The 78

When I was growing up, my dad caught the 7:50 AM number 78 bus to work in New York City. Tie and jacket on, day after day, and year after year, he found his seat on the ten of eight.

Like most families in the 1950's and 60's, we had one car. Some days, when either the weather was bad, or circumstances dictated, my mom would pile my sister and me in our car and we would drive to meet my dad on the highway exit for the 6:30 PM 186.Otherwise, it was the 78 that brought him home to us.

Over the years, my dad regularly saw many of the same people on the 78. Names I never knew. Men, and maybe women I never met. But they became, if not friends, friendly. And if you were of importance to my dad, that had meaning.

At some point in time, and memory fails as to exactly when, we acquired a second car. In those days, that was a matter of much significance. 

No longer was my dad bound to the old schedule. No more standing in the cold, the rain, the snow waiting for the 78. Free now to come and go as, and when, he decided.

But my dad's sense of obligation to those who had long been seated with him on that bus was his paramount concern. And so, even though he was now his own man, he felt duty bound to leave our house at the same time each morning. Early enough so he could pick up the others who waited on that corner. Early enough so that they no longer had to take the bus, but could get a ride to work with the man who owned a second car. Early enough so that my dad now became the ten of eight.

Tomorrow would have been my dad's 106th birthday. He passed away at the age of 61 in 1979. I still think of him always. I still miss him terribly. And I still recall the lesson of the 78.