Bus Driver Diaries — Like a Scolding from Someone Who Loves You

I woke up the other morning to five inches of snow. More snow was falling. It was just about six a.m. when I pulled out of my driveway. The street had not yet been plowed. There was one set of tire tracks in the snow. I m pretty sure they were made by the other bus driver heading into town. She always leaves just before I do. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself having to get up at five a.m. so I have time to get ready and travel into town to inspect and warm up my bus. The freshly fallen snow told me a story I wasn t aware of. Along with that first set of tire tracks I saw tracks coming from the driveways of four more houses. They had all left before me. So much for my pity-fest.

My Cummings diesel engine growled from behind as I pulled out of the bus compound at 6:50. There are houses across the street still dark in sleep. I figure they are accustomed to the routine and sleep through the morning exodus of buses. Perhaps they use the sound of my engine and the flash of my headlights across their bedroom windows as an alarm clock.

I pick up my first stop of fifteen kids at the edge of town. Everything from kindergartners to high school seniors get on at this stop. At least one kindergartner will trip on the second step.

Watch yourself, I say.

Generally there is no response, it s so routine. They just file silently past me into the dark seats beyond.

Merry Christmas, I say to a tall high school boy as he climbs in. He actually managed a grin at this.

It s just two blocks when I reach the train tracks. On go the emergency flashers. I open my window, pop the parking brake and open the door. I press the noise canceller and all the blowers on the bus turn off. The morning murmurings of the kids die with the blowers. I like to think they are helping me listen for trains, but I think they are only embarrassed to have their voices heard in the sudden silence. When I let go of the button the blowers kick back on and the murmurings begin again.

Once I enter the country all color leaves. It is black above and white below. The snow is falling heavily, but it isn t an angry storm. As storms go it s gentler than angry more of a scolding from someone who loves you. The narrow road is nowhere to be seen. The snow is level from the field on the right to the field on the left. There are fence lines on both sides of where the road hides. I place the bus right in the middle and drive on faith. At the next house the three of the four siblings are wearing Davy Crockett style raccoon hats. Furry tails trail down their necks and disappear behind their coat collars.

Tory! Tory! The little girl with the raccoon hat calls me from two seats back. She asks me if I like raccoon hats. I tell her I used to watch the Davy Crockett show on TV when I was a kid. She moves to the seat behind mine and tries to put her hat on me. Your head is too big, she says. She tells me about her mom petting her dad s hair during morning prayer. He said, I don t even have my Crockett hat on, she tells me.

I drive down the airport road watching the big flakes of snow arc into the oversize windshield.  I am making the first tracks on this road. Telephone poles on each side of the road give me my bearings.  As two poles pass by me two more appear up ahead standing solid against the moving snow. Eventually I see the lights of the home that is my next stop. I squint and see three shadows moving up the driveway toward the road. Clusters of flakes lay on their hair like lace when they board. They are not unhappy about the snow. I drive five miles to pick up one elementary girl. She walks slowly down her driveway and across the road much more slowly than usual. She seems to be floating with the falling flakes. I see her mind is elsewhere as she boards.

After dropping off the high schoolers I make my last elementary pickup in front of a church. One of the kids tells me that three of the others still haven t picked up their rocks that they threw in the church parking lot the day before. I call them up to the front and tell them to go put their rocks back. They obey without even a roll of the eyes. Three other boys ask if they can help. It s a chance to stretch their legs and get out in the snow.  In thirty seconds they have the landscaping rocks back where they belong and we are driving to their school.

We are late arriving at the school due to the snow. Four girls get off after all the rest. While the others form a ragged line making its way toward the school doors these girls stop to play. They don t seem to be aware that they are late. One girl puts snow in her mouth to eat. A second kicks snow at the others. The third girl, the one with the brown eyes and freckles, bends over trying to escape the snow in the fourth girl s hand aimed at her neck. She is laughing and waves to me as the bus doors close. Today there will be atrocities and horrors committed around the world, I know.  But the beauty of this morning will be every bit as real and even more lasting.