They WERE bus-drivers

The third table. (That’s the Lodge behind.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Saturday, August 21, 2010) we attended the annual Alumni picnic at Hazelwood Lodge in Ellison Park near Rochester.
The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees (Local 282, the Rochester local of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union [“What’s ‘ah-two?’”]) of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit, management versus union.
Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years.
My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
Every summer the Alumni hold an annual picnic.
It seems to have replaced the annual Transit picnic, which included both management and union people.
I attended it once long ago.
I attend these Alumni shindigs, even though I sorta don’t fit, since I too drove bus.
It’s always pleasant to see people I used to work with.
After our long trip to the picnic site, about 45 minutes, we got out of our van and leashed our dog.
“What’s all that yelling?” my wife asked.
A torrent of noisy yelling and bellowing was emanating the Lodge area, about 75 yards away.
“Well, they were bus-drivers,” I said.
The job made us that way.
I walked up to the Lodge, and was heartily greeted.
“Please sign in,” signs said.
“Okay, where’s the sign-in book?” I asked.
“Over here.” I was directed to another table.
“I don’t see no sign-in book,” I said.
“Inside,” I was told.
I walked inside the near-empty Lodge.
Covered dishes of macaroni salad and potato salad were on picnic tables, attracting flies.
Still no sign-in book.
“Out at the greeting table,” I was told.
Back to Square One.
“So where’s this sign-in book?” I asked. “I keep getting told to sign in, yet I don’t see no book.”
“Over there,” I was told.
Over to a third table. Still no sign-in book.
“Back at the greeting table,” I was told.
Back to Square One.
“Looks like if I don’t sign in, all Hell will break loose.”
Back to that third table.
“It looks like I’ve finally found the elusive sign-in book” (under a pile of papers).
I signed in, staving off Armageddon, engaging sweetness and light.
We thereafter disappeared.
Ellison Park, after all, is a park, a place to walk our dog.
There’s just one problem.
Lots of other dogs use it, and our dog is not very well socialized.
We have to keep her away from other dogs, lest she go into fighting mode.
We hiked a trail that disappeared into heavy undergrowth, but then crossed a bridge over a creek into a main trail.
Mosquitos galore; more than at Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”), where we usually walk our dog.
Walking down a wooded trail, a young puppy was coming the other way.
We got off to the side.
But young puppy would have none of it, dragging her young leash-girl toward our dog.
All-of-a-sudden roar-snarl!
The poor girl was knocked to the ground.
“Here, Tabatha. Are you all right?”
Her knees were covered with dirt.
“We’re sorry,” everyone was saying, including us.
“It’s our dog,” we said. “She can be that way.”
That was encounter number one.
Number two was a loose dog, unleashed.
We can try to avoid, but here comes the dog.
Again roar-snarl!
And “We’re sorry.”
Other dog-encounters occurred during our walk, but we managed to avoid dog-fights.
One was two loose dogs.
“You’ll be sorry, Tex.”
“We tell them to stay away, but where do they go?” a lady said.
More dogs.
We diverted into a large pasture.
“Hopefully these bushes will keep them from seeing each other.”
“What a beautiful dog,” someone said, referring to our Irish-Setter.
”But a snapper,” I said.
“She doesn’t like strange dogs getting in her face,” my wife said.
“At our other park (Boughton Park), she knows all the other dogs. No angry encounters.
By then we returned to Hazelwood Lodge, after skirting a pavilion birthday-party with booming rap-music. Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka, with resonant F-bombs galore.
“I gotta use the rest-rooms,” I said.
I hiked up to ‘em, but they all appeared to be locked.
There were six; three per side.
And they were unisex.
But they were all locked open.
I tried one, but it apparently was occupied, locked inside.
I found an open door, but no lock inside.
“Ya’ll hafta guard the door,” I said to my wife.
“Any hot-dogs?” I asked the guy cooking things over an outdoor grill.
“Sure,” he said, uncovering a pan.
I pointed to our dog.
“It’s pretty hot,” my wife said. “I’ll have to cool it.”
Finally chomp! “That hot-dog was for me!”
“They got potato salad inside,” I said to my wife.
“But I don’t wanna go in there,” my wife said. “I’d be alone.”
I’d hafta hang onto the dog while she went inside.
“Well, I guess we oughta get outta here,” I said.
We’d been there about two hours, enough to jaw with a few people, and walk our dog.
We drifted toward the parking-lot; no goodbyes or strident histrionics.
I’m sort of a misfit at these shindigs; was as a bus-driver too.
Plus my stroke may have something to do with it. I tend to avoid talking to people.
“Is that Stitt?” I asked, pointing out Terry Stitt.
“He finally retired, after 40-some years.”

• ”Ellison Park” is a large county park east of Rochester.
• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)
• My wife of 42+ years is “Linda.”
• “Boughton Park” is where I run and we walk our dog. It’s a nearby town park.