The wheels on bus 153 still go round, but without Mr. Bob.
While school resumes this week after an excruciating, long winter break, a familiar face is no longer at the bus stop. Our daughter's bus driver officially took his hands off the big steering wheel and retired. No more flashing red-light mornings for Mr. Bob.
For the past three years, each school season brought new teachers, lockers and excuses to skip math homework. Even the cafeteria hot dogs change up their green-stripe hue.
However, Mr. Bob was such an annual school year constant you could set your watch to him. Through sleet, snow and squirrelly elementary students, he would arrive like clockwork to the subdivision bus stop. In fact, there were several mornings when it was a half-dressed sprint down our driveway to catch the bus.
Over time -- and an idling diesel engine -- I got to know Mr. Bob in 30-second intervals. Our quick conversations covered the usuals: weather, home improvement projects, holiday plans and the lost glove or hat. No philosophical musings; after all, Mr. Bob had a schedule to keep.
Besides, veteran bus drivers know you don't turn your back -- or rearview mirror -- on prisoners or school kids for long.
Speaking of crime and punishment, I discovered during our brief talks that Mr. Bob was a retired police officer. He found out that I work for what some consider a crime against humanity: the newspaper industry.
Naturally I had to ask if patrolling the streets of Detroit prepared his nerves for a bus load of 6-12 year olds -- he just smiled.
After all, bus drivers are expected to safely shepherd a precious, but potentially volatile cargo. Just image the din of a typical family vehicle road trip; now add 50 seat-kickers and 30 more feet to merge in traffic.
While many buses today come with onboard cameras to monitor back seat miscreants, bus 75-3 only came Rick equipped.
As a kid, the bus ride to school was an education all its own. The behemoth bus was packed with school stereotypes: jocks, nerds, bullies, burnouts, mean girls and loners. I sat somewhere in the middle: a stare-out-the-window daydreamer.
Overseeing us all was Rick; although you never saw his eyes. He wore mirrored sunglasses; the kind made for prison guards and bus drivers. You never knew who Rick was looking at when he glanced in the rearview mirror. His blank stare kept the food fights, arm twists and atomic wedgies to a third-grader survival rate.
While Mr. Bob never wore such glasses, he won't need eyes in the back of his head anymore. Nor will he need to set the alarm for those early red, flashing-light mornings.
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