The Egotist Within
I was 60 years old when I became a grandmother. For the first time. For all I know for the last time as well. We have but one grandchild. She's now ten, I'm 70. She's a wonderful child, for aren't all children wonderful, and most particularly those of your own, generationally. When she was old enough to attend school we enrolled her at a school close to where we live, since we had been her daycare providers from the time she was 8 months old. She was bused to and from school by a school bus.
During the first several years of busing she had female bus drivers, one of whom was an absolute and utter harridan, the others more kindly, more given by nature to working among and with children. In her third year taking the bus to school, when she started attending grade one, her driver was an older man. We would walk her to the bus stop at the corner of the street early mornings, and pick her up at the same stop in the afternoons. We became familiar with the bus driver, a truly jovial, kind-hearted man.
Our granddaughter enjoyed taking the bus and would object strenuously when it was suggested to her that we might just this once drive her to school on a special occasion. She preferred the bus. She liked the experience. She met other children aboard the bus some of whom became her friends. And of course she had a strong rapport with her bus driver who would never permit her to exit the bus when she was younger unless we were there to gather her up.
We were grateful to him for his wonderful manner with the children. We were grateful because we felt her to be in capable, caring hands when she was being transported to and from school. When her bus driver (whom we had long ago exchanged first names with) would drop her off, he would look during clement months of the year, to see if I was working in the front garden, and stop to let her off prematurely, right at our driveway. And then tell my husband when he arrived at the stop that she was home.
This was because he wanted to speak with me, however briefly. It became clear that somehow this man had become enamoured of me. The way in which he would look at me, the way he spoke with me, his admiration for me came through loud and clear. Certainly it was flattering. I would have enjoyed speaking with him without this additional element, because one does respond positively to people with a happy outlook on life, their optimism shining through.
There were times when he would tell me he thought I was beautiful and I hardly knew how to respond, and laughed instead. He would compliment me on how wonderful the gardens looked, but then everyone said that of our gardens. His predecessor would always slow down to have a careful look at the gardens as she passed on her route, and she had told me once that even in fall or winter the gardens had an attractively distinctive look.
I never did mention to my husband any of my thoughts about this fascination my presence seemed to hold for our grandchild's bus driver. He and my husband had a genial, warm and friendly relationship also. Then the talk would be of a far different calibre. And last year our daughter moved away from our area and for the first time in ten years we no longer looked after her. She began attending school in another district altogether, a full hour's drive from our home.
From time to time I'd see a school bus driving down the street for there are other children on this street who require school transport. I've never been very good at peering within moving vehicles to recognize occupants or drivers, but I realized that one of these buses would be his and he would be looking out to catch a glimpse of me on occasion. Such irrelevant matters within the course of one's life recede into dim memory of another time.
Today, when we had dropped by our local bank and I waited for my husband in the antechamber as he conducted some brief business, who came sweeping through the doors? None other than the old bus driver. I say old, he must approximate our own age. A large smile swept his broad face and he positioned himself directly before me. We acknowledged one another, asked after one another, and he said how well I looked.
He asked after our grandchild, and by then my husband had joined us. Throughout the three-way conversation he dropped sentences that betrayed his ongoing devotion to someone or something he felt I represented to him. He mentioned that at times he would pass down the street and see me, and feel a compunction to pick me up. I told him the police would get him for that. He asked if our granddaughter was as beautiful as I and I responded that she had healthy, natural good looks.
He asked my husband if he had yet turned 70, and his response was, not yet; another month. Whereupon I chirped that I was 70, and he turned to me in surprise, saying he would never have guessed it, saying how young I looked. I told him it must have something to do with my having met my husband when we were both 14, and growing up together, what fun it had all been and continues to this day. His face creased in a responsive, appreciative acknowledgement.
We parted, assuring each other what a pleasure it had been, and we hoped to see one another again, soon. And I wondered just what it was that persuades people that someone so utterly peripheral to their own lives has some especial meaning for them. It's potently flattering to be the object of someone's unabashed admiration. The stuff of romantic novels.
In a way, it's also quite sad.
During the first several years of busing she had female bus drivers, one of whom was an absolute and utter harridan, the others more kindly, more given by nature to working among and with children. In her third year taking the bus to school, when she started attending grade one, her driver was an older man. We would walk her to the bus stop at the corner of the street early mornings, and pick her up at the same stop in the afternoons. We became familiar with the bus driver, a truly jovial, kind-hearted man.
Our granddaughter enjoyed taking the bus and would object strenuously when it was suggested to her that we might just this once drive her to school on a special occasion. She preferred the bus. She liked the experience. She met other children aboard the bus some of whom became her friends. And of course she had a strong rapport with her bus driver who would never permit her to exit the bus when she was younger unless we were there to gather her up.
We were grateful to him for his wonderful manner with the children. We were grateful because we felt her to be in capable, caring hands when she was being transported to and from school. When her bus driver (whom we had long ago exchanged first names with) would drop her off, he would look during clement months of the year, to see if I was working in the front garden, and stop to let her off prematurely, right at our driveway. And then tell my husband when he arrived at the stop that she was home.
This was because he wanted to speak with me, however briefly. It became clear that somehow this man had become enamoured of me. The way in which he would look at me, the way he spoke with me, his admiration for me came through loud and clear. Certainly it was flattering. I would have enjoyed speaking with him without this additional element, because one does respond positively to people with a happy outlook on life, their optimism shining through.
There were times when he would tell me he thought I was beautiful and I hardly knew how to respond, and laughed instead. He would compliment me on how wonderful the gardens looked, but then everyone said that of our gardens. His predecessor would always slow down to have a careful look at the gardens as she passed on her route, and she had told me once that even in fall or winter the gardens had an attractively distinctive look.
I never did mention to my husband any of my thoughts about this fascination my presence seemed to hold for our grandchild's bus driver. He and my husband had a genial, warm and friendly relationship also. Then the talk would be of a far different calibre. And last year our daughter moved away from our area and for the first time in ten years we no longer looked after her. She began attending school in another district altogether, a full hour's drive from our home.
From time to time I'd see a school bus driving down the street for there are other children on this street who require school transport. I've never been very good at peering within moving vehicles to recognize occupants or drivers, but I realized that one of these buses would be his and he would be looking out to catch a glimpse of me on occasion. Such irrelevant matters within the course of one's life recede into dim memory of another time.
Today, when we had dropped by our local bank and I waited for my husband in the antechamber as he conducted some brief business, who came sweeping through the doors? None other than the old bus driver. I say old, he must approximate our own age. A large smile swept his broad face and he positioned himself directly before me. We acknowledged one another, asked after one another, and he said how well I looked.
He asked after our grandchild, and by then my husband had joined us. Throughout the three-way conversation he dropped sentences that betrayed his ongoing devotion to someone or something he felt I represented to him. He mentioned that at times he would pass down the street and see me, and feel a compunction to pick me up. I told him the police would get him for that. He asked if our granddaughter was as beautiful as I and I responded that she had healthy, natural good looks.
He asked my husband if he had yet turned 70, and his response was, not yet; another month. Whereupon I chirped that I was 70, and he turned to me in surprise, saying he would never have guessed it, saying how young I looked. I told him it must have something to do with my having met my husband when we were both 14, and growing up together, what fun it had all been and continues to this day. His face creased in a responsive, appreciative acknowledgement.
We parted, assuring each other what a pleasure it had been, and we hoped to see one another again, soon. And I wondered just what it was that persuades people that someone so utterly peripheral to their own lives has some especial meaning for them. It's potently flattering to be the object of someone's unabashed admiration. The stuff of romantic novels.
In a way, it's also quite sad.
Labels: Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 5:02 PM
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