Catching a bus with Grandpa

When I was around nine years old, I was going someplace with Grandpa Al in the city, and we came up to the bus stop just as the bus was passing by.

Grandpa Al and Grandma Amy both treated me like a one year old baby until I was eighteen, so when Grandpa looked at me and asked, "Can you run?" I believe he meant it as a serious question. I took it seriously, of course, and gave him a stern,


And off we ran, after the Muni bus!

We ran one block, just caught up with it as it stopped at a red light, and then the light turned and - darn it-we missed it! But just.

Now, all of my life until I was nine years old, I had known that my grandpa was a runner, but now I saw him running- unteathered. (He would tie a rope around his middle and tie the other end to my bike, and pull me up the hills of San Francisco, but never before had I seen him run free, so to speak.) The most striking thing about his running was the noise. He must have had just pockets and pockets full of change. The noise of the change clanging was just wonderfully deafening! (I recently noticed that Verona, Wisconsin has a street called "Silent Lane". We could never live there.) So we ran and ran, and every time we almost caught the bus, the light would turn green and we would loose it again.

This went on for seven blocks.

Oh, I was gasping for air! And we were creating such a spectacle. We were so quick.

We finally caught up with the bus, really, after seven blocks. (I say seven. I really don't remember. But it was a long ways.)

I boarded the bus with a feeling akin to that of reaching the top of a tall mountain. I had proven to Grandpa that I could run! Gasping for breath. Alvin paid the fare with the buckets of change from his pockets.

We rode for maybe three blocks, then got off of the bus at our destination. I was too young to see the irony, that we had run seven blocks to ride the bus for three. No matter.

I've probably already told this story. So what? It's my blog.*I'll do as I wish.

* I've noticed that I lost two subscribers recently. I'm wondering if they were vegans who couldn't handle my new meat-eating ways. It brought out this weird side of my personality. I now wonder, How many readers can I get rid of? Go ahead! **Unsubscribe! See if I care!

**I mean, please don't unsubscribe. You might hurt my feelings.


  1. It was a victorious three blocks though! I hope the people on the back seat were cheering for you.

    My Grandfather couldn't run, but he had pockets full of pipe tobacco and cola cubes, which made walking quite enjoyable.

  2. No one took any notice of us on the bus, but that's okay. It didn't defeat me in the slightest.

  3. Don't feel bad. I only have 3 followers. I would never drop you for killing and eating your chickens. I just hope you don't ask me to do it when I visit in July.

  4. Aunt Lou- What?! You're visiting in July? Are you coming the same time as b0b? That would be great! (Was it supposed to be a secret and you just forgot?)

    I will not make you kill a chicken. I promise.

  5. I'll still be your follower: your writing is WAY too much fun!
    This post reminded me of circa 1980, when we chased a train from Osceola Iowa all the way to the Illinois border before we caught it. Ok, so I had to stop and pee on our way down to the station (it was an hour drive, and I'd had lots of coffee). So it was my fault we missed the train, which was supposed to take Jody, Skip and Marc to Chicago. Each tiny town we'd drive in to, that train would be right there, pulling out just ahead of us. They finally jumped on in Davenport, as the train was moving ... I can't believe we didn't get a speeding ticket in any of those little towns.

  6. I'm one of the subscribers you lost, I had to change my e-mail has been a mess! I'm going to resubscribe right now!

  7. Ay, Rose, Great story! Really, a bit more exciting than my story, I think!

    And Holly, I'm so glad it was you! I see you've re-subscribed! Now that just leaves one, which isn't so hard to deal with.

    I'm a sensitive person, after all.