The Start

   I was a boy of about 4 with 2 older sisters, who were already leaving me alone everyday to go to some mysteriously glorious place called school. I have a vivid memory of staring longingly out the kitchen window, looking down the dirt road that went behind our house, waiting for my sisters to return home. Just as vivid is the picture of the two silhouettes, growing as my two sisters came home from that magical land beyond the horizon at the end of the dirt road, that they called "school".
   As later became evident as a pattern, I wanted nothing more than to not be left alone, and to do what the others were doing. My sisters were my favorite people, and so, I wanted to do what they were doing ... I wanted to go to this "school". I don't know if it was because I was so driven (or desperate), or because my parents were so wise as to take advantage of a naive desire to go to school (or desperate to get me out of the house), but they got me to school, even when it wasn't really available.

   My Father drove me 45 minutes, each way, to what I now think was a half day Pre-Kindergarten program. At the time it filled all the time of every day. When I think back on that time (some of the earliest clear memories of my own) I have a few "snapshot" sort of scenes that play. The views out the window, watching for my sisters to come home; the time my sister broke most of the plates she was carrying on her head, and my mom broke the remaining plate or two, because my sister shouldn't have been carrying them on her head; about four or five discrete memories from the incredible first "school" experience I had; and my rides home from school with my father.

I usually stood, yes is was about 1970, in the floor of the front passenger seat area of our VW Bus, holding on to the handle bar / dash board. My dad usually drove me to school, then went to do whatever he did, then came back to get me and take me back home. I can't fathom how I possibly tolerated the 45 minute drive twice a day [more like ... ] I can't imagine how my dad possibly tolerated the 45 minute drive twice a day with his 4 year old in tow. (Although, given that my son is now 3 and a half, I'm beginning to understand more of what is possible and what joy can come from the daily tasks.) However he made it happen, it happened. He showed up, put me in the passenger seat, drove me home, and I stood up to see what was happening.

   One day, for no identified reason ... maybe I slept to deeply at nap time [?], I was particularly grumpy when he picked me up. I remember this like it were a youtube video I watched 30 seconds ago. He often sang silly diddy's to me. I expect, for any occasion. Often he sang a particular one about him coming to get me.

         Me and my bus

        went buggin' down the road

         t' get my ole good buddy

   There was a lovely sing-songy quality to this very simple little tune. I hear it now. And often.

This particular day, I was grumpy, and I wanted nothing to do with the cheery, happy, sing-songy, efforts of my well intentioned father (who had probably come straight from the hospital, visiting a church member who had some sort of horrible life threatening disease, who had left them with a prayer and a glance at his watch) who, I'm now sure was looking forward to being on time to pick up his only son from his beloved "school". So when he started the bus and pulled away to drive the 45 minutes home, and noticed that I was grumpy, he did what any good father would, he started the ditty:

        Me and my bus

        went buggin' down the road

        t' get my ole good buddy

           ... SHUT UP!

   That was my response! He chuckled, got quiet, gave me some quiet time. When we got home, it became a story that told how the day was for me. For the rest of my life, it stands as a moment. A moment between my father and me. The rest of our family has lived this, heard this tale time and time again. Every child, every parent, has these moments. For me ... and my father ... this was a moment (not the only one - but, certainly, the first of it's kind).

   I have many memories of our families VW bus - me and my sisters rolling side to side in the back, on the cushions my mom made to cover the floor - seeing it in the driveway while playing in the rain with my sisters - but this is the one overpowering memory. Probably made so by the fact that it was featured in one of the many songs sung to me by my father.

   The idea of this site is that it will be my bus, buggin down the road, to get my ole good buddy.

I hope to enlist my father, as co-contributor, to share some of his poetry, thoughts, memories, questions and hopes. He's been writing poetry, daily for at least 15 years ... probably more. My hope is that we can make this easy for us both to post regular entries; as a means of communications between each other, primarily, and to others as well.

Watch for more!!