I don’t mind following a big bus
through my neighborhood,
especially when I get close enough
to see the license plate holder
that reads: Gillig.
A descendent of the snub-nosed orange
behemoth that carried us to and from
Eureka Elementary, ours creaked and squealed
as it pulled up at the Balmain‘s driveway
next door,
its weary hinges complaining
as Mrs. Capps grasped the push-pull handle
to open the door for the sleepy, the stragglers,
her charges for the morning.
’Twas Gillig and Mrs. Capps who
delivered us safely, day after day,
to school and back home in the tradition
of bus drivers around the world,
as they do in my city in their comparatively
quiet, fuel-efficient, clean-lined conveniences,
transporting their occupants smoothly
from one place to another, hither and yon,
from pillar to post, far and wide,
a challenging job on the best of days,
thankless, I imagine, on others,
which is why I offer my vocal gratitude
to the bus ahead of me—not only for
its service to thousands in my city
but also for this sweet ride
down memory lane.
Was the beginning of your fourth stanza perhaps a nod toward Carol’s Jabberwocky?
My favorite Oakmont High bus driver was a sweet, diminutive, and unassuming woman by the name of Rose Kennedy who could run through the five manual gears of her Gillig Bus #7 without using the clutch! Every kid with car lust at the time held her in awe, if only because she knew how to handle a rig without synchromesh. It was all about perfect timing and she would gladly share with anyone who would pay attention how to listen to our engines and extend the lives of our vehicles as she drove us down the road. Still amazes me to think of her skills.