago it was Valentine’s Day. When the bell rang, kids poured out of the school carrying the Valentine’s Day Boxes they had created. The boxes were adorable. I saw horse boxes, monster boxes, bear boxes (complete with fur), Barbie boxes, Minecraft boxes, and so many other great examples of creativity. The kids were all smiles and good vibes feeling the joy after their class parties that had been complete with valentine cards, candy, and chocolate. There’s hardly enough room on the bus for the kids by themselves; with their valentine’s boxes they were really jammed into their seats. In one seat I could barely see the three 1^st graders underneath their boxes. They grinned up me.

Once again I was just getting ready to pull away from the curb when I saw a student walking up the aisle. “Hayley, get back in your seat. We’re leaving!” I became more annoyed when she ignored me. She’d never given me a bit of trouble before. When she arrived at my seat I snapped out a, “What?”

“My hand is stuck.”

“Your hand is what?”

“My hand is stuck.”

She raised her hand. I stared. It was inside a very pretty valentine’s box. “Well, pull it out,” I said, with a mixture of impatience and laughter.

“I can’t,” she answered, calmly. Her calmness calmed me a little. She had put her hand in through the slit where you were to slide valentine cards.

Ignoring the bus that was waiting behind me for me to get going, I took the box under my arm and pulled on her wrist. She was right. Her hand was really stuck. The cardboard of the box was thick. If I tried to yank her hand out it would hurt her.

“I’m going to have to rip the box to get your hand out. Is that okay?” I asked because her box was decorated so prettily.

“Yes,” she answered, with that same calmness.

After some careful effort, I managed to rip and loosen the opening enough for her to pull her hand out. That was a new one for my bus.

Just a few days later I had completed the journey from the school, over the ridge, to our small town. I was making my way through the usual stops enjoying how the bus was getting quieter and quieter as each group of kids got off. I pulled up to Topper’s stop and opened the door. In my mirror I saw Topper, a fourth grader, making his way to the front. Just then Alicia jumped up beside me.

“Do you want to hear a joke?” she asked excitedly. She was in my way so that I couldn’t see the stairs and door.

“Alicia, this is not the time to tell me a joke. Get back in your seat. You can tell it to me in a minute when everyone else is off the bus.”

As I said these words I became aware of the noise of struggling on the steps. When Alicia moved, to my horror, I saw Topper trapped in the doors which I had inadvertently shut on him. Half of him was outside and the other half was inside. These doors cannot do any harm, but I could see that Topper was frightened and confused as to why the doors had shut on him. In my distraction with Alecia I had pressed the “Close” button too soon. Of course I checked to make sure Topper was okay and apologized profusely, but he will probably never trust me again.

On days when Joey decides to give a concert with her whistle, or the kids in the middle are throwing a coat around the bus, or the Sinclair sisters are calling my name because one of them is “being mean” I feel like a Stepford version of students would be nice. But when I really think about it, if things didn’t happen, I would have no stories. And a life without stories is no life at all.

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

Say My Name

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I’ve never prided myself on my memory. In some odd ways I have a great memory. I can remember the plotlines of movies I watched 50 years ago. Ironically, I struggle with people’s names. I like people. People are important to me. That’s because I am one of them. Yet, in the grocery store I will have people come across me in an aisle, greet me by name, and chat. While we are talking, I’ll be wracking my brain for any memory of them to no avail. I am not famous in any way, so I don’t know why the person speaking to me knows my name and I don’t know his. I feel bad when this happens because the person speaking to me is usually very friendly and a person I would like to know. I wonder what is wrong with me. You would think this problem would make it hard to be a bus driver where I have so many children’s names to remember. Surprisingly, when it comes to the bus, remembering names is something I do pretty well.

Learning the names of all my bus kids is no small feat. After all, there are eighty of them. Learning their names doesn’t happen all at once. This year I began a new route. I didn’t know even one of the children getting on my bus. As I looked in my mirror at the animated faces of so many kids my heart sank. Learning their names seemed an impossible task. Not one to give up easily, I searched for a way to make the impossible possible.

First, I have to get all their names on paper. This is a matter of procedure for bus drivers in our district. At the beginning of the year we hand out sheets to the students to be taken home that requests names, ages, grades, addresses, and telephone numbers. Getting all of the sheets back is no easy task and is never fully successful. But when I start giving out candy bars for a returned sheet, things begin to happen.

Now that I have all the names in my hand, I still have the problem of figuring out which name goes with which face. Since the Rider sheet organizes names by stops, I am able to compartmentalize certain names to certain bus stops. This helps immensely. Two or three weeks drag on as I try to make connections between a face and a name. It’s important for me to say the name out loud as I see the child get on the bus. This would be no big deal except that the kids hear my struggle and don’t understand it.

“Um, what’s your name again?” I ask the kid with blond, curly hair. The look of disappointment on his face is heart-breaking and aggravating. Heart-breaking because clearly my not knowing his name has hurt his feelings. Aggravating because he’s too young to understand that he’s just one of eighty kids I’m trying to keep straight.

“Your name is McKell? I ask a second grader with freckles and a bob.

“NO!” she yells and walks back to her seat in a huff without telling me what her name is.

Once, in my frustration, I yelled back, “Do you know everyone’s name on the bus?” She actually stopped and considered. It was clear she didn’t. Still, she didn’t give me a break and climbed into her seat with a tired sigh.

I finally had to resort to my old trick to get the kids to help me more—candy bars. As the kids got off the bus, if I said their name right, I would give them a Hershey Bar. If I couldn’t say their name without their help, no candy bar. This motivated them to tell me their names and help me find a way to remember them. I didn’t make a general announcement, but after the first couple of candy bars were given out word spread fast. Kids were stopping at my seat and looking at me intensely. If I couldn’t remember a child’s name, she was motivated to tell me and not just walk away angry. This was very effective in reaching my goal. Now I know all their names—all eighty of them.

Being able to call them by name isn’t just a party trick. It’s important. When I see someone misbehaving while I’m driving, it’s important to be able to say their name to get their attention.

“LeeAnn. Turn around and sit down!” I say into the intercom. She whips around and plops into her seat.

What is even more important is the moment of self-esteem hearing their names gives them. They know they’ve been seen and acknowledged.

At the elementary school in the morning as they are all trundling off the bus, I’m busy watching them in my mirror as they file forward. That’s when I’m calling out their names (before they reach me and turn their backs to go down the steps).

“Have a good one, Sara.”

“See you later, Aaron.”

“Careful on the steps, Maycee.”

“I love the earrings, Cali.”

Most don’t say anything in return—they don’t even look at me—a but the look on their faces tells me they heard their name and feel good about that.

When the end of the line of kids is nearing I see a little gal with blue eyes and two buns on top of her head. I know her but her name won’t come to mind. I call out the name of the boy in front of her, but then hesitate as I struggle for her name. The girl slows down almost imperceptibly as she nears me. Her body language tells me that she really wants to hear her name before she passes. It’s a great relief to me when her name suddenly flashes into my mind.

“Charley,” I say, warmly.

Just like that her face brightens, her pace quickens, and she is off to school.

Yes, knowing their names is important.

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

“What’s Going On?”

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Being a bus driver is much like being the captain of a ship. You are ultimately responsible for the safety of the ship and those on it. It begins each morning before the initial bus run. Even in the pitch black of a December morning I have to do a bus safety inspection. This involves checking the oil and coolant levels, checking the tire inflation, making sure the air brake will pop when the air level gets low, checking all of the many required light systems and more. Does the emergency door open? Do the emergency window alarms work? The purpose is to make sure my bus can safely and dependably carry the children to and from school. If something goes wrong, it’s all on me, the captain.

Being the captain also means I have to solve problems that may occur in the course of my daily runs. This can be something simple like helping tie a shoe.

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat when the tiny second grader asks me for help. I pat my leg and she places her foot on my thigh so I can tie her laces in a double knot.

That’s an easy one.

Early this year I was subbing an elementary route in a raging blizzard. Even after clearing the windshield, and with the windshield wipers going full bore, I only had a small clear space to see through. I couldn’t remember where the first turn was. I asked the kids for help, but it was such a whiteout that they could be sure either. It was only after I made a best-guess turn that they informed me, “This is the wrong street.” That wouldn’t have been so bad except that the street turned out to be a dead end. While staring at the ditch at the end of the narrow road with forty vociferous kids behind me I had to decide what to do. It was simple. I had to find a way to turn the bus around without backing into any cars or knocking down mailboxes. The solution was simple, but in a snowed-in forty-foot beast it wasn’t easy.

Some situations are trickier.

I’m at the end of my bus run far out in the country of a town that is ten miles south of the city where the school is. Who should be my last two riders are walking to the front of the bus to get off at their country lane. I notice a kindergarten age boy walking up the aisle with them. I am alarmed.

“Who is that?” I ask.

The teenage girl and her brother shrug and get off. This is my problem, not theirs.

I alter my question. “Who are you?”

The little boy whispers something.

“What?”

“Jimmy Spinder,” he says, a little louder.

The school year is only a week old and I’m still not sure who’s supposed to be on my bus and who isn’t. Did this boy just not get off at the correct stop earlier or is he supposed to be on one of the other two buses that bring kids to this small town?

“Do you know which bus you usually ride?”

The boy shrugs. “I think it’s this one.”

“I haven’t seen you before. Have you seen me?”

The boy shrugs.

“Do you know where you are supposed to get off?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “I get off at the dairy.”

Ah, that’s the other bus that comes to this small town. In fact, the dairy is only three miles away. I get on the radio and call the other bus driver. “Bus 17,” I say, “I have your Jimmy Spinder on my bus.”

I’m thinking I’ll just run him out to the dairy and drop him off when Bus 17 says, “I don’t have a Jimmy Spinder on my bus.”

I sit for a confused moment trying to figure this out. The answer comes from another bus driver who has been listening in. “Which dairy?” she asks.

I look at the boy and say, “Do you live in Levan or Nephi?”

“Nephi,” he says.

I roll my eyes. This boy really got on the wrong bus. He’s about twenty-five miles from the other dairy where he is supposed to be. What to do? I have another job starting in fifteen minutes. I can’t take him all the way to the other dairy. That will take an hour. Fortunately Bus 17 is going back into Nephi. We arrange a meeting place and transfer the boy. He gets home safely to his very worried mother who has already been calling the school to find out where he is.

Some situations are just strange

On another morning I am cruising slowly up the street to pick up my last stop of kids. I can see all fifteen of them lined up nice and neat watching as I approach. Suddenly, a big yellow cat wanders out in the road in front of me. I press the brake and my bus squeaks to a stop. I think the cat is going to keep crossing until it is out of my way. Instead, it stops right in front of me and sneezes violently three times.

“Poor cat has allergies,” I say to anyone sitting up front who might be listening.

With the sneezes done, I think he will continue crossing the road. He doesn’t. Instead, he raises his nose high in the air and tilts his head this way and that. This is one strange cat. Suddenly he sneezes again. In the yellow rays of the morning sun filtering through the tree limbs I see cat spit shoot up into the air like a fountain. I shake my head in empathy, but begin to turn the wheel to see if I can get the bus around this poor cat without squishing it under my duals. My kids are going to be late for school. Suddenly a fourth-grade girl leaps out of the line and runs out into the road. There’s a cat in danger and a bus that needs saving. She is just the one for the job. She scoops the large cat up in her arms and moves him to the side of the road. She then runs back to take her place in line.

What a little superhero. She solved the problem before the captain figured out a solution. It’s good to have people with initiative on the crew.

Sometimes ordinary confusion and extraordinary confusion are hard to tell apart.

I’m riding on another driver’s morning run to learn his route. I’m chatting with the driver while the kids laugh, chat, and tease behind us. I hear a girl calling out louder than the other kids. I wonder if she had had too many bowls of Sugar Bombs cereal for breakfast. After a few more blocks I hear the little girl again.

“What’s going on?” she yells.

I wonder what it is she’s playing. We’re stopping to pick up his last four children when I again hear, “What’s going on?” I ignore the overly energetic girl but notice the smell of hot coolant in the bus. I know the smell of bus coolant well, but usually don’t smell it in the bus. As the driver brakes to a stop, I tell him I am going to go back and see where the smell is coming from.

I quickly identify the girl who has been yelling because as I walk back, she meets my eyes and yells one more time, “What’s going on?” I can see confusion and fear on her face. As the bus brakes to a stop my shoes are suddenly awash in steaming, green coolant as it runs up the aisle to the front of the bus. The coolant runs through the heaters that are under some of the seats and fans blow the warm air. Apparently, the hose to the heater under her seat has broken and coolant is pouring into the bus. It’s no wonder this poor girl is wondering “What’s going on?”

The bus driver is a good captain. He stops the bus with a splash as the coolant hits the dash at the front. He radios and reports the problem to the transportation supervisor. He opens the front door and has the kids outside move back so they won’t be caught up in the flow of coolant which flows in a small waterfall down the bus steps. Then both of us help the kids off the bus. The driver counts to make sure we have them all. About this time another bus pulls up and we escort the kids onto it so they can finish their ride to school. It all goes pretty smoothly considering.

Bus driving has a weight of responsibilities, but it is usually pretty straightforward—pick the kids up and drop them off. It can be boringly routine. The universe takes care of “boring” with the “What’s going on?” situations. It may be anything from a foot in your lap with a shoe needing tied or steaming, green coolant splashing down your aisle. It could be a sneezing cat holding your bus hostage or a little, misplaced kindergartener and neither you nor he knows where he lives. “What’s going on?” is a question a bus driver needs to get used to. Finding the answer and a solution makes the job more satisfying than many would believe it could be. It’s all part of the bus driving adventure.

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

“Bye. Love You!”

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On my school bus this year I carry pre-school and kindergarten, 1^st to 5^th grade, and then about twelve high schoolers. For me, it’s a crash course in childhood development. The funny thing is, I’ve lived all those ages myself, but at 62 you forget most of the details of what it was like.

The one pre-schooler I take to school is too small to even climb the precipitously steep bus steps by herself. Her 8^th grade sister helps her up and then buckles her into the front passenger side seat. Often I can tell she’s been crying as her mother has gotten her ready to catch the bus. She sits next to her kindergarten sister who still wishes she was being buckled into a seat. They are both cute as buttons.

At other stops kindergarteners walk to the bus carrying backpacks as big as they are. Often, worried parents are watching as they climb the steps. These little people are fresh and innocent. Their eyes are bright as they say hello to me and ask if I remember their names. They love sitting next to their new found kindergarten friends. It’s like a playdate on the way to and from school. I hear all kinds of imaginings being spoken along with shouts and gleeful laughter. This sounds nice, but sometimes they get so loud and rambunctious I struggle a little to keep my calm.

The 1^st through 5^th graders are a wonderful menagerie of faces who pass by me on their way on and off the bus. There are usually a lot of smiles and a couple of sweet “Good morning, Tory.”

I definitely see a rise in sophistication from 1^st to 5^th grade. In general their innocence level falls while their intellectual and emotional complexity grows. All of the growth is within the bounds of childhood, but I’ve learned it must be taken seriously. Many children are neighbors and they bring their outside relationships onto the bus with them. This means many are friends and love to sit near each other. Of course, the opposite is true, too. I’ve already been informed by my supervisor that she has gotten a call from a mother asking that I make sure that so-and-so doesn’t sit near another child.

I know that most of these elementary students dream of the day they will be high schoolers. Although the high schoolers are just older children to me, the elementary kids look at them and see maturity, sophistication, and freedom. These children are so enamored with the idea of being a teenager that even if they looked in my driver’s rearview mirror and saw what I saw they would misinterpret it as “coolness.”

What do I see? I see a group of teens in the back who are unnecessarily isolated from their classmates, staring at their phones. I sense an invisible cloud of anxiety around them in the form of questions they have: Am I popular? Am I cool? What if I say the wrong thing? Compared to the exuberant elementary children in front of them, they look utterly miserable.

My last stop, at the intersection of a lonely, paved country road and an even lonelier gravel road, is where a pair of siblings get off. The big sister is 15 and in 9^th grade. Her little brother just turned 13 and is in 7^th grade. These two are unusual among the morose group of “big” kids. I hardly ever know they are back there until, as we approach their stop, they get up and start working their way to the front closing all the windows as they come. I’ve never asked them to close the windows; they just do it because they come from exceptional stock.

On this day sister comes forward alone. She sits near me and we chat as I pull up to the gravel lane. As I open the door she looks back and says, “Where’s my brother? I think he’s sleeping back there!”

I find this amusing. I’m used to small kindergarteners falling asleep on the way home, but not a more sophisticated middle schooler. She strides quickly back and I see her shaking someone behind the seat. Suddenly a head with confused eyes appears. “I scared him,” she says with a laugh as she runs up the aisle and gets off the bus. I watch with concern as brother stumbles up the aisle. At one point he falls over into a seat. Apparently his leg is asleep.

“Are you going to be able to make it home?” I ask. His house is a mile up that gravel road.

“I’ll crawl if I have to,” he answers with a sleepy grin.

He makes his way down the steps then turns and waves. “Bye. Love you!” he calls.

I raise my eyebrows. Had a sophisticated middle schooler just told me, his bus driver, that he loved me? His body language tells me that he realizes what he just said. Rather than make it awkward I just smile, wave big, and say “See you later.”

I shut the door and drive on. I know that he is planting a palm slap on his forehead and thinking, “Love you?”

What he doesn’t know is that he made my day. He didn’t just make me laugh; he let me know he comes from an affectionate family where “See ya, Mom,” or “See ya, Dad. Love you!” is so common that it slipped out to his bus driver during a sleepy moment. The world needs more mistakes like that.

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

A Fifth Grade Babe Magnet

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I drive every fifth, sixth, seventh, and eight grader in my little town thirteen miles to school each day. When they all ride, they fill up the bus. These kids are neighbors in town, and very close neighbors on the bus. The fifth graders sit up front. The sixth graders come next. Then there are the seventh graders with the eighth graders in back. How could it be any different?

In the very front passenger side seat, across the aisle from me, sit two fifth grade boys. An angry mother brought them to my attention on the first day of school. That’s why they have the seat of honor.

One of these two boys intrigues me. He’s your basic rural, small town boy. He rides his motorcycle one block to the bus stop. He wears the mandatory farmer’s cap high on his head. He’s blond and has a bright smile that doesn’t quite hide the mischievousness in his blue eyes. He’s healthy, but slightly on the small side. He’s definitely gregarious. He talks loud enough for most on the bus to hear him. That’s no accident. He likes attention.

Outside of the incident that brought him to the “seat of honor,” what caught my attention is that one of the eighth grade girls always bops him on the head with her hand when she passes his seat during loading or unloading. He grins broadly and protects his head as she takes a couple of shots on the way by. It appears to be a game he enjoys. One day the girl walked by without noticing him.

“What? No walloping?” I asked. “You must be having an off day.”

He nodded and looked disappointed. The next day things were back to normal and he got a thumping.

There is another eighth grade girl who just moved into town. She doesn’t know many people yet. She asked if she could sit up front for a couple of days for a reason that wasn’t clear to me. We talked and I got to know her a bit. Before we reached her stop on the second day I heard scuffling and laughter just behind me. I glanced in my mirror to see her wrestling with the fifth grade boy over his hat. These two live on opposite sides of town and don’t know each other. She is three years older than him. Still, he got her attention. It became clear to me that this fifth grade boy is a babe magnet.

Within the next few weeks my suspicious were verified. I pick up the fifth graders at the elementary school before traveling to the junior high school for the rest of the kids. I assigned the boys seats up front and noticed that the girls would sit close to them. There would be a general ruckus on the bus as the boys showed off with loud, boy nonsense talk followed by fake fart contests. For some reason the girls ate this up. They seemed fascinated by the boys. My fair haired fifth grader was the center of attention.

To help contain the ruckus I allowed the boys to sit in the back until we got to the junior high. The next thing I knew, the girls were back there with them. The ruckus continued. I moved the girls to the back and made the boys sit up front. The girls were happy they got to sit in the back until they realized the boys were way up front. I can still see the disappointment on their faces. The distance between them and their star was too great.

My regular bus with the assigned seats broke down. I was assigned a loaner bus. This messed up my seating arrangement for the kids. The other day I looked in my mirror to see my fifth grader sitting between two girls. It’s pretty crowded with three in a seat. Across the aisle was a seat with only one boy in it. My fifth grader was smiling at me.

The next day I saw my fifth grader slip from his seat with his assigned seatmate and try to scoot in with two girls. To their credit they didn’t scoot over for him. To my credit I made sure he went back to his seat and stayed there.

Whatever this fifth grade boy has there are many high school boys who wish they had it. Whatever this fifth grade boy has I wish he didn’t. He’s on my bus for the next three and half years. It’s going to take a special seating assignment each year to keep girlkind safe from him on the way to and from school each day. I’m glad that off the bus he’s not my problem. Of course, he will be somebody’s problem. I’m wondering if I should alert the principal. Oh, well, he probably already knows.

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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: All the Colors of a Bus

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School buses are bright yellow, but inside they are far more colorful.

It’s 6:40 a.m. I pull into the bus compound and begin the walk across the yard to my bus. Korleen is already in there with her bus started. She’s checking her coolant as I pass by. She looks up at me and I ask, “Haven’t we done this before?”

“Seems like it,” she says.

She’s been doing this for eighteen years. This is only my second. I’m enjoying it, but I can’t imagine eighteen years.

At the end of a run I brake to a stop. There is a rattling sound behind me. I look down to see a herd of Peanut M&Ms stampeding to the front: green, yellow, brown, and red. A blue one brings up the rear.

A third grader makes me nervous by getting out of her seat and bringing me up paper snowflakes. Flory does this twice. She’s so sweet (usually) that it’s hard to ask her to stay in her seat. After the run, when I make my required trip to the back of the bus to press the button (or the horn will start honking when I open the door) I see a pile of snowflake-makings six-inches deep on the floor where Flory was sitting. That’s the price of having an arts-and-crafter on board.

Little Leonardo is sleeping in the front passenger seat. He’s a wisp of a kindergartener who speaks English with a strong Spanish accent. He’s leaning into the corner made by the seat and bus wall. When I brake his upper body slides forward until his head hits the soft, padded wall in front of the steps. He is still fast asleep. When I accelerate after the light turns green his upper body slides back into the corner. He doesn’t feel a thing. When his brother wakes him at the dairy he doesn’t know where he is and tries to walk to the back of the bus. When we get him straightened out I make sure he grips both handrails before he descends the steps.

I notice a car if following me on one of the narrow back roads where there is little traffic. Its lights swing around all the corners I turn. The Andersons’ porch light is off meaning the kids won’t be riding today, so I don’t stop. It’s another two miles to my next stop. The usual kids get on there, but I noticed they are straining their necks looking behind the bus as they get on. “Someone else is coming,” Maryn tells me. This is unusual. It turns out to be Arthur. He usually gets on a couple of stops back, but missed the bus this morning. His mother was chasing the bus to get him on. Later that afternoon Arthur sits up front and tells me, “You made my mom swear this morning.” He blushed when he told me this. His mother is a religious woman and swearing is not normal.

“Oh?” I say. Angry parents are a bus driver’s nemesis, so I am very interested.

“When you didn’t stop at the Anderson’s,” he explained.

I understood. She was upset to have to keep chasing me. I told him I would have stopped if I had known who it was, but I had no way of knowing in the dark.

The kids get on at Churchyard Station. Several kids are going on about something stinking and Kara farting. When little Kara, in kindergarten, gets on she stands very close to me and whispers confidentially in my ear, “The kids all say I farted, but really I just stepped in dog poop.”

Far out on the North side I stop at the corner. The sixth grade girl comes out in her striped, rainbow socks with toes. In one hand she carries her tall boots which lace most of the way up to her knees. In the other she carries her books and a pop tart. She walks gingerly across the gravel and climbs the steps. I see her leaning into the aisle lacing her boots up most of rest of the way to school.

A second grader is sitting in the front passenger seat because she feels like talking to me today. She wants to play Truth-or Dare. Truth-or-Dare has bad connotations and I decline. In her innocent way she persists until I agree to give it a try. I choose “truth” on my turns because “dare” just won’t work while driving a bus. She asks me (with a giggle) if I have a girlfriend. “Yes!” I say proudly and tell her my wife’s name. On another turn she asks me (with another giggle) if I have kissed my girlfriend. “You bet,” I tell her. She knows I am talking about my wife. She chooses truth on her turn. I ask her “When was the last time you told your dad you loved him.” She thinks for a moment. She mumbles her answer and seems a little confused. I listen hard and understand that it has been a while. “Oh,” I say, “I’m sure he deserves to hear that more often from you.” She looks at me and smiles a mask-smile and says, “He’s in jail.” I hadn’t expected that. Those three words changed me a little bit. My life is simple and innocent compared to some.

Color is a wonderful thing—bright colors as well as the darker ones. Joseph had his coat of many colors. Michelangelo had his painter’s palette. I have my school bus.

Bus Driver Diaries — Things Seen and Heard

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A bus driver’s life is full of sights and sounds. Some days I wonder if being blind and deaf would make my job easier. Although morning runs are much quieter than afternoon runs, the best part of the day comes in the afternoon. The silence that falls after that last stop comes with a sense of relief akin to sliding into a hot bath after a day in the snow. I sigh audibly and drive back to the bus compound luxuriously relaxed.

Busses will always be noisy if you have very many kids. School kids are social and for most the bus ride is social time. But there is noise and then there is noise. Noise is the sound of fifty to sixty kids talking and laughing. Noise is the sound two boys four seats back screaming like girls. I’m not trying to be disparaging to girls here, but the boys really are screaming like girls—at least that is their goal.

Noise is the little Hispanic boy calling “TOREES! TORYEES” repeatedly until I am forced to answer. My name is Tory, but for some reason that is the way he hears it. I already know what he is going to say. In the all-seeing rear-view mirror I have been watching him poke his face around the edge of his seat again and again while the girl sitting there tries to backhand it like in Whack-A-Mole. She finally got him.

Noise is the continual farting sounds played with mouth against arms that comes from three seats back. I have been known to be entertained by bathroom humor, but these noises go on and on and on until even an aficionado like me can’t stand it anymore. When I finally make them stop the pee and “wiener” talk starts up.

These boys are brother and cousins. The oldest of them, who is nine, loves to bully the younger two who are seven. Bully may be too strong a word for it since the younger two enjoy it as much as the bigger boy. When I pull into the stop in the morning the little boys are attacking the big boy and he is collaring them and pulling them into bear hugs. They have the biggest smiles on their faces. They continue this wrestling on the bus. Finally I had to separate them which was a difficult decision. Why was it a difficult decision? You see, these boys love to sit by each other and wrestle. They are the happiest kids on the bus when they sit together. By separating them I took 80% of the fun factor out of their bus ride. I did separate them, though, and I’ve gotten over the guilt.

The things I see aren’t nearly so bad as what I hear. The worst thing I see is the face of kids getting on or off the bus with attitude. The attitude lasts only as long as they are passing me. We don’t even know each other, but I am the bus driver and an adult and thus their enemy. At least that is all I can figure out why they won’t say hello or goodbye, instead turning their heads away. These are usually middle school or high school kids. Most aren’t this way, but there are a few who always have that annoyed look on their face when they pass me.

One afternoon there were only four or five kids left on the bus. We were heading to the dairy where almost everyone who gets on the bus is a sibling or a cousin. I looked in the mirror to see a boy standing in the back with a tennis shoe in his hand holding it up to the nose of a girl (his cousin). She sniffed it cautiously before making a face and both broke up in laughter. All I know is what I saw on that one.

Sometimes after the dairy there is one little girl left on the bus. She would take exception at being called little. She is a sixth grader going on senior in high school, but she still looks like a little girl. Usually it is just she and I on the bus for the last eight miles. She only rides the bus home half the time. Because of the high seats I can’t see if she is on the bus or not, so after the Dairy Cream Gang gets off she will usually raise her hand and call out casually “I’m here.” On this particular day she called out “We’re here.” She had a friend coming home to play (er, “hang”) with her. About four miles into the back roads to her home I look in the mirror to see four bare feet resting on top of a seat. That was the only sign of them.

Perhaps thinking it would be better to be deaf and blind is taking it too far. If I were deaf and blind I wouldn’t have heard this:

Him: “Tory.”

Me: “Yeah?”

Him: “It’s my birthday.”

Me: “Happy Birthday!”

Him: “But nobody got me anything.”

Me: “That’s sad.”

Him: “Well, they got me a shirt.”

Me: “That a good gift.”

Him: “But it was a dirty shirt.”

At this point I realized the first grader was performing a comedy routine. And then the other day a little gal gave me a post it note telling me I was the best bus driver ever. It’s still stuck to my side window. So maybe it isn’t bad as all that.

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.