Gathering of former bus-drivers

Gathering of former bus-drivers at Cartwrights Maple Tree Inn.

Yesterday (Wednesday, March 12, 2008) I attended a gathering of retired bus-drivers (all except me [as photographer] visible above, except Art Dana, who is obscured).
The gathering was at a rural pancake house far out in the Southern Tier near Houghton — in the town of Angelica, but far from the village.
The pancake house is Cartwrights Maple Tree Inn, a restaurant added to the long-ago family maple sugaring business.
I guess it’s open only three months a year, during the maple sugaring season. It gets tour-buses of aging geezers.
It was rather depressing. I’m not in stellar shape, but not as bad as them — they all have to watch their sugar, yet pour gobs of sugar in their coffee, and gallons of maple-syrup on their pancakes. (“For heaven sake, Ron; ya gonna be able to stir that?”)
Creaky geezers were surfing by in walkers, and the handicapped parking-slots were swamped. But none of us were using walkers, or staggering about holding onto doting relatives.
The worst image was an older women who could barely surmount the door threshold; about an inch.
About the onliest ones who seemed in good shape were Gary Colvin (my age), and Ron Palermo and Norb Dynsky (“Din-SKI”). (Norbert not Norman.)
But both Palermo and Dynsky have to watch their sugar, and Palermo is overweight.
Tony Coia (“KOY-uh”) looked okay, but smokes (as does Dynsky).
Colvin, like me, is ornery.
At least one was hobbling due to a stroke, but that seemed to be his only impediment, although like me he had slight difficulty getting words out.
Another guy, who hired on right after me, looked like he might have had a stroke. One whole side of his face was slumped.
There were also a few guys I never knew; up around 2400-badge. Mine was 1763.
Most everyone was retired well after me; and apparently Transit got worse after I left.
The verifiable stroke-survivor was once a road-supervisor (management), and thinks Transit has gone to Hell-in-a-Handbasket.
(“Those guys have no idea how to run a bus-company at all.”)
Most depressing was Dana, who has Parkinson’s and seems in slightly worse shape than Reynders — that is, not bad, but slow. He also trembles a little.
He also can’t stand up straight; slightly stooped.
Dana is a hot-rodder. He told me he recently built a steel Model-A roadster on a ‘46 Ford frame with a ‘55 Pontiac V8. It’s still in black primer, and I hope it stays that way. (He called it “a rat.”)
He also used to build custom choppers, and rode motorbike himself.
He also had a large American-Flyer S-gauge model-railroad layout in the basement of his Rochester home.
He said his wife had died, so he moved in with his sister in a Rochester suburb because he could no longer keep up his house.
He seems to be happy, but it’s not the Art Dana I knew from long ago.
Confident and ornery reduced to a hobbled little old man.
“I take 14 pills a day,” he told me.
A lot of my attitude toward bus driving was gleaned from Dana.
“Once I got called on the carpet because a state checker gave me a bad transfer at the Psych-Center.”
“I had wadded it up and put it in the trash.”
“That’s what I used to do!” I crowed. “I got it from you!”
“Do you guys have any idea who gets off at the Psych-Center?” he told management. “The idea was to not get mugged!”
Memories and stories got batted around. There also was a distinct lack of diplomacy, tact and etiquette. Words like “please” and “pardon-me” were not in the bus-driver lexicon. Bus-driving makes you that way — always dealing with blowhards. “Here; gimme that!” I said abruptly. (No one was offended — there were no Bluster-Kings.)
I probably had the fewest pancakes. I had three, plus a sausage-patty. I probably coulda got by on two.
Colvin had 14; and another may have had more.
It was “all-you-can-eat,” and the pancakes were buckwheat.
The average consumption per person was about eight pancakes.

For 16&1/2 years I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.

“Southern Tier” of counties of western New York state.

RE: “town:” —In New York state a “town” is the equivalent of a township, and may encompass a large area. The actual village the “town” may be named after is just a village (or city: e.g. the “City of Canandaigua” is within the “Town of Canandaigua).

“Houghton” is Houghton College, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious college.

“Reynders” is Tom Reynders (“RINE-ders”) my sister-in-south-Floridy’s husband.

“The Bluster-King” is my macho, loudmouthed brother-from-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say.