Seattle Busses

"My Friday regulars."

"My Monday regulars."

"My Wednesday regulars."

Only the first was actually spoken to us by any bus driver, but I think
they probably all had that feeling. I am not saying we are the center
of the universe, I am simply saying that people tend to notice people
that ride the bus often.

Of course, the guy who drove the 24 probably had a lot of regulars. I
tend to notice individual people, and who knows? Perhaps more than one
bus driver noticed the quiet, often serious little Chinese girl, the
quiet, often serious middle-aged woman, and the girl who read or wrote
or drew and was sometimes serious, often quiet (yammering away inside
her head like she often does when confronted with a crowded room full
of strangers). For those were the "regulars".

Or perhaps they took no more notice of us than they did of the Chinese
grandmothers shouting across the bus in lyrical Cantonese what they
bought at the markets in Chinatown. The markets! From our passing on
the bus, I could not smell the fresh produce, but I could see and hear
the little old grannies. Oh, how I would miss them! But I do not.
Instead, they chatter away in a lyrical dialect as unknown to me as
Cantonese and I meet them everywhere.

And they knew my mother--here it is always, "hello Eunice" from the
younger crowd, but in Seattle, once a week or more we would meet a
little old grannie who came to her community English class and could
say a few things to her in broken English. Those Saturdays were often
days of Chinese delicacies, brought home from generous students. But I
digress.

Whether it was to downtown from the bus stop up the hill from our
house, filling with Chinese grannies and then filling with other people
from all walks of life, or back up from downtown, often on a sunny
evening or a dark cold night, when I was only too glad to get on and
hope to squeeze a seat, or if it was to Rainier Beach from the bus stop
on Walker Street (an ongoing joke between me and Becky) or
back--through the greenbelt, of course--or sometimes taking the Kinnear
bus to the Seattle Center, the 36 route (changing to the 1) was and
probably still is my favorite.

You'll never know where you'll meet a bus driver (and I won't go into
that now). We have met a bus driver we're pretty sure has driven us on
the 36 once or twice. We don't remember every bus driver. But we do
some of them.

I know at least SOME drivers might have noticed us...I recognized all
sorts of regulars. A British woman from Magnolia on the 24...long blond
hair, a strange but almost beautiful face; a man on the 55 to West
Seattle--always in a thickly lined coat, bald, and sort of belonging
among coat like a snowy owl. People like that. And our bus drivers,
too. The one who noticed us was somewhat nice and a bit heavy, with a
beard and looking like a cross between Henry VIII and my violin
teacher, who, by the way, bears a striking resemblance to the aforesaid
Bluebeard. In looks, I mean, not personality!

Now in my head is "Shule Aroon". And I know why. Once off the bus and
home for good, what better than to play a CD or two? And I know what
CDs we played often enough. What little music I have I don't play
enough of...I popped in our meager Atwater-Donnelly collection last
night and tears stung my eyes as the memories flew back and socked me
in the face. I should play them more often. Then again,
Atwater-Donnelly always makes me cry, even at home under perfect
"playing conditions" ("Where the Wild Birds do Whistle"--hot summer
night, "Culled from the Garden"--sunny morning, late night, or, best of
all, down to Portland). Well, not CRY, but my eyes are certainly not
dry. Whatever.

And, all those who I've seen on the busses and remember so clearly, and
others as well--I'm thinking of you.