After my older brother left home for college in the late 1960s, my father started driving a school bus. His bus route allowed my father to be back on the farm by 8:30 a.m. each morning. Upon leaving his farm work at 2:00 p.m. for what he called the "afternoon run," he could return to complete his evening chores before dark. Because of the irregular labor demands of a working farm, the bus driving job fit into his schedule well. The extra cash flow was also welcome.
I never really gave much thought to the fact that my father had chosen to supplement his farm income by driving a school bus. During my high school days, it did create a minor inconvenience for me. It was necessary for someone to drop off a vehicle at the school bus garage in town each morning for my father's return trip home. Then, that vehicle had to be picked up and driven back home in the afternoon by someone. That someone usually ended up being me. On most mornings my father would arrive early enough to drop me off at school. In the afternoons I either hitched a ride to the bus garage or I was in for a long walk. All in all, it became part of a routine that worked. That big yellow bus became a familiar part of the landscape on our farm. Like I said, I never gave it much thought. That is, until I left home for college.
Going away to college does many things for a person. For one, it forces us to see our world through different eyes. When I say “our world,” I mean the safe familiar world in which we grew up. We begin to see our world through the eyes of other people. I was not too far into my college when I began to go home with friends for the weekend and bring friends home with me. In my mind that school bus suddenly became an issue.
If it happened once, it happened a dozen times. Whenever I brought a new friend, male or female, home with me for the weekend, here's how the conversation played out. As we crossed the last hill that overlooked the little valley were the road turned toward our farm, I would point to the right and say, "That's our farm." And every time, my friend would ask, "What's that school bus doing there?" I would answer under muffled breath, "My father drives a school bus." My friend would answer, "Oh." It didn't seem like a big deal to them. But it bothered me. For whatever reason, I felt a sense of shame that my father was supplementing his farm income by driving a school bus. The "old folks" would have said that "I had gotten above my raisin’" or that I had become "too big for my britches." There I was, Mr. College Hot Shot, on the one hand having great respect for my father, and on the other hand feeling ashamed of what he was doing. It made me feel a strong sense of dislike for myself. It also showed that I still had a lot to learn.
In the fall of 1978, I was re-introduced to my high school sweetheart, Kathy Oakley. I had only seen her twice in the preceding 10 years. We immediately renewed our courtship and exchanged wedding vows on her birthday the following year. Two became one on September 1, 1979, and two became three on May 31, 1980. We named him, James Brim McCall after Kathy's father and my maternal grandfather. We called him J. Brim.
I cannot describe how I felt the first time that I held him in my arms. It ranks among the best moments in my life, and I have been blessed with more than my share. But I must confess, as I thought about our son during those first hours of his life, I began to look ahead. And as I did, I dreaded the day that that BIG YELLOW MONSTER (school bus) would come to a stop in front of my house, open its folding door mouth, and swallow up my boy and take him away. But a few years later it did. That's when my opinion of school bus drivers changed dramatically.
We had some good ones over the years. I think Mr. Burnley was our favorite. He was a tall, good looking man with a friendly voice and a broad smile that flashed gold in his teeth. One day, J. Brim, a kindergartener, was supposed to get off the bus at his grandmother Oakley's house. Seems that he forgot. When Mr. Burnley reached the end of his route, our boy was still on the bus. That day Kathy got a phone call. The conversation started something like this: "Kaaaaathy, I believe I got somethin’ down here at my house belongs to you." It was Mr. Burnley. He was as safe with Mr. Burnley as he would have been with me.
Since those days I have thought often school bus drivers. I can still recall my father’s routine of cranking his bus engine at daylight in the winter to give the engine and the bus time to warm up. In all the years that he drove, he never had an accident. I have thought of a school bus's precious cargo, each child as precious to his parents as our boys are to us. It has taught me along with other experiences that everyone and the job they do is important.
That lesson was re-affirmed for me a few years ago back when my father died. During the time of visitation before his funeral, the people came. Hundreds and hundreds came. I wondered, who are all these people? Most were too young to be friends of my parents or friends of their children. As my brothers, my sister, and I began to greet the long line of those who had come to show their respect, it all became clear. A typical were conversation went something like this: "You probably don't know me. Mr. Frank was my school bus driver. I loved him so much."
School bus drivers, I had the high privilege of knowing and loving one of the best among them. And somewhere along the way, I picked up on one of life's great lessons—the fact that everyone fills an important role and that we all need each other—that it takes each of us making his or her contribution if we are to make a better world.