My daughter M.H. and her family moved here over the summer, arriving June 30. M. and B. had lived in Rhode Island, which is where B.'s family is from, for the past 15 years; their daughter was born there.
After moving to their own apartment in July, their car proceeded to die; nothing like a blown engine to kill a car. Granted, it wasn't their fault; M.H. had checked fluid levels, etc. But that particular car had been trouble from the start. They picked up a scooter - basic transportation - but not something that can be used to cart the family around. Which brings us to holidays...
B. is one of several siblings, all of whom met up at their mom's house for holiday meals. The plan, once they were in the apartment here, was that they'd come here for holidays, thus starting new memories...but this was before the car died. The buses, which run on an altered holiday schedule, would have to work, since cabs between their place and ours is a little much. But since buses don't accommodate dogs (unless they're service animals), and since their dog would need to go out periodically, the plan was that we (my younger 2 sons and I) would go to their place.
Two of us headed for the bus stop around 10:20; the youngest hadn't felt up to snuff the evening before. The two of us hoofed the almost 3/4 - mile to the stop with several minutes to spare; ten minutes later, we exited the first bus and headed across the parking lot of a strip mall to catch the second.
This particular strip had been here forever, it seemed. There had been an A&P here when I first moved to the area, more decades ago than I care to mention. There had also been a dollar store, a restaurant where my sister had once waitressed while putting herself through nursing school (the restaurant has moved twice, now settled nicely maybe two miles away), a drugstore, and, out front, a bank that had put up a huge Christmas tree made simply out of lights, placed on its roof Thanksgiving weekend, that stayed through New Years'; the thing could be seen for miles. Then the A&P pulled out of the area, another grocery store moved in, but that ended up vacating the mall several years later. Half the strip mall has been bull-dozed, the drugstore is now where...well, you get the picture...
I called M.H. from my cell phone as we walked through the lot. "We decided not to come," I told her when she answered.
"What?!"
Not to worry, I told her. We were on our way to the second bus.
A young man sat at the bus stop. While we waited, he mentioned that the bus should be there in a few minutes; it was, and we all boarded, en route to holiday meals.
"Hey, how are you guys!" the driver exclaimed. Bob used to drive the Shuttle bus, a route that my son M. and I use a lot. Back then, we discovered that Bob's one food weakness was pizza, while his favorite football team were the Steelers. ("Does it get any better'n that?" he asked one Monday when he mentioned he'd watched the Steelers beat a friend's team while watching at his friend's, and eating pizza.)
We got caught up while picking up other passengers, discovering that he'd put in for a transfer back to the Shuttle bus.
"So, what's your daughter putting on that Thanksgiving pizza?" Bob kidded, to which we responded, "Turkey, of course!"
A small group of men boarded the bus; it soon became apparent that they were vets and were heading to the nearest American Legion post for dinner; they exited maybe two stops before us.
"We need the stop right after the Pinellas Trail," I told Bob as the vets piled off to head for the Legion. M.H. had told me that there was a stop directly across the street from their apartment complex. But it turned out that that stop was the second one after the trail; Bob stopped at the first one, which was immediately after it, which was across the street from the east end of the apartments. We thanked Bob and told him it was great seeing him again.
"See you soon," he said as the doors shut.
The bus's back door shut at the same time; the man who'd gotten on when we did was getting off here, too. While we were heading more toward the west end of the apartment complex, he was heading toward the east. He climbed over the wall at that end, then slid down a short hill, before walking off toward the south-east end. M. and I headed west for the complex's main entrance.
As we walked along the sidewalk, I spotted the stop that M.H. had told us about. "Now we'll know where to get off next time," I told M. He nodded.
Soon we were knocking at their door. B. answered the door and let us in with a "Happy Thanksgiving."
The apartment smelled of turkey and food. I handed over a bag that I'd brought from home: two loaves of freshly baked pumpkin bread.
We relaxed over munchies, then feasted on turkey, potatoes, stuffing, casserole, bread, rolls and pie. M.H. had started the turkey at one that morning, before heading to bed. "Then I got up at four, basted it once or twice, then got up at eight and set the oven a little hotter." It was her first official holiday turkey, and it turned out great. The casserole, from a recipe she picked up at the local Publix, was a nice new addition; M. and I both agreed I needed to make it some time in the near future.
We ate, washed down everything with soda, gabbed, listened in when B. talked to his mom on the phone ("Tell Grandma to Skype us when she calls back!" G., my granddaughter, told B.; "Did you hear that?" he asked his mom, then told G., "She said she will," then, just before he hung up, I told him to tell his mom "happy Thanksgiving" for us), gabbed and ate some more.
Too soon, M. and I had to head for the bus stop to head home. "When does the bus come by?" M.H. asked. I thought it was in maybe 10 minutes.
Turned out, we could have waited another 5 or so before heading out. But since the buses on the holiday schedule are sporadic, we needed to be on time.
As we waited on the bench to head back, I thought of all the women and men who'd had to wait for buses over the years, including on holidays. It seemed, well, not quite sad or disheartening, but working class. I also thought of a short story in a book of working class writings, edited by Janet Zandy. The book is titled Calling Home: Working-Class Women's Writings, an Anthology, and the story I thought about, Maggie May by Lucia Berlin, describes a young widow who cleans houses for a living, riding buses between jobs. It is a beautifully crafted story in a wonderful anthology. I think of the story periodically when on the buses.
Soon, the 74 arrived; it was not the same one that we'd arrived here in, so, of course, we didn't see Bob. At this point, M. and I were the only passengers; the man who'd gotten on and off the same times we had, earlier, was nowhere to be seen. But within a few stops, we were joined by the vets who'd ridden with us earlier. They were quietly thankful for the time they'd spent together, talking about ordinary life. Most of them got off where they'd gotten on when en route to the Legion, but one stayed on until after we'd exited the bus on our return trip, reading a magazine about, I think, South Carolina.
Turns out we just missed the second bus we needed to get home (which was the first bus we'd used that morning), so we ended up taking a cab the rest of the way home; it was that or wait a little more than an hour for the next bus.
Was it a good holiday? Yes. Did we enjoy it? Definitely. Will it be part of our family memory?
Thankfully, yes.
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