When Fate Calls Your Name.

Bus1.jpg

So there I was on my hands and knees, wedged between a seat and the floor, wielding a pair of vice grips, and using my phone as a flashlight. I was covered in what can only be described as bus funk. Bus funk, for those who have not yet experienced the excitement of removing 18 seats from a former school bus, is a thick grit made of the following things: two decades worth of playground sand, forgotten permission slips, failed tests, contraband candy and the subsequent wrappers, chewed gum (so. much. gum.), beads and glitter and stickers from a thousand art projects, makeup snuck from a mother's purse, the stubby ends of pencils, clumps of hair, half melted crayons, leaves, a package of Tastykake Krimpets that is half petrified mold and half perfectly preserved butterscotch icing, and enough McDonald's fries to make you wonder if this bus driver wasn't hitting the drive thru on the regular.  All of this had been crushed together through the combined force of time and hundreds of elementary sized backsides. It was just about this time that the doubts started to creep in. What in the hell did I get myself into? What did I get MY FAMILY INTO?! How did I think buying a bus was a good idea? (A BUS. WE BOUGHT A BUS. WHO DOES THIS?) (Apparently me.) (Cue anxiety weeping while covered in already chewed gum.)

As another seat went sailing out the emergency door, a sandstorm of bus funk fell around me.

And there it was:

Here was fate smiling and whispering that it was all going to work out via a vintage name tag. That this couldn't be more right and good and real. Confirmation that I had made the right choice. A crazy, half-baked choice, but still, the right one. We've got this and it was meant to be.

Hi. My name is Dana and this is the start of our adventure.