He and I were not having a conversation on the way. He was giving me his entire litany, chapter and verse, of car service mishaps at our competitor. There wasn’t much I could do but nod and acknowledge him.
And that was fine enough for me. It was a foggy morning like I do not ever remember seeing. It was an entire museum of fog. Every facet of fog was on full display. It was an upper-level course in fog-ology. It was phenomenal. Fog.
There was fog on the road and fog in the trees. There was fog two feet off the ground with trees growing out of it. There was clear, bare snow on the ground with tree trunks supporting the fogged-in sky. There were clearings with wispy, ghost-like bodies of fog floating free. It went from big blue sky to nearly zero visibility in mere moments. And there were plenty of drivers auditioning for the next big crash on the six o’clock news. I slowed down so I could ... see ... it, witness it, be with it.
I was stunned; awestruck. It was so very beautiful. Once, when I noticed he’d fallen silent, I mentioned it to Dean.
“The fog.” I said.
“Uhhh ... yeah ... fog.” He rattled on about being screwed. Funny he keeps getting into those situations because he’s so smart. He knows better. Just ask him.
Two hours later I’m headed back out to pick him up. His car is ready early. The sun has burned off the fog. Now I can appreciate the snow white cornfields and the dark winter trees with the last snow still plastered to their south sides. I am amazed what the snow does to the dark tree limbs. There is a negative differentiation; the normally not-seen is available.
The oaks in particular have a lot of attitude. They remind me of tai chi masters practicing the long-form dance in a line of sad people returning Christmas gifts at a customer service counter.
I call Dean and tell him I am near. I arrive. He gets in. He’s in a different mood altogether. The sky is blue. His car is done. Early. We’re going to get it. Wheee!
It turns out Dean drives school bus out that way. It’s six hours a day with a five hour split in the middle. There’s enough time to have lunch and take a nap actually.
He told me about a set of twins recently - five years old. The boy is a perfect angel on the bus. Sits up front. Talks like an adult. And the twin sister is the devil on wheels. He recalled her picking a fight with some fourth graders and winning, until ... She had a boy down on the bus floor and another girl trying to pull her off. Apparently one of her five-year old front teeth was loose and it managed to get snagged and torn out during the scuffle. And he’s trying to drive ... keep a schedule, etc. Blood everywhere.
And at some point there was another student that gave him a big hug - just like that. I congratulated him for his courage and patience. I said I’d thought about school bus driving once - briefly. I decided I don’t have the constitution for it. Hugs are good. Blood not so much.
Mind you, the stories on the trip back were not all about driving bus. There were plenty of hunting and fishing tales with his grand kids in Spokane. It was so unbelievable that I had to research STURGEON when I got home. Now there’s a fish story for some other time.
So, yesterday morning between 5 and 6 a.m., before I met Dean, I wrote a piece about the very day before, meeting Wayne; another driver. He and I talked shop and had a good, old time. I called ‘the Wayne meeting’ a busman’s holiday and then reflected that I had yet to meet a bus driver.
By 9:30, less than four hours after I wrote that, Dean, my first bus driver, climbs into the front seat.
Word made flesh.
----
"Love really is the answer
to human problems: love of oneself, love of others, love of where one
is, love of what one is doing, love of nature, love of life, love of the
world, love of spirit in all its wonder and splendor. Love sets our
energy free. It opens us and puts us in a flow with spirit and life on
many levels. Love is the true secret behind manifestation."
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