Tag Archives: school bus

Sleeping With the Dead Cats

He’s strange boy. Just enough to take him out of the running of every being “cool” or “popular.” Well, maybe a little more strange than that. He’s the kind of boy that can be purposefully annoying. Sometimes he would get on the bus and make “cat fight” noises—repeatedly. He’d stop when I asked him too, but it wasn’t easy for him. Other kids avoided him. That didn’t appear to make him feel bad. He was always full of energy and expression.

A couple of years ago I went to a fathers and sons outing one evening. John happened to be there with his father. I took the opportunity to speak with his father and become acquainted. He was a little reserved, but friendly overall. He was returning to school and working on a degree that would give him good prospects. He clearly loved his son even as he watched him doing somersaults on the lawn while making weird noises.

A few months later John was sitting near the front. He wore his usual air of nonchalance as we chatted.

“How’s your father?” I asked.

“He’s in the hospital,” John said.

Surprised, I asked him what was wrong.

“He tried to kill himself.”

John told me this in the same manner he might tell me about the cartoons he watched on Saturday. It was totally possible that he was making it all up. A slight hesitation in his voice, and a detail he threw out, suggested that just maybe he was telling me the truth. I told I was sorry and didn’t pursue it anymore.

Weeks later I inquired if his father was back on his feet. John said, “Sure,” and acted like nothing had happened at all. I was happy to hear that.

A year later John had changed schools. I was picking him up at a different stop. He was that same John, older, but still a little loud and annoying. Once again he sat behind me. I wondered if his Dad had finished school yet.

“He’s sleeping with the dead cats,” he said.

“What was that?” I asked. I didn’t understand the reference.

“He’s dead.” He told me this simply, flatly as if telling me the weather is a little cooler today.

I was speechless for a moment. His manner suggested nothing was wrong. His words told me everything was wrong. I just couldn’t tell if he was telling me the truth.

“What happened?” I chanced.

“He was sick for a long time and didn’t wake up one morning.”

I was searching for any signs of pain or discomfort on the subject so I would know what to say or to say nothing at all. I got nothing from him. I asked a couple more questions and found out it had just happened. They were still trying to figure out which cemetery to bury him in.

As before, his manner through me off completely. I had heard no news of this through the bus or community grapevine, but again he threw out a couple of details that indirectly confirmed what he was saying. This was devastating news, yet he was completely self-composed.

I told him how I had lost my dad a year before. My dad was old and ready to die. He had lived a good life and he and I had no regrets between us. I knew he was going to die any day. I thought I was ready. When the call came I was surprised when I cried for an hour straight.

I don’t know if this story was helpful or annoying to him. When I finished telling it he nodded and simply said, “Uh huh.”

I learned I had his little sister on the bus the other day when I heard someone making loud, repetitive cow noises. When the kids pointed her out I realized there was a resemblance to John. I asked her and she confirmed my suspicion. She sat near me today and I chanced a question about her father’s health. She was confused by my question, but then she brightly told me her dad was fine and running a business. Well, that helps me understand John a little better.

John’s still on my bus and still the same John. I’m not quite the same bus driver, though. Anymore I see John as more than the slightly annoying kid. In fact because of John I see all the kids at slightly more than face value. It’s not like I fully understand what I’m seeing. It’s just that I have a sense of the existence of the untold stories behind their sometimes moody, often emotionless faces.

I’ve come to realize that if you apply a single label to a child you are doing him and yourself a disservice. Every student who rides my bus is far more than what I see. This knowledge doesn’t make driving a bus any easier, but it does make it more meaningful. I’m not angry at John for deceiving me; I’m happy he still has a father.

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

Bus Driver Diaries: Where’s the Pee?

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In the afternoons my first job is to pick up about seventy elementary students. They come running—sometimes screaming—to the bus. As a bus driver you have to be up for this. I deliver all but about ten of them in two stops: Blessed Happy Stop Number One and then Happy Stop Number Two. I call out these names each afternoon over the intercom. I’m pretty sure the kids don’t know that I named the stops for how I feel about them getting off, not how they feel getting off.

Next I stop at the high school and junior high school where I pick up fifty or so secondary students. Most of these are on for a fairly short ride of no more than three miles in three stops: Turkey Trot Stop, Red Cliffs Twice, and finally Grand Central Station.

At this point I am down to those ten elementary students and a four or five secondary students. We head out into the country where we travel back and forth on country roads another twenty-five miles to deliver the rest. The bus is normally much quieter at this point and the ride isn’t unpleasant.

A couple of weeks ago the “country” kids were singing and laughing and making a bit of a ruckus. One of them decided that we should take turns telling jokes. I suffered through some long, badly told jokes that, to tell you the truth, I really didn’t understand. I prepared for my turn. I’ve heard thousands of jokes in my half century of life, but of course I can’t think of a one when others are waiting. Just in time I dug up a joke I learned as a kid, probably on a bus.

Little Jimmy needs to use the bathroom. He asks the teacher for permission while doing his bouncy “really have to go” dance. The teacher is very strict and makes Jimmy recite the ABC’s first. He sings the Alphabet Song leaving out the “p”—“. . . l, m, n, o, . . . q, r, s . . .” and so forth. “Very good Jimmy,” says the teacher, “but what happened to the P?” Jimmy responds, “It’s running down my leg.”

The joke was a big hit. After all, the joke had “pee” in it and my audience was mostly fourth and fifth grade boys. Unfortunately it was too big of a hit. It’s been two weeks and Fall Break and the kids still retell this joke every day about the time we hit the country. Today the boys, joined by the girls, sang it with real feeling.

I overheard one of the boys tell the others that his teacher had told him, “That’s not an appropriate joke.” Great, I thought. I have to remember that what’s spoken on the bus doesn’t stay on the bus. The next day another boy improved the joke. When asked where the P is Jimmy says, “It’s running down my left leg.” The boy explains that it’s funnier when it’s the left leg.

I never planned on being a bus driver. Who knew that bus driving would lead to a career as a comedian? Being a comedian isn’t so hard, especially on Bus 13. You only have to tell one joke, and only tell it once, and they laugh forever.

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

Bus Driver Diaries: We Still Play Our Games

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

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

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

Lucky Seat Number

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

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

State Capitals

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion

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

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

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:

A Perfect Activity Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

Bus Driver Diaries: Breamly Smiles

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Breamly moved,” he said.

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

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

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

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

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat

Bus Driver Diaries: 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 – The Honeymoon Is Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.