The Wheels On The Bus

Dear Grandboys: Have you ever seen pictures of your dad as a mountain boy in Colorado? How about as a gypsy, traveling in a school bus? Did you know he and his pals used to ride their bikes from here all the way across the Golden Gate Bridge and out to Ft. Cronkhite and all the way back. They were riding small bikes with small wheels and no gears. There are lots of hills to negotiate in the 8 or so miles from here to the Bridge. Could you guys do that?

Your dad was six when we lived in Colorado. We had a two room house, no electricity, no running water, heated with wood and coal. The outhouse stood at the top of a hill and blew over once in a high wind. Kids had to walk into the wind coming heavy down the Great Divide in order to get to the school bus stop. Once when they missed the bus and were getting a ride to school, thirteen miles away, the truck they were traveling in slid off the road into a meadow buried under two feet of snow.

Your dad got pretty good with an axe, while we were living there. He didn't use the big one - it was too heavy and the handle was almost as long as your dad. He split the kindling with the rig axe (also a hammer). We all took one shower a week, at a neighbor's house. We took the laundry to Boulder every week, when we shopped for food. Your dad and I spent some quality time with a dentist in Boulder and always stopped at the last gas station before heading up the canyon. Gas there cost 26 cents a gallon. We also treated ourselves to Vernor's ginger ale and hot pepper jack cheese: all we could handle with our novocained mouths. The cheese could melt on our tongues.

We traveled for two months in the school bus, navigating back to California from the East, stopping wherever there was someone to visit or something to see. Your dad and your aunt had beds that turned into diner-style booths during the daytime. Good places to write in your journal, do your math problems, eat your sandwich, play a few games of solitaire. The kids kept their toys and gear under the seats. We didn't stop in Colorado on the way back to California because it started to snow while we were in Taos and it would have meant buying snow tires for the bus. We had already had a couple blow outs and bought some retreads. Money was dwindling fast, so we high-tailed it to California.

We drove a lot, staying ahead of the snow and stopped for the night in the high desert, shortly after crossing the state line. By early afternoon the next day, we were rolling up our pants legs and wading in the Pacific Ocean. Everybody went a little nuts, including the dogs. Sand under our feet again! We were home. Sort of.

I hope you do see those pictures, sometime. It won't take long. There aren't very many of them and they're fraying and falling apart. I hope I'm the one looking at them with you.