Class of '64: Part 2

It wasn't too painful after all. In fact I’d have to say that my 50^th Class Reunion was an enjoyable experience only mildly laden with angst and just lightly sprinkled with trauma. There were some changes in the dynamics of the class and there were some things that hadn't changed at all. Nostalgia was rampant, of course, and there were some differences of opinion as to the “facts” of our high school history.

First the good stuff. Our graduating class consisted of one-hundred-forty seven students, as I recall. We had forty seven in attendance at the reunion. About seventy didn't respond or were not located when the committee started their search. And about thirty have died. I guess that last statement wouldn't qualify as “good stuff.” Of course since I’m not part of the “departed” group it might still count.

Friday night we had a meet and greet session at a local bar and grill. When I saw all the unfamiliar faces I thought I’d arrived at the wrong party. But then I recognized a couple of folks and I had the realization that those unfamiliar faces were just the result of time and its effects on some people. In time the shock of that realization wore off and we visited a little bit with many old friends. But we had a nice time and were fortunate to meet up with a classmate and his wife who, when I was in school, I had no contact with at all. They are lovely people and were kind enough to socialize with us as I adjusted to the fact that all the old folks in the room were pretty close to my age.

Saturday we were also fortunate to join three other old friends for lunch. Two of these friends had started school in my class but for various reasons they ended up a year back. The other friend left our school to go to a nearby parochial high school. Did I mention that one of these friends was my very first girlfriend? Yep. We “dated” back in fourth or fifth grade. My wife was very nice to my old flame but I could tell she was nervous about a rekindling of that fire. Either that or she was disappointed that her lunch order came out of the kitchen cold. In spite of that we had a great visit and caught up on many, many years of lost time.

The main event of the weekend happened Saturday evening at a very old and moderately posh country club. Seeing all of my classmates wasn't quite as shocking this time. Even when I noticed that several who had missed the Friday “meet and greet” came in with canes and walkers I wasn't too surprised. During the pre-dinner cocktail hour I had the opportunity to chat with many nice folks. We sampled the appetizers and had an adult beverage or two. Pictures were taken and finally the buffet dinner was served. It was a fairly typical buffet I suppose, but we were a fairly typical bunch of folks. After the meal a little program was presented by some of the organizers. Our senior class president also gave a little talk and made a few jokes that were received in a rather lukewarm way. After all the formalities a pretty good three piece band played.

Early in the evening everyone was mixing nicely. But as the night wore on the old cliques started to re-form and the crowd truly did look like a bunch of (very old) high school kids, each clique in tight circles, doing their best to be the coolest group in the room. So that left some of us where we were during those long ago years – standing or sitting on the edge of the room making funny, but sarcastic, remarks about the people in their cliques. It was just like old times only with much better jokes.

I’d like to say that we stayed until the wee hours, dancing and cavorting with the old crowd. But that would be a lie. No, we left the party at about 9:30. It had been a fun evening and we were very glad that we made the trip. In fact I’m looking forward to the next reunion, maybe the sixtieth. I have a theory that through attrition I might even eventually be considered one of cool kids in the class.

Have a fine day.

Class of '64

This has been a year for reunions. A couple months ago I attended a big affair, a gathering of relatives on my mother’s side of the family. It was a fine event with the requisite tears, laughter and catching-up that good family reunions need.  Another reunion is coming up in just a few days and we’re getting ready to travel again. This one marks the fiftieth year since I graduated from high school. That was in 1964 for folks who have trouble with arithmetic. Hard to believe, I know, since I’m still so warmly wrapped in the glow of youth.

But it’s true. Back in late June of 1964, having turned seventeen only a few months earlier, I completed, what came to be called on various applications and government forms, my formal education. Believe me, I was glad to be done with it all.

Some folks hold high school fondly in their memories. They can recall nearly every event, classmate – friend or foe, teacher and class, and even the lunch ladies and janitorial staff. Athletic events, school dances and plays are all firmly imprinted on the pages of their mental diaries. Proms are on pages trimmed in gold. I suppose that’s as it should be. We should have good memories of those days when hopes were high and serious troubles seemed to be something that happened to other people. But school, for me, was something to be tolerated. It was only a place I attended and not a place where I fully participated, especially in the last two years. In ninth and tenth grade I was more involved, excited about learning and having a social life. In eleventh and twelfth grades I learned that rebellion was more interesting than conformity. In fact, in my senior year I probably spent more time cutting classes, hitchhiking around the back roads of our county, and reading forbidden books than I spent in the halls of academia.

My friends in school were of a casual sort, not the “best friend forever” type. I got along, especially with my female classmates.  The two years I spent at an all-male religious school were tougher because they were not softened by the gentility of young women. Returning to my hometown public school for my senior year was a good thing even if I wasn't participating to the fullest. Girlfriends were far more important than classes. Ditching the last three periods of the day so I could hitch rides to a nearby town to meet my true love at her bus stop seemed more enjoyable than being confined to a school building. Somehow I managed to keep up with the schoolwork and brought home passing grades. My absences weren’t missed as long as the report cards were okay.

There were some good times at school. The advanced English class kept my attention and fortunately it was a morning session. Working on the school literary magazine was also a fine activity and I was proud to be a part of that effort. The literati were not as highly esteemed as the athletic people. That held doubly true for boys. Our school had a mixture of farmer’s kids and kids who came from the working class. That working class, more often than not, meant that the dads (and sometimes the moms) were employed by Eastman Kodak or the General Motors affiliate that built carburetors. Some of the families might be considered upper middle-class but there were very few rich kids in our school. Athletics were valued. The FFA was trendy. Driving a souped-up car was a real status symbol, especially if you did your own work. But reading Dostoevsky, Kerouac, Keats or Milton wouldn't get a guy an invitation to a party.

So this weekend my dear wife and I will go back to the old hometown and take part in the reunion activities. I've asked myself why I want to celebrate this fifty year milestone with so many folks who were mostly just faces in the halls of our school. Only a few could be considered friends. However, since the advent of Facebook quite a number of my classmates have signed on as my “friends”. Some have even started corresponding with me on a fairly frequent basis. Perhaps time has erased some of the cliquishness that existed all those years ago. Perhaps there is more nostalgia in my mind than I admit to in conversation. And maybe I just want to see how the years have treated our generation. Who has aged well? Who has not been so kindly handled by time’s passing? And who has passed on to that “Senior Prom in the Sky”. It should be fun.

Now have a fine day.

Education 101

Summer is almost over, not the actual equinox version of summer but the mental version that we carry around from our childhood days. The kids are back in school in most places. In more northern areas school won’t start until after Labor Day. That’s the way it was when I was grinding through grades K through 12. Teachers, administrators and other academic types are back at their jobs full time. School buses are rolling, morning and evening. Before you know it it’ll be time for Thanksgiving break.

It’s always interesting to me how every new school year is so, well, new.  You would think that a school year was never started in the past. From top administrators down to the dear lunch room staff there is a completely addled attitude. Bus routes need to be re-learned. Schedules and room assignments are jumbled and kids are standing around bewildered. Of course the students seem no more bewildered than the principals and teachers who run helter-skelter trying to fix computer foul-ups and other conflicts. With all the pre-school-year orientations and in-service workshops don’t you think there could have been a little more attention given to basic things? But no, those sessions are spent talking about the psychology of success, or inspiring students and peers, or eliminating bullying, or the proper method of completing federally mandated paperwork. A simple run through of bus routes and daily schedules might alleviate most of the opening day problems.

We throw a ton of money at our schools. We want them to be the best. We want our children to get a good start in life and we want them to learn enough to move on to higher education or to a decent job in the work force. There are thousands of good, dedicated teachers who are committed to the task of passing knowledge on to the little empty-heads sitting in the classrooms. There are layers upon layers of administrators above those beleaguered teachers, equally committed to making the task of teaching a bureaucratic nightmare. And of course above those administrators are the members of school boards, various departments of state governments, and the far reaching arms of the federal educational bureaucracy, not to mention well-meaning but foolish politicians. It’s not hard to figure out that a very big piece of the taxpayers’ contribution to the system goes to maintaining the system, and a relatively small piece gets doled out at the proper end of the chain of command.

So the money for the kids and teachers is hijacked. Then the states and “feds” pile bureaucratic baloney on to the teachers, local school officials, school nurses, and even the lunch room staff.  All kinds of “mandates” must be met if some federal or state funding is to reach the individual schools. And then there are the requirements for the “Common Core” initiative which is an unholy alliance between the federal educational bureaucracy and certain corporate entities. In the end we’re lucky if a kid can read, write and do simple math after thirteen years in the system. Actually many of them can’t. So off they go to a two year college to take remedial reading, writing and arithmetic so that they can then take some dumbed down college courses. What a cycle of delusion and despair.

Of course there are some children who will learn stuff in spite of the system.  Lots of kids are curious and if given a little direction and a little more attention they’ll find a way to suck up some education. But many youngsters, after running up against the limitations brought about by the stifling system, give up. They coast along, getting bumped up year after year, and eventually graduate totally unprepared for work or life outside their childhood homes.

What a pessimist I am.  I started out thinking about the pleasures of a new school year and I ended up depressing myself by thinking about the thousands and thousands of kids who won’t have the chance to truly succeed in our current educational system. If you've read all this way you may be depressed as well. So maybe I can come up with a little encouragement. Okay. If you’re a parent pay attention to your kids’ schools, be a watchdog, make sure your kid gets some teachers who still have the heart for teaching, and be an advocate for less bureaucracy and more real education.  If you don’t have kids in school don’t ignore the problems that I've mentioned. You are probably a taxpayer so it’s your money that is feeding the system. Pay attention. Don’t put dummies on the school boards. Don’t expect money to solve all of the problems. Resist elected officials and bureaucrats who encourage wasteful spending. Remember that a new school building does not guarantee any improvement in education. I’d rather see some way of raising the compensation of good teachers than building a new monument to some overpaid superintendent of schools.

Okay. I’m done now. Think about this stuff. It’s important. Now have a fine day.

"Leave the Driving to Us": An Epilogue

A few weeks ago I posted three blogs detailing my adventures in getting from Malone, NY to Dover, DE via Adirondack Trailways and Greyhound buses.  About the time that I posted that episodic horror story I also sent a rather nasty email to the company most responsible for my troubles, which was Trailways.  In truth I expected little or no response to the email, perhaps a form letter “apology” or something.  But I was to be surprised.

One afternoon, shortly after the email, I had a call from a very pleasant young lady named Brandi who is a customer service representative at the company.  She patiently listened to a heated outline of my displeasure with the whole trip.  She was kind and sympathetic (no doubt concerned about how mentally unstable an old codger I am) and she assured me that she would see that something would be done to make things right.  She also never chastised me for my salty language.  I was instructed to send along copies of my unused New York City to Dover ticket and my receipt for the New York to Philadelphia substitute ticket.  I followed the instructions and honestly thought that if I heard any more about this thing it would be a form letter and maybe a free bus ticket to Paducah or someplace equally attractive.

But today in the mail I received a check for the cost of the NYC to Dover leg of the trip and another check for the cost of the NYC to Philadelphia ticket.  In the letter that came with the checks I was assured that some re-training would take place at the ticket agent level so that this problem would not happen to someone else.  So I’m publicly thanking Adirondack Trailways for being responsive to an angry customer.  I also want to commend Brandi for doing exactly what she said she would do.  It is very refreshing to know that there are good people doing a good job in corporate America.

Thanks to Brandi and Adirondack Trailways for making this a very fine day. 

"Leave the Driving to Us": Conclusion

 I don’t love New York.  At least I don’t love New York City.  Sure I've heard all the stuff about New York City being one of the most exciting places in the world.  I've heard all about the great shows, the night life, the wonderful sports teams and supportive fans.  And the restaurants.  And fabulous hotels.  It’s the city that never sleeps. Blah, blah, blah.  Maybe if I could afford those shows, hotels, restaurants and sporting events I’d care more for the place.  The only pleasant memory I have of NYC is a day spent with a banjo player friend of mine.  I’m not sure if that says more about me or the city.  However this past Friday night the only memories I made were of the confusion and chaos of the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

When I first entered the terminal my immediate goal was to find a bathroom.  A ride up the escalator and several quick walks through shoulder to shoulder crowds brought me to a men’s room.  But it was closed for repairs.  So back up to the other end of the terminal I went, quicker now, only to find a long line formed and waiting for relief.  I glanced at the women’s room.  No line there.  I was tempted but I still wasn't that desperate.  Eventually my turn came to enter the smelly room where unidentifiable liquids covered the floors.  Paper towels were being thrown around everywhere because the trash cans were overflowing.  Men, try to stand at a urinal and take care of business while holding a small duffle bag that you’re afraid to put on the floor for fear of soaking up a couple gallons of bodily fluids.  It can be done, but it isn't pretty.

Next I needed to find out where the bus to Dover would be loading up.  So I went to the information counter.  It was closed.  Then I looked for a departure and arrival board that might have the information I needed.  I found the board but the information was so cryptic that it might as well have been written in Sanskrit.  No wonder no one else was looking at the thing.  So I decided to go to the Trailways/Greyhound ticket counter and ask a human being for some help.  After waiting in line for about fifteen minutes I finally got to the counter.  The young lady was very helpful.  She looked at her computer.  She shook her head.  She consulted a supervisor.  The supervisor shook her head.  They both looked at me with mournful pitying expressions on their faces.  My new friend, the ticket clerk, asked me if the ticket clerk way up in Malone had told me all of the conditions of the ticket I originally purchased.  I said “Well, she told me I’d go from Malone to Albany to New York City to Dover and that I’d change buses in Albany and right here in New York City.  I changed in Albany and now I’m going to change here.”  The kind young lady said “Yes, that is true but the change can’t take place until 8:15 tomorrow.”  I said “You mean I have to wait until 8:15 in the morning, twelve full hours, to get a bus to Dover which is four hours away by car?”  She said “No, you have to wait until 8:15 tomorrow evening, twenty four hours, to get that bus to Dover.”

Well, I had been an awfully cooperative bus passenger up until I heard that “twenty four hours” phrase.  The young lady went on to explain that my ticket was essentially a “space available” voucher that needed to be exchanged for a boarding pass.  There were no seats available on any bus going to Dover until Saturday evening.  I asked if there were any seats on any bus going to Wilmington, Delaware that might be stopping long enough for me to jump off.  It wouldn't be so bad and my wife could make the forty-five minute drive to pick me up at that bus station.  The young lady said “Sure, there’s a bus that has a seat available at 10:30 tomorrow morning that stops in Wilmington around three in the afternoon.  It takes a long time because it stops at twelve places in New Jersey.”  My patience was gone.  I started yelling and demanding that a supervisor come and talk to me.  I may have used some unpleasant language.  I may have threatened people.  A police officer stepped up behind me and asked me to lower my voice and to discontinue the abusive shouting.  I said “Oh yeah?”  He tapped the grip on his pistol and said “Yes, sir.”  Well, since he called me sir I agreed to calm down.  At this point I noticed another customer buying a ticket for Philadelphia.  So I asked the clerk, who seemed much more at ease with the cop on her side, if I could exchange my little ticket for one to Philadelphia.  My wife could surely make the drive there since it was only an hour and a half from Dover.  The clerk said “I’m sorry sir, your ticket is not exchangeable.  You’ll have to write to the issuing office to get a refund on the part you didn’t use. But a ticket to Philly is only twenty two dollars and seventy cents.”  I said “Are you sure I can get on the Philly bus?”  She assured me that I could, so I bought the ticket.

With my Philadelphia ticket in hand and clear directions to the gate I hustled back down to the bottom level of the terminal.  I found the line but when I got to the end of line I was too far away to see the gate.  Boarding began.  People streamed through the doors and happily got on the bus.  The doors closed.  A jolly Greyhound employee announced that the bus was full but they had a cleaning crew coming along to get another bus ready and we all would be boarded and headed to Philadelphia soon.  So we waited.  I called my wife.  Actually I tried to call my wife but the cell phone wouldn't stay connected since I was so far underground.  I did manage to give her the basic information that I was waiting for the bus to leave and I would call her when we emerged from hell.

After about an hour standing in line we finally were allowed to board the bus.  By the time I got on the thing the only seat available was on the aisle, directly ahead of the bathroom.  Not good, I thought. The bus driver came on the bus and delivered his little safety spiel along with a pep talk.  He also said, and this is a quote, “If you’re mad, don’t be mad at me.  I’m just the driver.  You need to be mad at the big grey dog.”  Getting out of the Port Authority Terminal was truly one of the high points of my life.  It was raining, thunder and lightning were all around but I felt like it was just a perfect night.  I called my wife.  She wasn't happy.  I heard stuff like “I told you we should have taken two cars to Malone.  I told you Memorial Day was a bad time to travel on public transportation.”  She may have said more but I have a policy of not listening after two “I told you so” statements.  But we made our arrangements.  She was a little leery about driving to the center of Philadelphia late on a Friday night but she agreed to do it for me.  She’s a good woman even if she does like to remind me how she’s always right and I’m not.

Sitting in front of the bathroom was an ordeal.  Traveling on the bus were some folks who were, against all the rules, drinking alcoholic beverages.  And they needed to make frequent bathroom visits.  They also had some affliction that caused them to light a cigarette every time they went in to urinate.  For nearly two hours I was regularly treated to the jostling of drunken passengers heading to the bathroom followed by the smells of their output and their inhaling.  Not a pleasant way to spend my time.

But through the dark rainy night we traveled on to Philadelphia.  We had a brief stop in Mount Laurel, New Jersey where some of the drunker passengers got off.  As soon as we crossed out of New Jersey the rain stopped which seemed to be a good omen as well.  When we pulled into the Philadelphia bus terminal my wife called me on the cell phone and said she had seen the bus.  She told me she hadn't been able to find a close parking spot but was about a block away down near the 7/11 store.  I quickly found my way outside and headed down the street.  Sure enough there was my dear wife standing next to our car waving at me.  Oddly enough there were some other women along the sidewalk, some even in the street, waving at men walking or riding by in cars.  As I got closer I saw that most of those women were dressed in skimpy, form revealing outfits and six inch spiked high heels.  I began to move a little quicker because I saw that those ladies were eyeing my wife with evil intentions.

We managed to get out of Philadelphia without further incident.  But when we stopped for a bite to eat at an all-night diner in Wilmington we were accosted by a hopped up crack-head who needed some lunch money.  I beat him senseless.  No, of I course I didn't do that.  I just ignored him because after my Greyhound adventure nothing much could bother me.  But in the future, you can be sure, I’ll leave the driving to myself.

"Leave the Driving to Us" Part 2

“Leave the Driving to Us” Part 2

The Albany bus terminal was a welcome break in the journey.  That is if one considers a break to be standing in line for a half hour while a bus gets cleaned and prepped for the journey to New York City.  I couldn't find any person trustworthy enough (there were still seven or eight of those ex-cons milling around) to watch my duffle bag and I didn't want to lose my place in line so bladder relief had to wait.

Finally we were allowed on the bus and in short order were heading south out of Albany.  I was sitting directly behind the driver again, which is my preferred spot.  My hope is that someday they’ll give me a turn behind the wheel.  So far though, they haven’t.  On this part of the trip we had a full bus and a lovely young lady was seated next to me.  She had a really fine and fragrant sub sandwich that she consumed in a very lady-like way.  Just as the driver wouldn't give me a chance to drive, my seatmate wouldn't share her sandwich.  But the young woman and I did exchange a few words.  I believe she said “May I sit here?”  Of course I replied in the affirmative.  Then one time she sneezed and I said “Bless you.”  She said “Thank you.”  When I asked for a piece of her sandwich (since we were getting along so well) she said “No” in a very kind way.  That was it.  She followed her training about speaking to strangers in a rigid way.

Here are a couple things I learned about modern buses; they are quite powerful and can do eighty miles per hour without any strain, they have old fashioned bathrooms (though with chemical toilets) that are quite similar to a rolling outhouse, they have cruise control.  I also learned that I am incapable of voiding my bladder while rolling along at eighty miles per hour.  It must be psychological.  I don’t have that problem on airplanes.  Maybe I’m scarred by the hundreds of times my father told me I’d have to “hold it” until we got another eighty miles down the road.  Or maybe the resemblance of bus bathrooms to outhouses put me off my game.

The driver of this bus was a pleasant young Hispanic fellow who knew how to navigate traffic.  I thought that if he was an airline pilot he’d have no patience for a holding pattern and would somehow be first in line to land or take off every time.  He managed, time and again, to squeeze that forty-five foot vehicle into a space that only looked long enough for a four door Prius and never, ever chipped the paint from a bumper.  Of course car drivers do tend to feel intimidated when one of these coaches starts to insinuate itself into a line of traffic.

As we neared the New York - New Jersey border I noticed that the ex-cons were using the bathroom quite a lot.  It soon became apparent that they were in there sneaking smokes.  Our driver got on his little announcing microphone and said that the law strictly prohibited smoking on the bus and that it would be considered a parole violation which would necessitate a brief stop at Riker’s Island jail if he caught anyone else breaking the law.  Everyone laughed but the smokers quit their sneaky ways.

The bus crossed into New Jersey and pulled into a bus stop in the town of Ridgefield.  Once again all the smokers jumped off the bus and lit up.  Several passengers, including my seat-mate, got off at this stop, apparently finding Jersey more welcoming than the prospect of New York City’s Port Authority.  A couple of the former jailbirds stayed in Ridgefield as well.  Soon we were back on the road again and heading into the morass of traffic that constitutes an everyday commute into the Big Apple.  I pity the commuters.

Our driver was a regular Mario Andretti as he navigated the expressways and tunnels that brought us ever closer to our finish line.  When one path closed up the driver found an alternate that I never would have spotted.  And if there was no open road he somehow forged a whole new lane.  Other vehicles behind us began following the guy like he was Moses crossing the Red Sea.  Even if they weren't going to the Port Authority they were attracted by the idea of motion on an island of stagnation. 

In no time at all we were dumped into the special Hell that is the Port Authority Bus Terminal.  Two hundred twenty three departure gates, stores, restaurants and thousands of certifiably insane people populate this massive building.  On this Memorial Day weekend the place was jammed with people trying to travel to destinations all over the eastern seaboard.  And these crowds were complemented by thousands more who were trying to get away from that same area.  It was chaos and my traveling day was about to get more complicated.

Part 3, The Final Chapter, is coming soon.

"Leave the Driving to Us" Part 1

Back in the sixties the Greyhound Bus Company had the snappy slogan “Leave the driving to us!” which supposedly encouraged millions of folks to climb happily aboard an aging fleet of diesel fume spewing, noisy clunkers.  Today’s buses, at least the ones I rode yesterday, are not nearly as noisy or pollution producing as those of the good old days.  But bus travel today is not for sissies.

We decided on using the bus after calculating the costs of driving two cars up to northern New York. This decision arrived when we found out that my dear wife needed to be back to work before our “elder care” mission was accomplished.  We looked at flying.  We looked at Amtrak.  The bus promised a long day’s travel but it was also comparatively cheap, especially with a substantial senior discount.  And since my wife is a girl, a natural born sissy, (I'm in trouble now) I figured it would be better if I took the bus and let her drive the car home.  And there was a little poetic incentive for me to travel this way as it was thirty-four years ago on a Memorial Day weekend when I made the journey from our home in western New York to Dover, DE as we prepared to uproot the family and start a new chapter of our lives.

So I went online to buy bus tickets.  I was able to search the schedules and fares but when I tried to complete a purchase the computer told me I needed to buy the tickets at the departure location. There was no explanation.  The company website just said “Transaction cannot be completed online.  Please see clerk at departure location.”  That should have raised a red flag but I’m a trusting soul so I went to the “Bus Station” to complete my transaction. 

The bus station in Malone, NY is a picnic table in front of an old single story motel up on the west side of town.  The ticket clerk is also the motel check-in, check-out clerk inside the little office.  She has a computer.  She looked up all the information I gave her from my search and said “Okey-dokey, give me the cash and I’ll give you your tickets.”  And so I did.  She also told me that on the day I was to board the bus that I should be there at least twenty minutes early because the bus schedule wasn't one-hundred percent accurate and the bus could be a little early or a little late.  Also, she said the bus was only at the stop for five or six minutes and it was important to be in the right spot or the driver might not notice and he would just pull on through and go on his way.  More red flags should have been flying.

The day arrived for departure and my brother brought me to the appropriate picnic table.  I didn't have to worry about the driver passing by because there were many other passengers waiting to board.  Coming out of the ticket office were eight husband and wife teams of Amish folks along with three or four of their offspring.  Following along behind that crowd were ten men who had just been released from the local prisons.  (Prisons are the largest industry and employer in Franklin County, NY)  It’s not hard to know the ex-cons as they all wear a standard prison-issue release uniform – bright white cheap low cut tennis shoes, cheap loose fitting khaki slacks, and a stiff white long-sleeved shirt hanging loosely over a fresh white t-shirt.  All of that and several “prison tats” on their necks and arms identified their general fashion motif as “hoodlum chic”.

So we all climbed aboard as the driver, a friendly and efficient fellow, handled bag storage and paperwork duties in a matter of minutes.  And we were off.  This particular bus, the only south bound carrier from Malone, travels down through the Adirondack Mountains following winding scenic byways.  And this bus makes a lot of stops.  We stopped in Paul Smith’s, Saranac Lake, and Lake Placid.  Then we stopped at a little crossroads where we had a lunch break at the Mt. Severance Country Store and Deli, very nice and very reasonable.  We proceeded on to Schroon Lake, Warrensburg, and Lake George.  At Lake George the bus disgorged all of our Amish friends.  Apparently they were there for a pray-and-play convention retreat weekend.  At least that’s the only reason I could come up with for Amish folks in a resort town like Lake George.

At every stop, no matter how brief, all of the ex-cons hustled off the bus and lit cigarettes.  They sucked that noxious smoke into their lungs just as deeply and as quickly as they could.  Prison must be a great place to really reinforce those wonderful social habits.  But cigarettes are about eight bucks a pack up in the North Country.  How did these jailbirds make enough money to feed a two pack a day habit?  But I digress.

In Warrensburg we picked up several earnest looking young women in woodsy outfits who had just spent ten days hiking in the deep woods.  Their Deep Woods Off had let them down though.  They were all covered with some nasty looking mosquito and black fly bites that looked really itchy.  Our chariot then moved on to Saratoga Springs, Glens Falls, the Albany Airport and then, finally, the bus station in downtown Albany, NY.  If I were to make the drive from Malone to Albany it would take, on a bad day, three and a half hours.  This little bus trip took five and three quarter hours.  But it was the pleasant part of the trip.  The trouble was still ahead.

Part 2 – coming soon.