The Maestro Performs

I spend some time around kids obviously.  The ones closest to my heart are the ones that don't quite fit into the crowd; it can get them into trouble.  I can't say the name here, but this piece is for this one particular child.

This day was special: the sun was shining very brightly, and the warmth of spring baked down upon the winter-weary earth.  You could see something in the way he walked across the roadway: proud, steady, head held high, chin up, and perhaps he had a prance or trot deep within his body.  This day, he wore his backpack (no backpack was going to rule this day).  He was in absolute control; yes, his public awaited his arrival.

He stepped up into "his space," looked about at all the seats that surrounded him and filled the "hall."  Without a doubt, this was his time to shine.  He sat down on the edge of his seat in perfect performer's form, back straight, no slouching.  He waited for his perfect moment, and then began.

As he and his audience passed the little supper club nestled into the bottom of Horace Hill: "Yo, yo, yo, yo," Up a scale; "meow, meow, meow," down an arpeggio or two.  Then, in pure angelic voice with clear, round tones came the lines of "Silent Night," his prepubescent voice giving light, glowing wings to the carol.  It floated about "his space" like fog in a light breeze in the bright morning sun, delicately touch the stocking cap heads held captive.  It was perfect for a white, crisp morning in February.  He stood up perfectly straight as a proper two by four and watched the last of his Christmas hymn disappear into the brightness of the day.  His first act, in the greatest concert ever performed, a success.

But wait!  Something was amiss.  Was that a conversation?  He cleared his throat loudly to say: how rude!  And then, there was a hand on his shoulder.  How dare the stage manager come out on to the stage and interrupt such a sublime moment of bliss...oh, wait.  It was the bus driver.  Sit down?  How dare?!....oh, alright.  The concert had just begun; there would be more.  And as the scenery outside the windows changed from country/woodland to a small subdivision on the edge of the village, it was the moment for his next great fete.

"Oh, say, can you see? By the dawn's early light?  What so proudly we made past the dwellings nearby..."

Ah, our National Anthem...as could only had been rendered by our fair Maestro, true, artful,...bold.  Wait, the last few lines...

"Oh, say, does that star sprinkled lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave".  Is that it?  Wait.  "Oh say does that star sprinkled...."  Yes, onward!  "--lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave."  And now, for the roar of the adoring fans.--

"Oh, man!  Enough.  You can only listen to it the first sixteen times!"

Perhaps, it was time to break out the piece of resistance, an aria from the little known Italian Commedia Del Arte Opera composer, Manfred Smellini, "I Must Fart Before I Explode."

"Fee-da-crizzi, da-mora-Penza, I must fart, I must fart before I explode!!  La la menni keelli, Must fart, must fart, I will explode.  I exploded-ed."

It was brilliant, such virtuosity.  Mozart, Hayden, Puccini, Verdi, and Rossini would have approved of such a wonder.

"You're so weird."

His audience rose out of their seats, then simply left.  Bah!  What do critics know?  It was a special day, and you could see something in the way he walked across the roadway.

28 February 2016. Roy Edward Power

The Army of Angry Trees

The school district for which I work is one of the largest in the state, not in terms of population but in terms of area.  We cover 250 square miles of land; I would guess that 85% of that is rural, both farm and scattered woods (lots of hills, we are in bluff country after all.).  So, it stands to reason, there's a bit of wildlife hiding along and/or running across the roads in the school district.   There are the usual culprits: rabbits, raccoons, squirrel, possum, deer and turkeys.  But, specifically in and around my bus routes, there are wild creatures that only exist along the roadsides: the wolf turkey (largest species of wild turkey), the Blue-eyed Ditch Donkey (somehow related to deer but possess a laser like glowing eye of blue color), and the Angry Tree.  

Now, for anyone who does not know about angry trees, they are terrible beasts that sit among the fence lines and hide in the small woods scattered about the bluff country.  They usually exist in small packs of six, referred to as an army.  They will, sometimes without warning, descend upon unsuspecting humans and vehicles with flailing limbs, the attack can only be labeled as rude and vicious.  They act similar to a voracious pack of coyotes, and are charged with more property damage than any other creature in the district.  No one "round dese parts" knows why, but they claim a collection of six rogue armies of angry trees were the cause of the disappearances of the tiny villages of Snow's Corners and Ottman's Bluff in the late '50's.  I was almost half way through my fifth year of driving for Ellsworth before I made my first encounter with these scary creatures.

I was at my third noon route stop when one of the 100 million, spudillion cows that boarded the bus that day informed me of a most terrible thing.  (Yes, the fact that the large number of cows not only got on the big, yellow limousine, but they all fit inside, and the fact that the one talking cow was a boy not a girl were not the worst of things at that moment.  -Also, please, dear reader, do not tell any of the timelords, whom you may or may not have an acquaintance, about my bus; they will take it away as being a tardis that no human should have in their possession.)  No, the bad news was simply that we were being followed by an army of angry trees which were trying to bash up the bus with their whip-like limbs.  I screamed,"hang on to something!  We are going for a ride, people!... I mean herd!"  And the herd heard that, and away we went.

Around the sunken ravines and up, then down the steep sides of the narrow valleys, we wound our way through the countryside, eventually floundering our way through the Yard of Metal Things.  We managed to dodge a hay baler in an effort to save the whole bus from the angry trailing trees, careening off the back corner of the farm implement and leaving a scrape along the side of the bus.  We thought we lost the angry army as we made a quick turn on to one of the tiny township roads, but when we noticed a second encroaching army, one of the cows mentioned the "Bumpy Bridge."  Now, what I know about cows (and kids) is that they do not name things for the same reason an adult does, so when a herd names something, like "The Bumpy Bridge," it has to mean something.  (Besides, who am I to argue with a cow, even if one is a boy?  They know the territory better than any of us non-grazers.).    So, I slammed my foot on to the accelerator.

I felt like we were heading toward the church bridge from the Washington Irving story; yep, I was Ichabod riding hard to safety.  The bus sidled from side to side on the frozen road (Of course this story happened in the winter!  Drama, people!).  At one point, the back tires came off the road and the bus bowed down into the ditch along the side of the road.  But holding the road, the bus made contact with one of the angry trees causing a domino/bowling pin effect on to the entire blocking army.  Directly in front of us, free and clear, was the Bumpy Bridge and we made the edge of the bridge.

At that moment, we were all in the air, the bus, the kids, and me.  This was painful, for I was belted in and the restraint pulled hard on to my midsection.  But when I looked at the kids/cows suspended in the air with arms/legs extended, they were all filed with sunshine and lollipops.  I realized that they named the bridge not because it was a landmark but a moment in time when they all first learned to fly.  The moment was gone as soon as we bounced back on to the road with a hard bang and went back into the air.  We were airborne for good.  I looked down to see one of the trees splintered all over the road and the remaining trees snarled in a huddle around the debris.

The rest of the trip was peaceful and sunny.  With everyone of the herd on the bus, we glided into school unharmed.  Now, how do I explain the scar on the side of the bus?

7 February 2016.       Roy Edward Power

He Strikes Again?

A bit ago, I mentioned a game the kids would play on my bus, the Foot Game.  I tried to discourage this game by mentioning a troll who lived under the steps of the bus.  Well, it had been quite some time since I had last seen or heard of the beastie.  I had been pondering this creature for a while again, as is my want on a drab gray day.  I was wondering how he was getting along in the cold, whether the troll had found a mate and settled down to start a family, or whether this friend from under the steps hibernated during the winter months or not.  Well, he reappeared, or shall I say, things started to disappear.

On Tuesday of three weeks back, I received a phone call looking for a single mitten left on the bus.  On the second Monday, someone asked about a missing stocking cap left Friday previous.  On Thursday of that same week, someone asked about a missing cell phone.  And then this past Wednesday, a parent came to the front door of the bus wondering if I had seen their son's very expensive gloves.  And someone called about a bag.

I was concerned, needless to say.  I have stuff left on the bus all the time.  I find it, stash it; yet these things stay on the bus for weeks, some times, months.  Some times, the abandoned articles find their way back home, but most of the time, they get tossed or given to someone else.  Last year alone I removed four whole grocery bags (the paper kind) from the bus.  If you think that is bad, there is a whole room at school devoted to lost items.  Every time you open the door, this room throws clothes and bags and forgotten treasures at you and the hallway like Fibber McGee's closet.  (I know, "Gee, how old are you, old man?").  But now, we were talking about things simply disappearing.  (Eek!  It's the Bermuda Rectangle!)

I searched the bus, but I have, so far, found no sign of the missing items...except perhaps, a guilty looking dust bunny.

7 February 2016.  Roy Edward Power