A blog I follow, A Joyful Chaos, had a discussion about visiting California, and I mentioned the trip The Squire and I had made in 1983 to visit his brother. This is what happened.
Richard lived in San Diego, and I had some old friends and a cousin who lived in San Bernardino, so The Squire and I hopped a Greyhound and had Lawrence meet us at the station. When we arrived – nonstop trip on a bus, for Pete’s sake – my luggage had gone missing, so we had to wait while it was located.
Now, I don’t know what is about me that people tend to gravitate in my direction, but when we arrived at the bus depot a little Oriental gentleman threaded his way through a crowd of people to reach my side. “When is the next bus for Pomona?”
Well, he and I had arrived on the same Greyhound from San Diego, so I honestly had no more idea than he did, but “We aim to please, and all that stuff”.
“Look on the sign over there,” I said with a sweep on my arm. “It says that bus leaves at eleven.”
That wasn’t sufficient, so I told him to listen for the announcement. “The lady at the desk will call it out, and you’ll have plenty of time. They won’t leave without you.”
By this time, the crew had found my luggage, and the gentleman was getting more and more frantic. And so, the quiet, shy, introverted, little preacher’s kid kicked off her shoes, jumped on a bench, and hollered. “Is anybody here going to Pomona?”
A fellow came over to my perch and admitted he was. “Fine,” I said, hopping down. “Will you please see to it that Papa-San gets on the bus?”