Tag Archives: school

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:

The Little Princess On Bus 13

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My route begins in a very small town. At the last census the population came in at around 900 people. It’s so small there are no schools. The kids in town are bused to the big city nearby. It has a population of 6000. You have to be careful of getting lost in the crowds around here.

Even with the small population three buses leave this small town each morning chock full of kids. I criss cross my way through the town to the nine different stops. Finally I make a left turn onto the highway and we start our thirteen mile descent to the neighboring town.

It takes about fifteen minutes to make the drive. With all the pent up energy on the bus the minutes don’t go by very quickly. The view has a beauty of its own, but when you’ve driven it a thousand times it doesn’t keep your attention as strongly. As a bus driver you stare at the road, then glance up into the mirror to see what everyone is up to, then stare at the road, then back up into the mirror, mile after mile, morning after morning. You get the picture.

This morning I found myself telling a story. I picked a likely fifth grade student in the first seat and called out his name. Usually that’s a sign that they are doing something they shouldn’t, so the boy looks up defensively. He’s a little confused when I tell him I’ve been reading a book.

Without any preamble I tell him the book is called The Little Princess. The title loses his interest and he goes back to his phone. Since he isn’t wearing any earphones I continue. I begin speaking aloud the story of the rich little girl whose father leaves her at a boarding school in 19^th century London. Her father is a good man and buys her everything she could possibly want. All she really wants is to be with her father. Somehow the rich clothes, carriage, and toys don’t spoil her. She’s intelligent, kind, and thoughtful. The other girls sense something special about her. One is jealous, the others are intrigued. The headmistress, a sham of a woman, secretly disdains her, but treats her well-enough to keep the father’s patronage.

When I glance up into my mirror I’m surprised to see the boy is listening to the story. That makes me happy. I go on to tell him about the girl’s father losing all his money and dying. The headmistress’s disdain comes out in the open and the destitute girl finds herself used as a servant and treated like a beggar. In spite of the fact that she is slowly starving to death the girl maintains her composure and acts with dignity, like a little princess.

By the time we reach town I am to the point in the story where the girl wakes in the night to see that her freezing attic room has been transformed by a fire in the grate, food on the table, blankets on her bed. When I glance up into the mirror I am amazed to see all the kids back to the sixth row listening intently to my story. That’s the fifth, sixth, and some of the seventh graders. I feel like pumping my arm in joy. I refrain.

These are good kids, but not angels. I’ve tried to tell stories before, and when I glanced into the mirror saw that not a one was listening to me. That’s why this morning was so special.

Once I reach town I have to stop the story to concentrate on traffic. The disappointment I feel behind me is kind of sweet. Like most jobs, some days being a bus driver are better than other days. Today was a good day.

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

If My School Bus Route Were a Woman

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If my bus routes were women my date last year was a woman who liked reading books in the park and taking long walks on the beach. She might surprise you with a water balloon sneak attack on a hot day, but not often enough to make you nervous.

My afternoon bus route last year consisted mainly of picking up a large load of kids and dropping them off relatively in town. By the time I left town I would only have ten to fifteen kids, depending on the day. My route then meandered on long country roads through alfalfa fields and past grazing cows who may or may not have looked up when I honked at them. Many of the kids would move up near me to chat. It was a pleasant route to end the day.

My date this year is a woman who is pretty enough, but high maintenance. She wants to spend a lot of time with me, which is pleasant, flattering even. She can dance like no other and has great taste in clothes. It’s just that I better pay attention to the hidden meanings in her conversation. Oh, and don’t not notice that she had her hair done. Time with her is exciting, but fatiguing.

Unlike last year’s route, where I picked up big loads and got rid of them quickly, except for the few with whom I meandered through the countryside, this year I pick up one large load and we are together for sixteen long miles. The difference is like taking your wife and child out to dinner at a quiet restaurant four blocks away versus loading your wife and eight kids into a van and driving across the country on a family vacation. It’s an entirely different commitment level.

It takes a while to load fifty to sixty middle school students. They have seating assignments, but I gave up on trying to enforce them within a couple of weeks. Once the chaos of seating is over I get the bus rolling. I cruise at about 5 mph through the circus of the school grounds. There are other buses coming and going, kids crossing the bus lanes in and out of the crosswalks, and new sixteen year old drivers trying to force their parent’s cars into the driveway between the buses.

It’s not until I exit school property and turn onto the city street that I begin to feel the pressure of all those kids behind me. I can feel their energy pressing at the walls of the bus, pushing me toward the windshield. It’s just potential energy, but it could ignite at any moment.

I have a short stint on the Interstate before I exit. At the exit I turn onto a highway that will take me up over the ridge to the small town where these kids live. This is the point of no return. If I were in The Matrix this is the scene where I have to choose between the red pill and the blue pill. Once I make the turn there is no turning back.

I’m speaking quite literally. Highway 28 is well-enough maintained, but it’s just two lanes with no shoulder and no turnouts. Just a few feet to my left semi-trucks come roaring by at 70 mph. Just a few feet to my right is the edge of the road with an incline that will roll the bus should drift that way. If the bus breaks down I’m stopped in my lane with 65 kids, worrying about being rear-ended.

On the highway the kids have an advantage over me. I have nowhere to stop to correct behavior problems that may arise. In such a narrow lane I can hardly glance in my mirror to see what’s going on in the back of the bus. If the kids ever understood the bad situation I am in on the highway I could be in real trouble. Bus drivers have State secrets.

When I commit to the highway I focus on the road. The kids behind me are talking, laughing, teasing, yelling. I’ll check my mirror briefly at times. Usually I see a kind of motion among the seats, like choppy seas, although most students stay out of the aisle like I demand. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of hat being stolen from behind and a kid turning to pursue it. Other times I detect a basketball arcing across the aisle. I can get on the intercom and address these issues verbally. So far that’s been enough.

When I top the ridge I can see our little town sitting like a green splotch amid the miles of yellow grasses. It’s just five miles away. Did I say “just”? There’s the saying, “so close, yet so far away.” There is wanting to buy a hamburger, but being a dollar short. There is needing to use the toilet, but somebody beat you into the stall, and you can tell they are sitting there browsing on their phone.

As I feel the energy in the bus growing (I see somebody hop seats) the miles become longer. The bus is moving in slow motion. I hold out my hand and reach, but town ignores me and looks the other way (“Tory, Bart is swearing”). Oh, just let me make it to town one more time.

Finally I reach the sign telling me of the lower speed limit ahead. I slow down to 35 mph as I reach the park. I make a right turn, two blocks, and then a left. Half a block later I stop and open the door. As the first large group of kids get off the pressure is released. The bomb is defused. The world isn’t going to end after all. I will hear the birds sing tomorrow.

I actually like driving bus. Believe it or not, I enjoy getting to know the kids. Many of them are pleasant, and some are downright polite. But to get to the enjoyment part you have to be able to deal with the pressure. The pressure is real . . . especially during that last five miles.

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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: We Still Play Our Games

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

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

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

Lucky Seat Number

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

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

State Capitals

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion

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

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

Driving the Amusement Park

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Girl on the Bus: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bus Driver Diaries: Breamly Smiles

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Breamly moved,” he said.

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

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

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

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

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

Bus Driver Diaries: Just Follow Me

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Just Follow Me

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

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

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

“We’ll just follow you,” one said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I agreed.

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

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat