Did you ever just feel when you were raising your children that you needed to get away? Not get away like to another planet, and not necessarily by yourself, but maybe on some little jaunt to your family’s out-of-state place? Family, the only ones on this earth who wouldn’t collapse when they saw you descending on them with four little ones, one suitcase, a fistful of coins instead of dollars, and disturbing signs of post-traumatic stress due to riding a Greyhound bus halfway across the country.

Want a sure cure for your fear of flying? Try hopping a bus going 1,500 miles in 42 hours and, halfway there, you’ll be hanging out of the window flagging down some pilot to land his plane and whisk you and your loved ones away.

But really, it was my sister, the instigator, who set me up for the ’deal of a lifetime’---an offer only good up until 6:00 P.M. on the day she called.

“ Quick! It said on the T.V. commercial that you can go anywhere in the United States for fifty dollars on the Greyhound bus,” she excitedly exclaimed. “ And for everyone over twelve, one passenger rides free. That means for pocket change of only $150.00, you and the kids can be here in less than 48 hours. Imagine, just leaning back and leaving the driving to them.”

“I leave the driving to my husband and I ’m in therapy,” I protested.

“See you in a couple of days,” and click, she was gone.

Of course my husband wouldn’t be going because of his job. So upset was he to be left behind that in less than an hour he had dumped the kids and me off on the corner of Main Street and Market, and with a big grin on his face, sped off like he was in some get away car. First stop for us was Lockport, then Buffalo, and then to all connections heading toward Houston.

The bus driver had a friendly face and a bounce to his step as he descended the stairs to escort us on and to help me with my one suitcase. “Where you headed, young lady?” Hey, I liked his style---young lady. But ya know, I really was--- back then, about 35 years ago.

“Houston, Texas,” I breathlessly replied.

“HOUSTON, TEXAS!” he yelled as he dropped my luggage with a thud and everybody on the bus started staring. “What do you mean Houston, Texas? Don’t toy with me lady, there’s only one suitcase and there’s five of you. What do you think, this bus line makes stops at every laundry mat along the way?”

Don’t you resent being forced into volunteering too much information and practically telling strangers your life story? But what do you do when ’Mr. Friendly’ turns into a prosecuting attorney? You defend yourself, that’s what you do. I mean, I’m meticulous about my person, and never once were my kids dragged down to the school nurse to be checked for lice or crabs.

“I hope sir, you’re not implying that we’re slobs. Actually, my over-flowing desk qualifies me as one, but you see, the reason I have only one suitcase is because…”

“The motor is running, lady,” he snapped.
“ Because I only had a few minutes to pack and…”

“ Gotta keep to the schedule.”

“And my sisters are my size so I can wear their clothes and my children’s cousins are the same ages and sizes so they can wear…”

“Go to the back of the bus,” he ordered.

“Look, lady, just board this baby and we’ll forget that I ever said five people, one suitcase.”

He never once mentioned my emotional baggage. Make those two suitcases.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

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