A school bus ride that ended up in the ditch
Published 8:23 am Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I was feeling sorry for myself because I was wearing an itchy stocking cap the color of wilted asparagus.
I was standing at the end of our farm driveway. It was a lonely vigil on a day so windy that had it been summer, people could have water-skied behind a sailboat.
I was waiting for the big yellow-orange school bus made by Blue Bird to whisk me away to school. The smell of a pencil sharpener was a constant in my life.
Ed Reistad, Irvin Armstrong and Pete O’Hara were the bus drivers who transported me to and from school in buses named “Bus Number Something or Another.” I appreciated the drivers and their good work. No child was ever taken to the wrong school or to an incorrect home.
I was one of the first picked up each morning and one of the last let off the bus in the afternoon. It was a long trip to school and an endless ride home.
The bus stopped at the end of our drive with a squeak of brake and a sigh of engine. The door folded open allowing me entry.
The bus hauled an eclectic group — from tots carrying rugs for naptime to surly senior high boys who had lost their driving privileges due to traffic infractions.
I would meet and greet, and find a seat.
After visiting with friends and neighbors, I’d read a book or daydream out the window. There were no cell phones, Game Boys or laptop computers to occupy my time.
The bus drove past children waiting at the ends of driveways for school buses to arrive from one of three other school districts.
We were good kids, those of us who rode Ed’s, Irvin’s and Pete’s buses. We were good, but we weren’t perfect.
During the winter, we received large amounts of snow that occasionally resulted in something called a “snow day.” It was a day off — an extended recess. No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks. Until the next school day.
Sometimes the snow was deep, but school stubbornly continued as though nothing had happened. The administration would send us out on snow-covered roads in the misguided belief that we would still be able to learn something after having a snow day wrested from us.
One morning, every child who rode on Ed’s bus listened intently to a radio as it gave school closings in alphabetical order. The announcer recited a list of schools repeatedly. The list was lengthy but didn’t include our school. We listened with hopes high and fingers crossed. Those with unfinished homework uttered fervent prayers asking for the school to close. Nothing worked. School opened as if it were a balmy day.
It was a morose group that waited at the ends of driveways for Ed and his yellow-orange conveyance to arrive.
We knew that Ed wasn’t to blame. We suspected that he would want the day off as much as we did. Even grown-ups liked recess. We knew it wasn’t his fault, but we couldn’t help but blame him. He was part of the establishment. He was working for the man.
Ed could be cheerful, but after seeing one forlorn face after another get on the bus and listening to our moping comments, he grew ill-tempered. The less-than-perfect road conditions added to his irritability.
There was one farm place where Ed drove into the driveway and then backed out. It was the Donovan place. An abundance of snow had accumulated there compliments of a generous wind.
Ed opened the door. More cranky children entered the wheeled instrument of torture. Ed began the tricky process of backing out on an icy and snowy surface. His mirrors weren’t up to the task.
Ed stopped the bus and hollered to the malcontents in the back. These were the boys playing poker in the rear seats because it took their minds off the driver’s licenses they used to have before being ticketed unfairly by a not very understanding police officer. It wasn’t easy playing cards in the seats that hung so far behind the rear wheels that the players bounced like basketballs. They were of the sort who would have enjoyed school much more had smoking and spitting been encouraged.
“Let me know when I come to the edge of the road!” ordered Ed.
There was a grunt in reply.
Ed resumed the process of backing up the big vehicle.
“Keep coming,” and “You’re OK,” came the remarkably enthusiastic instructions from the rear.
The boys backed Ed right into the ditch.
We made it to school, but we were late. It takes time to get a bus out of a ditch.
I arrived at school with a Saturday smile.
Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.