The School Bus Business

It was 1947. Dad wasn't feeling well, queasy enough in fact that he actually took time off one afternoon to visit Dr. Pearson.

Here's my reconstruction.

"I just don't have any energy," Dad told the doctor. "I am tired all the time. In fact, I'm so tired I haven't been able to get my work done."

Dr. Pearson and his wife Marie lived right next door to us on Seventh Street in Fort Lupton. Thus, Dr. Pearson knew more about us than about some of his other patients. It had been Dr. Pearson who made the diagnosis when I contracted infantile paralysis.

So kindly old Dr. Pearson thought about Dad's complaint for a few moments and replied: "Loyd, you're working seven days a week. Most days, you work 12 hours or more.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you except fatigue. So here's what I want you to do.

"Every day, for one hour in the morning and one hour in the afternoon, I want you to rest. Don't work, just rest. Do this for a couple of weeks and if you don't feel better, come back and see me again."

So Dad tried for a few days to follow the doctor's orders. It just didn't work with Dad. Stop work in the middle of something? There was just too much to be done. After a while, he hit on a plan.

He bought a school bus.

He got hired on as a bus contractor with the Fort Lupton School District. Get it? One hour in the morning, one hour in the afternoon. Dad thought of driving the bus as "rest." He'd be sitting down, after all. He figured he might as well get paid for resting.

That obviously leaves out the "work" of operating a bus – the maintenance and cleaning; the flat tires; tending to the politics of the contract; tending to other people's children; obtaining fuel in quantity and at a good price when the only reasonable supplier of gasoline was also a bus contractor.

But. Dad didn't go back to the doctor, because the fatigue abated.

The presence of the bus in his life and in ours added a whole new dimension.

At Christmas time, the bus would haul a whole load of families south to Larkspur where the Counter family owned a pine-tree-filled ranch. The trip to Larkspur was fairly easy because there was lots of room. Coming back, the rear of the bus would be full of Christmas trees, so we'd all scrunch into the front four or five rows of seats. But oh what fun.

Dad bought a brand-new bus in 1954, and for the summer of 1955, he took the seats out and built one of the first modern motor homes.

The four of us travelled in a huge circle that summer, visiting relatives and tourist sites from Mexico to Canada. When the trip was over, he took the beds and appliances out and put the seats back in for school duty.

When the doctors caring for me recommended that I be taught swimming to exercise my heart, lungs and body, Dad once again thought of the school bus. He invented the Cub Scout swimming program, transporting me and a dozen other boys to Fitzsimmons Army Hospital where there was a beautiful pool and expert instruction available.

Later on, I became a school bus driver myself – at age 17. My younger brother followed in our footsteps. Both Dick and I used our experiences to find jobs elsewhere. Dick was a bus driver in Boulder for a time, and used the "chauffeur's license" to qualify as a paid driver in other circumstances.

In the late 70's when times were pretty tough for me in Idaho, I got a job as a school bus driver for the Pocatello School District. Saved my life, really.

Today, Dick retains something of a bus fixation, and is the owner of two – count 'em two – mid-fifties Flxible brand over-the-road buses. One bus is decked out as a motor home, and the other seems to be a hot rod for occasional use. As a hobby, Dick goes to conventions attended by other Flxible owners. He's a bus freak.

Me? I am right there with him. I don't own a school bus but I do own a 1956 Ford F-600 truck which is identical in many ways to the 1954 bus of Dad's. It has the same engine, transmission, two-speed axle and dual rear wheels. I'm an old truck freak.

I'd have to say, "Thanks Dr. Pearson." Thanks doctor, for being our neighbor, Dad's friend, and for the prescription which set us up for a life of vocation and avocation.

And thanks, Dad, for figuring out how to rest two hours a day and get paid for it.

The Little Ones are Watching

Are you afraid of your grandchildren? Lots of people are; observe and believe.

At breakfast one sunny Sunday morning after Mass, a group seated next to us will serve as case in point.

Two older women, perhaps in their sixties, and two children were there. "Gramma" and her sister were hosting two boys, one about eight and one about 10.

If he didn't get what he wanted exactly when he wanted it, the younger boy would pitch a fit. He would throw himself off his chair onto the floor. He would let out a high-pitched scream worthy of the most vociferous little girl.

This behavior never let up. Gramma and Auntie did their best to accommodate the little curtain-climber. If he wanted Gramma's toast, or if he wanted to rifle through Auntie's purse, both women rushed to assist him. Occasionally, he would vent his ire on his older brother, pinching, punching, pushing. The older boy was stoic – perhaps afraid of the brat himself.

Either these women didn't know children can be disciplined or they were afraid of what the child might do if he didn't get his way.

You see this all the time. Grampa and Gramma take the grandkids for a vacation in the motor home. The kids are in charge, telling Gramps where to park, telling Gramma that the Sno-Cone will be served "right now."

A favorite trick is for the grandchild to "run off" and giggle at Grampa's feeble effort to catch it.

I have four children of my own. They have four children of their own. My grandson has two children of his own.

I am not afraid of my children, my grandchildren, or my great-grandchildren. Perhaps this is why I see them so seldom.

When it became obvious that I would be a grandparent one day, I looked forward to it. I had Grampa Hodge and Grampa Randleman as my role models. I wanted to be a grampa. It was a potential stewardship role that I longed to play. I'm ready to deal with my progeny. I don't think they're ready for me.

Que sera sera.

Word of the Week:

Delusion. A false belief or opinion, a persistent belief not substantiated by sensory evidence. It is a psychological condition which doesn't work well for motorcyclists. Crash.

Next week's word:

Husbandry.

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