Those Incredible Drivers (from My Bus Stories collection)

I have the greatest respect for Metropolitan Transit drivers. A good bus driver is worth his weight in gold. To paraphrase the unofficial postal creed, he delivers his passengers to their destinations and ‘neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’ Not to mention safely maneuvering a 35 foot long vehicle in and out of traffic all the while putting up with bus babble and the inevitable nut job or two that come aboard.

But, I imagine the route must be a bit boring. The MT driver goes from point A to point B and back to point A, to start all over until he’s done with his shift. Like being on a treadmill or a giant gerbil wheel, back and forth and round and round, the ending becoming the beginning over and over, reminiscent of ‘Groundhog Day’ or an existential novel. We passengers can at least get off the treadmill and take a sharp left or right, convincing ourselves that we have varied the daily trip.

Bus drivers come in all sizes and genders. One I know, always wears white gloves, and I can’t help but think of Mickey Mouse when I see him. One wears a short sleeve shirt even in winter, perhaps to show off those impressive tattoos on both forearms and I keep picturing him in a sailor suit. One is roundy and smiley with kind eyes and has that peculiar beard stubble some men adopt. How do they keep stubble that length? Either you shave or you don’t shave and if you don’t shave, it grows. Not stubble. It just remains stubbly. How do they do that? He has a time share in Hawaii where he and Mrs. Stubbly vacation twice a year. He probably endures the tedium and babble stress by silently repeating his mantra of Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!

One driver has an upswept hairdo, dangly earrings and perfectly applied makeup with long false eyelashes. She doesn’t take crap from anybody. I picture her growing up in a large family of older brothers and having to fend for herself at an early age. She’s the proverbial tough cookie with the heart of gold.

There were just a few of us left on the bus as we neared the end of the route one evening. As we came to the second to last stop, she quietly presented a big jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to one of her regular homeless riders advising him of all the protein in peanut butter and that he needed to keep up his strength. He left the bus thanking her over and over and calling her ‘sweet angel, sweet angel.’

Good bus drivers recognize the regulars, but treat all passengers with the same courtesy. Good bus drivers wait for that patron running, running to make this stop. Good bus drivers let you ride today without paying because you’ve somehow lost your pass and don’t have the right fare. Good bus drivers trust you when you say you’ll pay twice tomorrow. And the exceptional bus driver buys peanut butter and bread for a person in need.

My Mother’s Fur Coat

My mother’s mink coat smelled of her perfume, cold winter air and glamour as she bent down to kiss me goodnight before leaving with my dad for an evening out. They were going to Murray’s Steak House in downtown Minneapolis for filet mignon and brandy Manhattans straight up with a cherry.

Having a fur coat in the 1940s was the ultimate in elegance while serving the practical purpose of keeping you incredibly warm. This was before PETA, when a fur coat was a status symbol. It said you were a woman of substance.

My mother wore hers on those exciting nights out and on winter days taking the streetcar for shopping. In the 1940s, you dressed up to go shopping. I went on the shopping excursions and would have worn my best winter outfit of a red wool coat, matching wool leggings and a red bonnet. I clearly remember the streetcar tokens: about the size of a dime with a square in the middle and half-circle cutouts around the square. I loved the sound they made as they whirled and clicked to the bottom of the fare box.

Maybe we were going shopping when the picture of me and my mother was taken in 1947. I would have been two. We would have walked to the streetcar stop. On the way home, I was understandably tired from trailing after my mother all afternoon. I did what any reasonable two-year-old would do. I turned to her imploring, “Uppy Mommy, uppy.” I wanted to be carried. But her arms were full of packages. New clothes? Household necessities? Food? “I can’t carry you, Pammie. You’re going to have to walk.” And I did. I had to. I don’t remember crying. It’s just the way things were.

I’m not sure if I remember the actual incident or if I remember my mother telling me about it. In any case, that story immediately came to mind after I heard my grown daughter’s practically identical tale. Her own daughter was at the time about two. Bundled in winter snow gear, mittens and scarves, traveling from the back door of the house to the detached garage, my daughter’s arms were full of the daily necessities for daycare drop-off and work. My little granddaughter turned around to her mother reaching up her arms as if to say, ‘pick me up.’ “I can’t carry you, Claudia. You’re mobile. You have to walk.” And she did. You do what you have to do.