Just A Gal From Glidden: What if missing the bus isn’t the point?

By Kate Winquist

There’s a dream I’ve had for as long as I can remember—one that still returns now and then, like my mind is flipping through old photo albums when I’m not looking.

In it, I’m back on the farm outside Glidden. I’m standing at the dining room window, watching the school bus turn at the highway and begin the one-kilometre trek toward our place. It turns at Jackson’s and heads down our road.

And I know what happens next. I have to go.

I head out the door to walk to the stop, but everything is slow—heavy, sluggish, unreal. I’m walking, then running, but it doesn’t matter.

The bus doesn’t stop.

It just keeps driving by.

And every time, I’m left standing there, watching it disappear down the road.

Whatever could this mean?

Like anyone looking for an answer with minimal effort, I Googled it. “Meanings of dreams” served up all kinds of interpretations, but my favourite was the spiritual one: the bus represents the flow of daily life, and missing it symbolizes missed opportunities, uncertainty, or being out of step with where you’re meant to be. It can even be a nudge toward reflection—an invitation to wake up and pay attention.

It’s a beautiful explanation.

But when I think about the school bus, I don’t first think of spirituality. I think of real life: winter boots, wet mitts, and vinyl seats that never fully warmed up.

Riding the bus wasn’t exactly my favourite thing. When I got my driver’s license—and my older siblings had already moved away—I could sometimes convince Mom and Dad to let me take the car or truck into Kindersley, especially when basketball practices were held early in the morning. That felt like freedom: my own pace, my own music, no waiting.

But long before that, there was BIG Bus #42, with driver Joan Kelm at the wheel. Back then, the bus came right into our yard to pick up my siblings, circled around our garage, then headed back out to make its last stop at Kapustianyk’s before travelling the remaining 25 kilometres into town.

I watched from that same dining room window and waved hard—like waving could reach all the way to Kindersley and keep them safe until they came back again.

When it became my turn to ride, I remember being nervous about the big kids. But my sister Valarie—eleven years older than me—watched over her little sister. She let me sit with her, usually in the front seat right behind Mrs. Kelm. I don’t know if it was every day or just the first few until I got used to it, but I remember what it felt like: that quiet protection, that calm sense of you’re okay.

I also remember learning to greet Mrs. Kelm properly. Good morning. Good night. It mattered. My sister Carrie got into trouble one day for not acknowledging her, and that lesson stuck fast—respect your elders, mind your manners, and thank the person who gets you safely to and from school.

The other driver I had was Mr. Nick Heck. Nothing against Joan Kelm, but Nick Heck was the jolliest, happiest man you could ever hope to meet. He was always whistling or singing. I don’t think I ever saw him angry.

He even took us to Dairy Queen on the last day of school and bought us each an ice cream—one of those small kindnesses that stays with you longer than you’d think.

We were lucky, too, with where we were situated—generally the last stop on the way into town and the first or second drop-off after school. There was a brief period when our route got switched and I had to get up extra early and ride with the kids farther north, but it didn’t last long, thankfully.

So why, all these years later, do I still dream about missing the bus?

Maybe it really does mean I’m afraid of missing opportunities or falling behind. Maybe it’s just my childhood self remembering that urgent feeling—that if you don’t move fast enough, life will go on without you.

But when I wake up, I don’t only feel panic.

I remember something else, too: the bus wasn’t just the thing that could leave without you. It was also the thing that came back the next morning.

And maybe that’s the lesson I didn’t realize I learned back then—life keeps moving, whether you’re ready or not… but you’re not always as alone as you feel when you’re standing on the road in slow motion.

Sometimes there’s a sister saving you a seat.
Sometimes there’s a steady driver you can trust.
Sometimes there’s a whistling man at the wheel who reminds you that kindness counts.

Maybe the dream isn’t warning me that I’m falling behind.

Maybe it’s reminding me that I learned, early on, how to keep going—and that being carried for a while doesn’t make you weak.

It’s just what gets you where you’re going.