Kindness on the 107.

On this second to the last day of school, I'm driving my son to class, and  I am tempted to chase down that creepy bus driver who always

drives up the right side berm of the road

to illegally pass traffic

through a stop light into oncoming traffic

in his bus full of kids...

I've called the bus company and complained, but there he is looking like he was able to find his crack pipe this morning but not his comb, razor or bath.

The changing face of the school bus driver is disturbing, more and more look like newly paroled vitamin B deficient headphone wearing creepy crawlers.
 
My childhood was filled with the typical bus driver of the baby boomer children era...the farmer.

That's right, the local farmer...he worked over the fall and winter for extra money by driving school buses, the early morning hours fit his work schedule just right, plus he had the summer off to tend to his fields.

He was handy at fixing buses if they broke down, he knew how to fix and drive trucks, tractors, combines and cars, right? He knew how to maneuver those behemoths through traffic with a sense of the value of his cargo.

Our bus driver was Mr.Lehman...he had a farm and the school kids would visit it once a year and learn about farmlife...his wife would serve us lunch with all things from the farm...fresh churned butter, milk from the cows, eggs from the chickens, then we'd run about the farm and some boy always had to find a snake and terrorize the girls.

Mr. Lehman was my bus driver all my days at grade school, he drove Bus 107...and when the new fangled flat nose buses came out, (cutting edge in 1967)  there was only one for our school available..a bright yellow and black shiny one went to Mr. Lehman.
We rode it with flat nosed  pride..it was the coolest bus in the whole school district and it was ours!

Some Fridays, he would make an "unauthorized" stop at the nearby Dairy Queen on the way home.
We were the last 6 or so kids on the bus, and the  Dairy Queen , as in all kid's dreams,  was at the top of our hill.
Our parents would send us with extra ice cream money on Fridays...it felt like gold in our pockets. We would sit on the benches in the sun and eat our Dilly bars, then climb back on the bus and head home all sugared up for the weekend.

He knew us all by name and his signature send off was "Toodle-oo".

I felt safe and completely at ease on Mr. Lehman's 107.

He knew us, our patterns, our moods, if someone was not on the bus he was aware of it, he counted heads like a hen counts chicks.

On one particular tough day for me, I was feeling the weight of my small world and being uncharacteristically silent on the ride  home... and it didn't go unnoticed.

When my stop came up,  Mr Lehman looked directly at me and asked if I was alright.

Before I could answer, my daily torturer, older mean girl, Debbie K, perched in the back yelled, "Her parents are gettin' a divorce, everybody knows her Dad moved out!" and she laughed a big Ha Ha...

My eyes filled up with tears and Mr. Lehman's face fell in such a sad look that I remember it vividly 46 years later as I write this.

Remember now, divorce in 1967 in a small town,was not all that common...I was the only kid in my grade school whose parents were divorcing...and it was fodder for bullies.

I stood straight up, shoulders back, and declared  in a voice edged with fake cheeriness that everything was fine, just fine, and shot a defiant glare back at Debbie K,

and so did Mr. Lehman.

His stare was so loaded with disapproval, it silenced her ... she looked at the floor, glancing up slightly to see the whole bus staring back at her in silent chorus, the low rumble of the engine provided a  soundtrack.

Mr. Lehman turned back and winked at me and said "You are stronger than you know, look how tall you got right there...you ARE gonna be fine, just fine, now  Toodle-oo Sweetheart!"

and with that, he cranked opened the door and I was off like a shot.

My walk up the driveway was a victorious and tall one, Mr. Lehman had been my champion and I stood up to Debbie K., and for the first time, in a long while, I felt like I was going to be just fine...I'll survive my parents divorce and any bully who feels the need to broadcast it.

It was assuring to know that there were good  people around, like Mr. Lehman, looking out for the tender heart of a 10 year kid feeling the hurt of her family's demise. Anyone who would mock that was gonna get the stare down on the 107.

It's a shame that the farmers are disappearing from our local landscapes and our school buses.

It's also a shame that many of our kids will never know a bus driver like Mr. Lehman...I'm sure there are some great drivers out there, but lately, what I see is not encouraging.

So I thank God for my childhood bus experience and how lucky I was ...

I got to ride the new flat nose bus, eat Dilly Bars on Fridays,  and have my first real showdown with a bully....and I walked a little taller every day all because of a kindness on the 107.



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...

Ranting in the SUV

I am so tired of being the patriotic law abiding mom from the 'burbs.

Why bother with Constitution this and Liberty that...when all it gets you is an IRS audit.

I mean weren't audits  supposed to be reserved for Tony Soprano and Al Capone?

Really, targeting Tea Party people and Constitutionalists and fiscal Conservatives?

This may be the single most transparent thing this current administration has done, did anyone really have to ask if this was on purpose.

I pay my taxes dutifully, and I pay well...and the "tradesmen" who want come into my home to fix this and mortar that, who all voted for Obama, are the ones who want to be paid in cash...and they don't declare the work they do!

Not only are they not paying "their fair share", they aren't targeted for an audit either.

I'll tell you another thing they aren't doing, since they aren't paying taxes, they aren't paying the salaries of the IRS people who are auditing people like me who ACTUALLY PAY THEIR SALARIES....That's it!

No more Mrs. Nicey.

From now on, I'm letting my dog off the leash, leaving my Christmas lights on after 11pm,
I am NOT recycling, and you can shove that weed whacker up your retaining wall...

I am rebelling.

Right after carpool.



....

First nest...

I've been watching a robin trying to build a nest on our porch for the last week...she picked the wrong location, it's a narrow ledge and all the straw, grass and weeds she tries to weave, come apart and fall to the ground.
Each day, I go outside and pick up the rejected building materials off the porch.

All I can think is, first apartment dear?

We all remember our first places, the one our parents tried to talk us out of...mine was in a semi-bad neighborhood, way too expensive and had orange counter-tops in the kitchen and gold shag carpeting and in the summer, lots of bugs.

It shared a balcony with the neighbor across the hall...a sweet seminary student who played awful guitar and sang like a folk singer on estrogen. Kumbya.
Below my apartment was the party crew, they sold pot and whatever else, there was a constant stream of creepy people in and out quickly...and the undeniable aroma.
They spent every penny on albums (yes this was the 70's) ... music blared non stop...no rest for the wicked...Lynryd Skynyrd clashing with upstairs Kumbya.

I thought I would never recover.

My first attempt at displaying my new haute design taste was a  Naugahyde couch (you could just swear it was leather) and I let my boyfriend talk me into a coffee table made from the hatch of a boat...it was horrid...we broke up...he asked for the table, I gave it to the Seminary student.

I swear the place was haunted, I had terrible dreams there, always of someone standing in the bedroom doorway... it never really felt like home.

It's all a learning experience, sometimes we have guidance, sometimes we don't and we have to muddle through it.
Sometimes we have to be nomads for a while until we land home...and then it takes years to really understand how to put it all together, how to build your sanctuary... how raise your children in loving shelter.

So don't give up Robin...you'll find the right tree, porch, crevice...get past the first wrong nest and you'll build the perfect one and fill it with those blue eggs that only Robins can make.
There's a place for you, and you'll find it when you're ready for it.

Hey there, and welcome, I'll start the Capresso.

Yes, I live in the suburbs, there I said it...I LIVE IN THE SUBURBS....I have a lawn full of grubs, a patio with a grill on steroids, a kid ready to raise my car insurance premiums,  neighbors somewhere around here, pets on a leash-yeah right, civic organizations that suck the intelligence out of me, and a husband who lives in the basement or garage depending on the imaginary task at hand.

I am the Queen of Commerce to whom all the ad agencies rush to air their ba-zillion dollar budget commercials during the Super Bowl so that I might buy their mac n' cheese, in order to hook my kids on their product forever...then I get blamed when they are in therapy later in life, because mother gave them something with high-fructose-so-sue-me-corn-syrup.

I am the self prescribed Hyper-Vigilant  Do-Gooder watching all the news channels when a major event has happened in the country...I am the one organizing the care boxes to send to victims of floods, fires, terrorism etc...helping at my kids school, or at church or a neighbor in need, all the while being told that Republicans are greedy.

Oh, did I mention I was a Republican? Did you just step away from my blog? Before you go all Rachel Maddow on me, let me tell you, most of my friends are Liberal Democrats, and we get along just fine as long as they are taking their Prozac...I find most of the time, we share common ground, except on the golf course.

My past isn't perfect, my present is too busy to be present, my future is not in my hands, or yours for that matter.

I am the Squeaky Wheel reason there are cup holders in all the cars and strollers, granite on all the counter tops, easy to assemble driveway pavers, parental control on cable, Groupon, and memory foam mattresses. You can thank me later.

Because I am at the tail end of the Baby Boomer generation, I have also taken care of and watched the sad inevitable death of my aging parents, all the while working and taking care of my own household. So, "around the block" doesn't even scratch the surface on my life. It also explains why this blog is so simple to navigate...Baby Boomers have a fundamental  working knowledge of social networks and nothing more.

I still remember black and white TV, life without cellphones, what the peace sign actually meant, who Bobby Sherman was, Jiffy Pop and John Wayne westerns.

Yes, I am trying to recreate my own childhood by living in the suburbs, just like everybody else...only the rules have changed and life is stranger ...this blog is my dispatch... anti-Facebook page ...therapy...info center...steam vent...soapbox...bullhorn...vuvuzela .

At this point, I'm not sure if I'll take your comments...I once wrote an article about pit bulls, and the comments were so beyond vile, it sent me straight to a carb loading session of enormous regret..so we'll have to to a wait and see.

Come back soon, I'll fill you in on what needs to be shredded through my mind.