Tales from Exit 22, By Al Batt

Well, Donner my Blitzen!

It happens every year. The year ends. I’m sure some crackpot carrying a hand-lettered sign tried to warn us.

The good news is that we’re given another year.

As a child, I’d shouted out with glee when the Christmas vacation had begun. It was an extended recess.

I might have moaned and groaned when the vacation ended, and we started the new year in an old way with school.

I was a faithful listener to the school closing announcements on the radio. My fervent hope was for a snow day. I even listened with fingers crossed for snow days in May. I was a hopeful child.

Back when I was a spitting image of myself, I rode the school bus to and from a fine institute of learning. School was a side effect of riding a school bus. I rode five days a week when pupils were in season. Deja vu all over again. Riding that bus is a persistent memory. I’ve thought often that holding a school bus reunion would be a fine and proper thing to do, but all I’ve ever done is think about it.

Our bus driver was a good guy just doing his job. He seemed ancient by our standards, but he was a safe driver. That’s why he was the man for the job. He ran a business that had a pop machine posted as a sentry outside its door. That pop machine took money without giving pop in return. He thought of putting an “Out of order” sign on it, but he needed the money. That need of moola is likely the reason he became a bus driver.

The bus, manufactured by the Blue Bird Corporation, was school bus yellow in color and held more passengers than wanted to be held. The bus had no airbags, no blaring music, no seat belts or reclining seats. There were rumors of heat, but no child had ever experienced that luxury. We didn’t think about how things could be better. We didn’t think they could be.

Off to school we went, subdued and solemn. If we were thrilled or excited to go to school, we hid the fact for fear of being seen as a weirdo. We were as happy as clams when headed home. That was true even though none of us knew a single happy clam.

We chewed gum as if it were a weapon. We needed to chew it into submission before getting to school where gum was strictly forbidden, unless you were a teacher.

We lugged lots of paperwork. Textbooks, homework and paper airplanes. We didn’t have any digital devices that we could use to ignore others on the bus. Transistor radios occasionally made an appearance, but were seen as evidence of conspicuous consumption. Flaunting wealth was frowned upon. When I didn’t want to be bothered, I’d shut my eyes and think about the Three Stooges — Larry, Curly and Moe. I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to get poked in them. Sometimes, I sang the alphabet song in my mind, did fractions on my fingers or counted birds out the window. I did homework occasionally. The bus was a bad place to do homework. The bumpy roads made even the best penmanship look as if someone who was on fire had written it.

The driver kept an eye on a rearview mirror to make sure we were safely seated and shenanigan-free. He wasn’t looking into a hobgoblin’s mirror where he’d see ugliness where there was beauty. What he saw were kids up to something. We squirmed like worms in hot ashes under his vigilance. Some drivers punished misbehaving kids by making them sit on five-gallon buckets or large coffee cans. Our driver figured sitting on the uncomfortable bus seats was punishment enough.

We never said “namaste” to one another, but we were relatively well behaved. Probably because we were under constant surveillance.

Namaste is a Hindu’s expression used as a polite or respectful greeting or farewell. We didn’t know that. We didn’t know most things. We didn’t even suspect most things. We weren’t sure how we felt about anything because emojis hadn’t been invented yet.

Since those days, I’ve been a leader or tour guide on countless bus trips. I’ve been a passenger on many others.

I’ve made a wonderful discovery.

I like buses.

But I loved that old school bus.

Happy New Year. May it be a comfortable ride with just enough bumps to keep it interesting.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.