October 5, 2022
Here it is. Nearly 10 years now since I became a Bus Operator. I remember time just sluggishly passing as I trudged into a new career. Again. Journalist/Editor, Radio News Director, Typographer, Print Salesman, OTR Truck Driver, IT Desktop Support Tech, Bus Operator. Seven careers in one lifetime, perhaps one or two to go. If my story ever finds its’ course, perhaps my final career will be as a novelist. Maybe between now and then, I’ll give up this gig to train other poor suckers to do it. That’s a BIG step, getting so close to those who hold the reins to our jobs. CAN I allow myself the heat of being so close to those I have lambasted for nearly a decade?
It’s a precarious position, again. After a decade of blasting management, I’m tired. Very few followed my lead. Only dozens “Banded Together” this year, its fifth. A few years ago in the heyday of FTDS, it seemed we had formed a following. Then it fizzled away like the disappointing release of gas from my recycled soda bottles.
My blog should have died peacefully three years ago, but I stubbornly held on. It just wasn’t to be. FTDS served its purpose, then the passions of my blog gave way to humanity’s habit of passing into uncertainty. I no longer hold a place amongst relevant voices.
My hold on readers slips. In bits and swells. But frantically, I tried to bring the magic back, even as my soul kept pushing me away from it. However, Mom’s wise words kept coming back. “Don’t look back.” Just like the old Boston song. She constantly reminded me we can’t go back to where time was fresh, because once we arrive again everything has changed. It’s been a stumbling block for me an entire lifetime, because my past was so magical I just want to preserve it. Forever.
On my birthday, still my favorite day of the year, selfishly indeed, I (like everyone), look back on the most important ones of my life. And invariably, I cry. Mourning my youth, for the faves come from long ago. My 8th, when Dad flew me in the Aeronca Champ ’47 to Rooselvelt Lake, where we fished and then slept under the wing. As we flew back to Mesa’s Falcon Field, the plane’s engine failed. Dad didn’t tell me until I was about a decade older, that he glided back to a safe landing that day.
My 11th and 12th, spent at Sunset Valley Ranch and attended Bonita Elementary… trying to forge a way through childhood as my soul fought its’ best to keep me there. We’re all children at that point, dreaming of becoming “older” while forgetting the magic of that moment in time. When we try to recall what we were once so determined to leave behind, we are often sadly successful.
I MUST go back to the Ranch. Even though I’ve enjoyed the gifts of being the father of three and the husband of at least ONE selfless soul, when reminded of my happiest times on Earth I’m invariably transported back to “The Ranch”. Dad. Miss Pat. Doc. Rod. Piece of Cake, Samita and Sig. Getting off the bus, or a year earlier, Mrs. Monzingo’s ’64 Lincoln with “suicide doors”, to be greeted by the dogs and the great open spaces of the Galiuro Foothills’ intense serenity. Dropping my books in the cabin and always finding something interesting to explore. Pestering Miss Pat for a game of Monopoly, or one morning finding her down the road sifting through recently-falled snow and proclaiming it “weird”. The barn, the great expanses of the Galiuro Wilderness across the road, having to unhook the wire from the fencepost to enter its’ wondrous majesty, walking into the woods and hearing the birdsong above the breeze. Sitting on a rock, waiting for the next breeze to whisper the next unforgettable moments of a soul I didn’t realize even existed.
Oh, such magic I didn’t know was even there. At 11, I had an entire universe at my footsteps. Whether scaling the 600-foot rattlesnake-infested hill at the base of our cabin to take in the majestic beauty of the Sulphur Springs Valley reaching toward the Pinaleño Mountains or turning around to gaze upon the nearby Galiuros, I could revolve around 360-degrees of brilliance. Craving a longer hike, I could traipse deep into the woods of the Galiuro Foothills with all three dogs as my guides/protectors. No leashes required. Just me and my pups. Any sign of danger, they would alert/protect me. Those foothills were full of bears, cougars, rattlesnakes. My protectorate sensed my youthful naiveté, always on the alert for danger while always begging me to throw a stick for them to chase and fight over.
It’s been 10 years since I sat on a rock for an hour just inside the gate of the Galiuro Wilderness Area, breathing in the invigorating breeze of my youth. That sat-upon rock now graces my Oregon front porch, just to remind me of those wondrous moments as an adult 40-years past, feeling a mistral breeze ruffling my aging hair refusing to give way to full-grey. I remain convinced my youth refuses to give way because I remain connected to that place in time where my childhood found its greatest magic.
That moment is forever etched in my soul. My Ranch witnesses are now all gone. Miss Pat was killed in a 1974 accident, a tragedy which nearly saw me take my own life shortly after her death. Doc Tovrea died nearly 20 years ago. Dad passed in 2018. Pat’s husband (and Nina’s) Rod died last year. They were the only witnesses to my massive prank on Doc’s Chickens. That’s okay, because it happened. Horribly cruel then however intensely amusing to everyone remotely connected. Doc didn’t get the chance to pay me back, but that’s okay. I suffered guilt for embarrassing him, and still do. Still, Rod, Pat and Dad never backed down from their refusal to protect the honor of this cantankerous 12-year-old’s prank on a Midwesterner’s attempts upon being a Southwestern farmer.
* * * * *
I was immensely blessed to have parents who went far above the realm of providing wondrous lives for their children. They gave each of us the ability, the encouragement and support we needed to succeed. The only blocks we encountered were those we place in front of our success. With their example, we have been able to blast above and beyond our greatest expectations.
My own greatness lies beyond what I believe is possible. I hold myself back only because I have doubted my own capabilities. Beyond their graves, Mom, Dad, Miss Pat, Rod, Doc Tovrea, and countless other mentors in my life beg me to keep seeking that which my own limitations have kept me from achieving.
Now I’m 62, decades older than those who shaped the happiest time of my life. Each encouraged me to surpass my dreams. Why do I keep waiting for success to catch up to my refusal to accept it? I have been urged by many to do what my soul has begged me for seven decades. I have begged a poet’s soul; I have not yet written it. I keep trying to reach the expectations of others, rather than just writing to those truly waiting for me to speak this inner truth. It’s not a voice I expect everyone to feel. Someday though, perhaps these words would reach a bit higher if I only stretch a bit more.
My body is aching. Gardening is a young man’s chore, yet it is one I’ve always loved. Growing beauty is as vital to me as crafting sentences into ideas which YOU can relate. My vacation list is more full of “home” work than literary creation, yet it will give way to next spring’s bounty. Writing has no such guarantee. If I could harness my waning physical energy into that which my soul begs to create, the perhaps I could actually “retire into a novelist.”
Billy Alsheimer, of Rhode Island transit literary artistry, has a dream of turning a bus operator’s life into a television dramedy. I’m there with him. The time is right to video-splain our lives and give transit workers our deserved voice. If I could only concentrate enough to finish my own novel, then perhaps I could simultaneously help Billy make his dream come true as well. It’s one of the topmost things on my mind as I make the six wheels deliver my valuable payload. It’s very difficult for me to concentrate on one goal; I’m constantly busy. I’m afraid that if I solely work on one project, others will suffer.
Still, I’m taken back to that 11th birthday long ago and far, so far away. I had no idea whatsoever where I would be so far into a future half a century distant. I hadn’t even begun to “write” other than what some teacher demanded upon my middle-school curriculum. Right now, I’m digging into that age-set to craft a story that reaches deep within that long-ago creative well. It brings up fun. Pulling me deep into a childhood that is all but a distant dream. Yet it’s there, begging me to come back.
Here I am, at this unforgiving keyboard. Having written one not-so-well-received book about driving a bus, wondering how to entice a wider audience to read a novel I dreamed up driving a bus across Portland’s newest bridge. It’s a far-fetched fantasy, but no less than many books you might have already devoured. It’s fun to craft a story from the ether of “nothingness”. It allows me to delve into the wonderful past I have lived to date, to change history to my own liking while telling a story that never was before this warped mind imagined it. With your support, I might actually finish it before someone steals my thunder.
Today I begin my 63rd year. I’m growing weary of driving a bus for a living. I’d much rather be helping Billy write a hit TV series while enjoying the success of my first novel. I have another novel I began writing 25 years ago which nags my consciousness. Whether I’m “good” or “not” is for others to decide. Meanwhile, I just need to keep writing. It’s what I do. I’m a writer who drives a bus for a living.
So, Happy Fucking Birthday to Patrick. For the 62nd time. Maybe I’ll finally stop chasing the buck and have it chase me for once. Hopefully I still have a chance to do what I’ve wanted to since 4th grade. After aimlessly rolling along, it’s just about time I gave it a decent shot.
SnickerDude 