Big Red Bus

Yesterday I drove by this beautiful red and white classic ’69 VW bus for sale on the side of the road. I was hustling my daughter back to school after an ortho appointment so I couldn’t stop and admire but I did sigh deeply. I want that van. How could I not love this vehicle? We were born in the same year. My instant affinity for the vehicle must surely also be fueled by the fact that, when I was a kid, my family used to own one red and white VW bus. Irony of ironies, a woman now longing after a vehicle she once despised. When I saw that bus it all came back in an ugly flash.

Picture the first day of sixth grade. I am an awkward child with braces on my first day in Middle School. My mother has generously sewn a dress for me to wear to my premiere at a big new school. Though my rust colored calico dress seems more suited to a nineteenth century prairie, I have no choice but to wear it after my mom has put her blood, sweat and many tears into its fabrication. I have finally arrived at the end of the first day and am anxious to be home to slip into a pair of comfortable jeans. A gaggle of students awaits parent pick up. I have no idea why I didn’t walk home per my normal habit but there I’m standing when a nameless seventh grader pipes up, “Hey I heard your mom is pregnant, AGAIN. Your parents should get a new hobby.” I doubt I need to explain to anyone the excruciating awkwardness of having one’s parents’ sexual habits discussed at the front of the school but let me elaborate. My mom was pregnant with her eighth child and this was not the first or second or last time someone would suggest that my parents find a different occupation for their time other than babymaking. At the prior go round, upon hearing my mom was pregnant with my brother Tommy, lucky number seven in the line of nine, my fourth grade band teacher suggested that my parents needed “to get a tv.” He said this in front of the whole entire class. Not cool. Needless to say, this was not my favorite childhood conversation.

I just stared at the ’To Remain Nameless’ seventh grader without responding, contemplating various ways to separate her from different parts of her body. Encouraged by my silence she continued, “And what’s up with that dress? You look like Laura Ingalls Wilder.” Grrrrr thanks fashion maven, I know I look like bucktooth Melissa Gilbert, my big brother tells me every day! At this point I have fallen into a zenlike trance trying to decide whether dragging this girl off schoolgrounds before beating her to a pulp would keep me from getting suspended.

Just when things can’t get worse, things. get. worse.

Around the corner comes my Pregnant Again Mom in our red VW bus. Recently Mom has applied a sticker, colorfully declaring Jesus with a rainbow arching over the word, on the back window of the van. I see the vehicle rounding onto Kreamer Street in slow motion just like in the movies. My mind says “Noooooooooo” in that deep distorted voice that accompanies all slow motion voiceovers. I just know that little Ms. Observation has one more nugget of wisdom in store. I want to run to meet my mother before she can pull up to the front of the school but somehow I do not move fast enough. “Oh my gosh, check out your Jesus wagon. Are you guys, like, Jesus Freaks or something?” I still have not answered her but am thinking decidedly un-Jesus-y thoughts. The funny thing is, even though I am angry with the girl who keeps saying things, my overriding emotion is shame. I am ashamed of my pregnant mom and my parents’ overactive libido. I am ashamed of my dress. I am ashamed of Jesus and that stupid sticker. I am ashamed of my lovely van.

I thought of so many things to say. In defense of the dress: “At least my mom loves me enough to make me a dress.” In defense of the pregnancy, “In fact, I am thrilled that I will have another brother and sister. They are actually the best part of my stinkin’ life right now. Unlike one of us, after I was born my parents still thought that having children was a good idea.” In defense of the sticker, “Rainbows are pretty” In defense of Jesus, “If by ‘Jesus Freak’ you mean that I think that Jesus is freaking awesome then yes.” In defense of my van, “That van is cool and it has all sorts of room inside. You’re just jealous that you’re not cool enough to have one.” Juvenile? Yes but anything would have been better than the nothing I said. Instead of speaking up for them, I just hated each one of those things, respectively, for humiliating me and drawing unwanted attention to me. On top of everything I was ashamed of being ashamed. I hated myself for being a spineless jellyfish. Without a word, I skulked off in my goofy calico dress to my pregnant mom in that embarrassing Jesus wagon.

Twenty nine years later, I have mostly forgiven that nameless seventh grader for her big mouth, knowing that I have said my share of horribly debilitating things over a lifetime. I have long since forgiven eleven year old me for being ashamed of the things she loved. Still, it makes me a little melancholy to think that I didn’t fully appreciate the things I loved until they were gone. What I wouldn’t give to have them back today. If only I still had a mom to make me a dress. I would wear the crap out of that dress- just add a belt and a pair of boots and I would be stylin’. If only I lived closer to my sister Abigail with whom my mother was pregnant at the time, I would be able to visit with her and play with her little girl Ava to my heart’s content. If only I had that groovy van, I would go out and find the flashiest, rainbowiest sticker and plant it on the back of that bus. If only I still had Jesus, I would...oh wait, I do. Freakin’ awesome.