The Strange Bus Ride

I’m not used to taking the city bus, but my car broke down, so I was going to the shop to pick it up then drive back home. I thought the experience of a bus ride would be kind of nostalgic and bring back some old times when it was my way of getting around town when I was younger.

I would call just to make sure I knew which one to take, where to catch it and how much the fare would be.

The next day I walked down to where I was supposed to be at and stood there at the right time.

Making sure I was having the right amount of change ready as the approaching bus slowed to a stop.

I got on, step up, putting my bus fare in the fare slot. Then I’d noticed the bus driver’s name ID tag was Cecil. I had an uncle named Cecil once, but he had died when I was just twenty. He sort of looked like him except he was skinnier and didn’t have a mustache. I just put it out of my mind and didn’t think about it much more.

I started my way through the isle, not knowing whom I might be stuck sitting with.

Ah, an empty seat, feeling the sense of luck. Now I have the control of who sits next to me.

Not really, I thought. Even though I knew the little control I did have was all depending on how I would present myself when someone would decide to sit down in the seat with me, besides I didn’t want someone strange or weird sitting there.

We came up to another bus stop in front of a grocery store, an elderly woman got on. Putting her bags down as she was paying her fare she looked around. I caught her looking at my seat, great! There are plenty of others, please sit in one of those. I thought loudly to myself.

I turned toward the window, just kept looking outside. Then it happened. She sat down, right next to me.

She smelled of grandma perfume. It wasn’t to bad I thought, I suppose I can tolerate it for a little while, I hope she’s not going very far.

Her perfume kind of reminded me of my grandmother and couple of great aunts, I thought of them once in awhile and missed them very much.

They would tell me some of their funniest stories of growing up. They had all passed on when I was a teenager.

She started talking to me. She seemed to be a sweet old lady. She would talk about her family from long ago. She had two sisters name Kathryn and the other one named Jessie. Her sister Kathryn had a large family and that she had spent a lot of time with and enjoyed her sister’s grandchildren she had missed them for so many years.

Well young man, it was nice talking to you. This is my stop up here, Winslow Avenue; this is where I get off.

Yes, it was nice talking to you too. Then I hesitated. With her hand on my shoulder she said. My name is Ester Gaitland.

She had step off the bus and went to the white picket fence gate, in front of a white-clapboarded styled cottage.

The bus pulled away, I thought how much of a coincidence was that.

That was my great aunts and grandmother’s names. My grandmother had a large family.

I spent my childhood with them, some of my fondest memories.

When I got home. I called the transit company. The man there was pretty helpful, at first.

Well sir, he said. We have no one that works here named Cecil. And like I said I check! There is no street in the city anywhere named Winslow Avenue.

And there is no buses scheduled at that stop where you got on at, on the hour. They are fifth teen minutes after and fifth teen minutes till the hour each day.

I don’t know what else to tell you, sir.

A couple of days later I drove where the old woman got off the buss at and looked for that quaint cottage with the picket fence.

As puzzled as I was, it was a vacant field and there was no bus stop anywhere there.

Every now then I think about that bus ride.

I had never ridden a bus since and I don’t think I will be able to again.

Rolling Rocks

When I was about ten I was riding through the mountain pass with my Dad and uncle.

I noticed some signs that said “Watch Out for Rolling Rocks”. Well, that kind of puzzled me for a while. So I finally asked them. What did that sign mean? They both turned to each other. Well should we tell him? About the little Indian brave, my uncle said. Dad replied he’d probably hear about it sooner or later.

Well it started a long time ago. It was about the time when the settlers were moving out west in their wagon trains. Stirring up dust, making noise and camping in the Indians prized hunting grounds. Once that group of wagons and settlers would go through another group of them would go through, doing the same thing to the Indians territory. By this time the Indians were getting madder as each month passed by. They would hold pow-wows of how they were going to deal with these trespassers tromping in their mountains.

After several get togethers of all the other surrounding Indians tribes, they felt there wasn’t much they could about it. None of them knew what could be done; they didn’t want to talk to them. They weren’t quite sure what to expect. So they just hope the settlers would just go away.

Well they didn’t! Now they would wander off the trail and hunt their wild animals, cut down their trees for firewood and other things.

There was this one little Indian brave. What I mean by little was, he was full-grown but he is smaller than all the other braves of his age.

He decided one day to take it upon himself to do something about it. After all the rest of other braves were afraid to confront them.

The little brave went up on the top of the mountainsides and set rocks on top. So when a group of wagons would go that way again he would roll the rocks in front of them.

After all he didn’t want to hurt anyone he just wanted to scare them so they wouldn’t go through there anymore. He made sure no one ever seen him, he was small after all, and was good at hiding and getting away.

After a few times of this going on, the word started to spread back east where they would set out with the wagon trains to head west, that those mountains may be haunted or something.

To the rest of the other Indians they were amazed that the brave little Indian plans were working. The settlers didn’t seem to come by as often. The word traveled fast to the other Indian tribes camps in other mountain passes.

His tribe was so excited about his bravery and contribution. And it was one of they’re own. They would eventually make him a chief. From that day forward he was known as “Chief Rolling Rocks”.

Well sorry to say, some good things are known to come to an end. The settlers found it to be necessary to keep pushing out west to settle the new lands. The stories of how great the hunting, fishing and fertile lands were. They started to come that way again.

He still carried out his campaign of trying to scare the westward bound settlers, but it wasn’t having much effect anymore.

Eventually time went on and the west was becoming more developed. Highways were put through the mountain passes for easier traveling for the modern day cars.

What about the little Indian brave turned chief. He latter went on in spirit to his favorite hunting grounds.

To this day when you go through the mountain passes you will find those warning signs that say “Watch Out for Rolling Rocks” I sometimes had found some over the years where, someone had wrote in chief on some those road way signs.

Anytime you hear that rocks had rolled down the mountainside on to the road. That just may had been the spirit of that little brave turn chief, still trying to get his message across to the unsuspecting travelers that he is still around even though in spirit

Rest in peace little brave Indian chief, rest in peace…