For the Love of a Bus
“My curiosity got the best of me,” he says, 6’3″ or so, lean, and riding a bike. He’s at least 60, and looks good in silver hair and glasses.
He’s referring to the Bus. “What year is it?”
“A ’78,” I reply. Old hat for me, but I love talking about her. He asks about her pop top, whether or not she has a kitchen.
“I see your hookups,” he points and pauses, “how many people can you fit in there?”
I smile. “Well, we’ve had two adults, a tween and a dog before. Now we’re doing the lady and I plus our two babies.”
We chit chat, he rides off to his Scamp a few sites down the way. He’s not the only person who nearly killed their cat pondering over the old girl.
Two middle-aged women, three teenage kids between them, pull up on a gold cart, a different day, a different park. “I asked your wife if we could take a picture!” One of them says while the other holds up an iPhone. They’re all, teenagers included, smiling.
With exuberance I agree. Old men love her, they always want to know what year, what size engine. “A four cylinder??!” they exclaim, astounded.
“I bet you’re only doing 45 up most hills,” they laugh.
“Closer to 35 if I play the shifter right,” I return. More chuckles ensue.
Young kids hoot and holler, rigging their fist-clenched arms through the air asking for a blow of the horn. The horn doesn’t currently work, but I always give them a hoot back and the peace sign.
Young guys in hot rods, young moms with stroller sized babies, hippies and hicks alike, they all come around for the Bus love.
In six days we’ve had fifteen, that I can recall, encounters, discussions thanks to her. That’s more than we typically get in a month in our Airstream. We’ve even had people come over to visit twice. Kinda nice.
Nice to have a vehicle that makes friends for you.