It started out like any other typical Monday morning in the life of an elementary school.

It was a typical Monday morning in the office of an elementary school - phone's ringing off the hook, teachers in and out of the office, parents calling wanting to know why the bus was late.  I picked up the phone as it rang again, but this time it was of a different nature.  "Bus 19 has been in a bus accident", the man on the other end told me. "I've called the highway patrol, but get the principal out here as soon as possible".  My heart dropped.  The dreaded news that all school administrators hope to never hear.  "How are the kids", I said.  "Are there any injuries?"  "The kids are upset but there doesn't appear to be any serious injuries," the other voice said.  Relief filled me upon hearing his words, but his next words saddened me.  "The driver of the other car is dead".   I was hoping the children hadn't seen this as I prepared for a barrage of phone calls and informed the principal who rushed to the scene of the accident.  A few of the children were being sent to the hospital for bumps and bruises, but I had to arrange for another bus to pick up the remaining children to bring back to the school. 


The office was a flurry of activity and I was alone trying to take care of it all.  Everyone was filled with sadness that a life had been lost.  When the driver of the bus picking up the remaining children came back into the office, I stopped for a moment and asked her if she knew who the other driver was.  She didn't.  But as she described the car and the khaki farm clothing that the man was wearing, I became light-headed, my heart was heavy and my knees buckled leaving me in a heap on the floor.  She had just described my father.  It was May 9, 1988 - the day after Mother's day.

Note:  This story is a continuation of my post from yesterday.