Mitchell Way
Once upon a time, before freeways, and Safeways. Before Thriftways and Haggens, Fred Meyers and Walmarts, when boys wore Brylcreem and girls wore skirts with Bobby socks and saddle shoes, there were neighborhood grocery stores.
As I lay on my back under the stars I wonder, “Is that the Aurora Borealis or is my headache causing my vision to shift?”
As I lay on my back under the stars I wonder, “Is that the space station or a really, really, really high jet and if I had a flashlight could it see my twinkling light shining up at it?”
You’d have to be in a certain age range to notice: 50 years and older. Any younger and you would never have heard of the man, but it is not uncommon for me to get the same question asked from the 50+ crowd: “Have you ever heard of the humorist, Patrick McManus? You have the same writing style.”
Say guys, are you tired of sweltering hot days where the perspiration running off your head ruins that freshly permed $56.00 haircut? Tired of having sweat stains in your Grecian Formula leaving you looking like a leopard? Do what I did. I got the Extended Face Kit which includes extensions all the way to the back of my shoulders.
I was standing in line at the movie theater waiting to buy a ticket when I heard two twenty-somethings making comments about a slowpoke elderly man. They couldn’t mean me. There has got to be someone else in this line who is older than me. I will just casually turn around and see who they are talking about.
Nuts! It was me.
First of all, excuse me for whistling. If I don’t let the music out, my head will explode.
I am a chronic whistler, more so when I am stressed. I also constantly have a melody looping in my mind. That same tune can loop for hours until I nearly go crazy listening to it.
“When did you learn Klompendansen?” My wife asked as I came in through the back door after work.
“I don’t know Klompendansen,” I snarled. “My back is out of place. Call the chiropractor!” Sheesh, she is a smart alec when I am in pain.
My wife Cheryl walked across the gravel parkway to her school bus which sat parked partially out of the bus garage. It was a new bus to the school and hadn’t made its maiden voyage with students yet.
“Morning Sunshine,” called another driver who was walking to her bus. “Here we go again!”
All the buses had been pulled partially from the garage stalls by Arnie the bus maintenance man. The engines were all running, and the lights were turned on. This was to aid the drivers with their morning pre-trip inspections.
Sitting in the cushy air-leveling driver’s seat, Cheryl shut off the engine. With the air system fully charged, she was going to bleed the air brakes. She pumped the brake pedal repeatedly, each pump sending a blast of air to the ground under the bus.
The air pressure, which started at 120 pounds, had dropped to 90, then 60, then 30. Then . . .
Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
The bus horn went off.
“What the heck?” Cheryl screamed.
The 10 other drivers stepped from their buses and looked over at the new bus. They covered their ears to silence the dreadful sound. A flock of migrating geese flying over the bus garage split formation. One goose appeared to fall out of the sky.
Frantically trying to shut off the alarm while at the same time plugging her fingers in her ears, Cheryl’s curly platinum hair began to straighten.
Bounding up the steps into the bus came Arnie. He was wearing his noise canceling earmuffs.
“I got this! I got it!”
Cheryl jumped from the bus, the palms of her hands covering her ears. Arnie frantically pushed and pulled buttons.
“Blasted computerized buses,” he yelled. His face was red, his eyes bulged, and perspiration drops ran down his face soaking his coveralls.
The other drivers were now leaving the yard, not in their scheduled order, but more in a panicked retreat. Like getting to higher ground to avoid a tsunami wave.
The door of the office opened. Out walked the bus manager pulling on her sweater. She strolled across the parking lot toward the bellowing bus. The look on her face hinted that she thought all her drivers were morons.
Arnie was now in a state of emotional shock. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he stared blankly through the front windshield.
The bus manager climbed up into the bus and prying his hands off the steering wheel, she laid him on his back in the center aisle.
Then, restarting the bus, she allowed the air pressure to build, and the horn shut off.
“You’re late for your route,” she said to Cheryl as she pulled Arnie by the feet down the bus steps.
And so, for the first day’s morning run, there were brand new riders being picked up at new stops which caused all forms of chaos and confusion. The little kindergarten children who saw Cheryl for the first time as she opened the bus door, gasped, grinned, and ran up the bus steps to hug her and sit in her lap, mistakenly thinking she was Mrs. Santa Claus.
The radio chatter was frantic:
“Bus 201 to base. 201 to base.”
“This is base, go ahead.”
“I’ve got a puker. Mayday, Mayday. He’s at the back of the bus. Oh my gosh, he’s barfing again. It’s running down the center aisle! Mayday! Mayday!”
“Bus 201, this is base. Follow proper hazmat cleanup procedures after returning to the garage.”
“What? I didn’t sign up for this. Can’t Arnie do it?”
From somewhere in the shop Arnie yelled, “I’m not doing it!”
“Sorry 201, it’s your job. I’ll have the mop ready when you get back.”
Then, after the morning run was over, the drivers came back at 3:00 for the afternoon run to take the kids home.
“Base to bus 211.”
There was no answer.
“211, come in.”
“Base, this is 208. These route directions can’t be accurate. I’m in a housing development and the road dead ends. I’m going to have to back all the way out.”
“This is base. Don’t back into any parked cars this year.”
“Base to bus 211. Come in 211!”
“This is 270. I can hear you clearly. I’ll give him a call.”
“270, if you can hear me, he should hear me.”
“Bus 211, this is base.”
“Base this is 250. My route says to stop at 4489 Hammerhead to drop off Ginny. I see her house, but the driveway is on the other side of the creek. I’m going to have to go three miles up to cross the bridge and go to the house on another road. That’s putting me 15 minutes late. Please call the other parents.”
“Base, this is bus 211. We’re you trying to get me?”
“Yes 211. Is Stanley Harding on your bus?”
“I don’t have a Stanley Harding.”
“Yes, you do 211. I’m staring at his name on your roster.”
“He’s not on my bus, base.”
“Base, this is bus 302. I have a flashing dash light that says, ‘Shut engine down.’ “Suggestions?”
“302, this is base. Nurse it home.”
“307 to . . . base. (Gasp) Base . . . come in . . .”
“ Go ahead 307, this is base.”
“License plate (gasp) Washington (cough) XLF3589 (gasp), Jacked up Black 4X4 (gasp) . . .He ran my stop paddle.”
“307, Why are you gasping?”
“Well, I ran after him.”
“What?”
“211 to base.”
“Base”
“Stanley Harding is on my bus.”
“211, when will you be at the corner of Tyee and Crowley to meet his grandparents.”
“This is 211. That would have been 20 minutes ago.”
Muffled grumbles came from behind the closed office door.
If she had been a smoker, she would have been a chain smoker. If she could drink on the job, she would have been plowed by 5:00, but this is the life of a bus manager.
As she closed the shop that evening and walked to her car, her right eye twitched. Her car key could not find the lock because of her shaking hand. With a few tears on her face, she sat behind the steering wheel, letting out a sigh of relief.
“Day one is over, only nine months more to go.”
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
It is estimated that Australia has over 24 million wild pigs. I was on a photo Safari in Queensland to capture on film the King Kong of feral hogs. The locals call him Jambi.
Jambi weighs over 1000 pounds and is well over nine feet long. He has a harem of 45 sows and multiple piglets. Wherever they move, they create mass destruction of the land and many a domestic animal, even humans disappear when Jambi is in the area.
It was a curving section of the county road with a posted speed of 35 mph. Farms and homesteads lined both sides of the road as did overhanging maple and alder trees.
“Slow up in the curve. Almost to . . . yep, there he is.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked!”
Have you ever wondered what that means?
Elwood K was the old man who lived in a small self-made home behind our house when I was growing up. I never had a grandpa after I was four so I adopted him. Everyone knew him as “Swede” which was interesting since the name is Scottish and English. He was known by the white Popeye cap he always wore. His house was full of them. Taking his lead, I wear a black Army Ranger cap which my house is also full of.
Swede was fond of four things: guns, Canadian Mist whiskey, both of which he had hidden all over his house, his yellow half ton Dodge Ram pickup and his mutt dog Digger Odell. Several times a week you could see his old Dodge driving ten miles under the speed limit using both sides of the road. Old Swede was returning from a trip to the liquor store to get his “medicine”. On the seat beside him would sit Digger, head and tongue hanging out the open window. Sometimes Digger was the designated passenger and sometimes he was the designated driver; it all depended on how Swede was feeling.
I have been asked by many of my readers, “When are you going to put all of your stories into a book? I’d buy one.”
Isaac Newton’s 3rd Law of Motion is: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
I have been known to be a grouch at times, maybe even a curmudgeon or as my kids likes to call me, Debbie Downer. I tend to pessimistically see the glass as half empty.