The Girls on the Bus--A Family Story

 

I've written many times about the reasons for writing your Family Stories, but this morning I thought of one that I had not listed previously. We write them to honor our parents and grandparents, to show them our love. Of course, that's not the only reason, but it's a fine one. No matter what gripes and grudges we might have over past occurrences, our family is still ours. Even if there were conflicts, there were good times, too. 

No family is perfect. Not mine, not yours, or anybody else's family. Should you write about the difficult times as well as the ones that are fun or heartwarming? I think you should. Your Family Stories weave together to paint a family portrait. Braid the good with the troubling, and you still end up with family. 

As an example of the kind of story you might want to write for your family, I am sharing one that was published some years ago in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book titled To Mom With Love.

The Girls On The Bus

As I backed my car out of Mom’s driveway, I asked her a question. “Have you taken the senior bus yet?” I held my breath as I waited for her answer. 

Mom adjusted her seatbelt and stared straight ahead. Emphasizing each word, she said, “Oh-yes-I-did.” 

An uncomfortable silence descended, covering us like a shroud.

Finally, I asked, “How was it?” I said the words as cheerfully as I could manage, even though I sensed the answer was not going to be positive.

“Well,” she said, once again with emphasis, “I called the Senior Center and made the arrangements for the bus to take me to the grocery store. When they came to the house the next morning, I climbed on and looked down the aisle. And what do you think I saw? I’ll tell you what.” She clenched her hands. “I saw about thirteen depressing little old ladies and one depressing old man.”

Something clutched my stomach, and I didn’t know if it was sympathy for her plight or fear that she’d refuse to use this helpful transportation or anger that she put down what she suddenly needed desperately.

More silence. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that in her own mind she thought that now she was one of them. My dad passed away after six weeks in the hospital. He lay in a coma after surgery for an aortic aneurysm that burst while he was having an MRI. Technicians and nurses rushed him in for emergency surgery. The long hours of waiting and hoping all those weeks had taken a toll on my mother and the rest of the family, too.

Mom seemed to wear down a little more each day as she watched and waited in the hospital, but she got through the many decisions each time another crisis arose and finally agreed to disconnect life support. Then, surrounded by her children, their spouses and her grandchildren, she reigned graciously at the visitation and funeral even though fear and sorrow battled one another inwardly.

When the family left to go back to their own pathways of life, she was suddenly alone and frightened. For fifty-seven years, my dad walked by her side. He always told her, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” 

Dad took an early retirement twenty years before his death. These were years my parents were always together. Mom never learned to drive, so Dad chauffeured her everywhere, on errands to the grocery store, to get her hair cut, or whatever she needed. Now, her wheels were gone, as one grandchild so aptly described her situation. 

I spent the week after the funeral helping Mom with paperwork and other chores, and I contacted the local Senior Center to inquire about transportation for her. I teased her, saying she could now see her tax dollars at work and get some real benefit from them. She agreed, although reluctantly, that she’d need to use the senior bus since I lived an hour and a half north of her.

Now, as we drove to the shopping center, I thought about what courage it had taken for her to call that first time and then to ride the bus with other seniors. As I wove in and out of traffic, Mom changed the subject. We didn’t discuss the bus again that day. 

The following weeks when I came to visit, she would mention the bus and often end by saying, “No one ever talks on that bus. They all sit there staring into space and looking sad.” Her mouth turned downward, and she heaved a great sigh. 

I thought to myself that surely couldn’t last too long, not with my mother on board. Mom grew up in a small coal mining town in Iowa where she knew everyone. She often waited for her father at the mine at the end of his shift and chattered constantly on the long walk home. Even as an adult, living in a large metropolitan area, she chatted to clerks in the stores or the mailman walking down the street as if she’d known them forever. I couldn’t imagine her sitting silently on the bus, but her life had changed so drastically, and she wasn’t the same person anymore. I so hoped to see a spark of life in her on one of my visits, but how to bring it about escaped me. 

I worried needlessly, for after several more weeks went by, I noticed that many of Mom’s sentences began with “The girls on the bus told me…” After hearing the same phrase on several visits, I dared to hope. 

One day, as she made tea for us, I asked, “So, they talk to you now?” 

 She smiled and there was a sparkle in her eye, the first real sign of life I’d seen in her for many months. She poured the steaming tea into my cup and picked up a cookie before she answered. “I decided one day that it was silly, all of us sitting there saying nothing. So I climbed on the bus one morning and greeted them all. Then I remarked on what a nice day it was. I think I scared them at first. It took a few tries, but little by little they began to respond. And now we have some good conversation, and it makes everyone’s life a little nicer.” 

She slid the plate of the homemade cookies to my side of the table, and in my great relief, I ate several.

My mother had little formal education and had done very little on her own while Dad was alive. Nevertheless, she held the key to open the hearts of the other lonely people on that bus. A smile and a friendly word or two is all it required. She sowed tiny seeds of happiness for herself and the girls on the bus.

(c)