First Words
The school buses are back on the road, wending their way along their rural routes, picking up kids and their backpacks.
In my day, we didn’t have backpacks; we climbed on the bus with our books on our hips. And once you stepped onto the bus, the older boys headed to the back and the shy kids gravitated to the front. Our bus drivers were colourful characters who came and went – some smoked, a few drank, one had a nervous breakdown, and his wife had to take over. She must have been 75 – maybe older. One foggy morning, she stalled in the middle of a busy highway intersection. From the back, a chorus of boys heckled, “Grandma, we’ll all be killed.” But out of the cacophony emerged one of the older boys who casually walked up to the driver’s seat and told the old gal that he would take over. An uneasy hush filled the bus as we waited for him to fire up the engine. When the bus finally lurched forward, we all cheered.
I recently asked a friend if he recalled the incident. He raised his eyebrow and fired back, “Do you remember when one of the Walsh brothers drove the bus home because the driver didn’t show on account of he was drunk? Walsh had to get home to milk the cows so he drove the bus to his place – but when he pulled up to the farm, he turned around to the rest of us and said, ‘It’s yours now, take her from here.’”
My friend and I both started to laugh. Who would believe these stories? We kept laughing and then he turned to me and asked, “Remember that other foggy morning when we missed the stop at the T-intersection and ran into the barn?”
How times have changed. But memories aside, when I watch kids load on the bus on misty fall mornings, backpacks bouncing and filled with anticipation, I can’t help but smile.