When I was 5 years old, I loved to wear my grandfather’s hats. Irish hats, fishing hats, knit hats. I’d put them on and feel like an adult, transformed as I sat on the floor and played with my big, yellow Tonka trucks and earth movers. They were larger than life, toys for grown-ups, big boys, something to grow into … one day. Big yellow construction toys that made the earth pliable, able to be shaped just how I wanted it.
It started with the hats.
“Would you get my hat back from Jack?” my pop-pop would ask to my mom. “I don’t want to have to take it away from him.”
Today, I smile every time we return to our big, yellow school bus, standing head-and-shoulders above the cars and SUVs and pickups in a parking lot. It speaks to the kid in me. Every time I turn the key and this 15-ton toy Tonka roars to life, it’s a childlike celebration. Every journey to a new city or even the fuel station a mile away is a field trip — the one day each school year we didn’t have to wear a tie and went to places like Hershey Park or the Liberty Bell, the one school day each year we looked forward to school. Our 15 tons of fun is a toy Tonka front-end loader and crane and bulldozer, machinery bigger than life and the stuff of childlike awe. It’s a big toy, this 2009 International school bus Kitty and I call home, a toy that maybe I’m not supposed to be playing with. It’s for big boys, for when I grow up.
Thinking back to that first test drive in Arizona, the sheer size and power of the bus scared the hell out of me. It took a big gulp and acceleration-of-faith to pull out of that Tucson industrial park into the streets. Fast forward a couple months and 3,000 miles across America: Now, as much fun as Kitty and I have at every stop along the way, there’s an equal rush returning to the bus, standing head-and-shoulders above the other cars. When a moment has passed and pictures captured, I don one of the hats I’ve picked up along the way, climb back behind the steering wheel and feel the adrenaline as I turn the key. There’s no sweeter sound than the diesel engine gearing up to go, whenever the road calls us, wherever it leads. Hearing the bus go through its checks before starting, electrical components signing off all around the bus, it’s like a chorus of machinery urging me to go. We’re astronauts waiting in the capsule for all systems clear. 3 … 2 … 1 … This is my rumbling, grumbling, steel-wheeled, canary yellow rocket ship taking us everywhere. It’s a life of childhood imagination.
Every day is a field trip, but there are lessons to learn. I watch the truckers climb hills in low gear with flashers on, then coast fuel-free down the side of a mountain. They straddle the axle-killing potholes so rampant after winter, and I do the same so Kitty doesn’t bounce up in the air (maybe just jiggle). I’ve gotten comfortable up here, head-and-shoulders above the cars and SUVs and minivans. I even changed my boots while rolling through a construction zone.
From borrowing my grandfather’s hats to the bright, white 10-gallon lid I picked up in Oklahoma, I’ve come full circle. In the bus, I always seem to have a hat on these days. My hair hasn’t been cut in months — not for how it looks walking around, but how it feels under my lids, driving my bus, the wind flowing through it. Free. I’m a kid again. Playing with a big, yellow toy Tonka till I’m told it’s time to go. Or give up my hat.
