Adventures of Mason #5

The Coins at the Front of the Bus

My first experience riding the city bus was with my grandmother Eva in Anderson, Indiana.

This needs context: Anderson isn't exactly known for public transit. It's a factory town that built itself around cars—specifically, the parts that go into cars. The bus system existed, but it existed the way a lot of things exist in small Midwestern cities: technically, sporadically, and mostly for people who didn't have other options.

My grandma Eva was one of those people. She didn't drive.

So we rode the bus.

The Ritual

She'd let me put the coins in the fare box.

This was a big deal when you're small. The mechanical clunk of quarters dropping through the slot. The little window that showed you'd paid. The driver giving you a nod that meant you were official, you were legitimate, you had completed the transaction and earned your place on this vehicle.

It made me feel competent. Like I was participating in the adult world in some small, tangible way.

We'd ride to get groceries. We'd ride to run errands. We'd ride because that's how you got places when you didn't drive. It wasn't romantic or adventurous—it was just logistics. But because she made it normal, it became normal for me too.

What I Learned Without Knowing I Was Learning It

A lot of people in my family don't like public transportation.

I get it. When you grow up in a place where cars equal freedom and independence, anything else can feel like a downgrade. Like you're compromising. Like you're making do.

I prefer driving most of the time. I won't pretend otherwise. But because of those early experiences with Grandma Eva, I'm also pretty comfortable navigating buses and trains. I can read a route map. I can time a transfer. I can stand on a platform in a city I've never been to before and figure out how to get where I'm going.

That comfort came from watching her do it without complaint, without making it seem like a burden or a limitation. She just did what needed to be done. And she let me be part of it.

The Exception

I'm not a big fan of boats.

This is unrelated to buses, but it feels worth mentioning. I think it's because when I was a kid, people were obsessed with the Titanic—both before and after the movie came out. It was everywhere. The documentaries. The books. The endless speculation about what went wrong and who survived and why that one guy fell off the propeller in such a memorable way.

It made an impression.

Buses don't sink. Trains stay on tracks. But boats? Boats operate in an environment that is fundamentally hostile to human survival, and we just collectively decided that's fine.

I remain unconvinced.

What This Has to Do with Anything

I think about Grandma Eva sometimes when I'm traveling. When I'm in Chicago navigating the L, or figuring out the subway in a city I'm visiting for a gig. When I'm standing at a bus stop with my kids, showing them how to read the schedule, letting them press the button that signals the driver to stop.

She gave me something without meaning to. A baseline competence. A lack of anxiety around a thing that makes a lot of people anxious.

It wasn't a lesson. It was just life. She needed to get groceries, and I was with her, and she let me put the coins in the fare box because that's what you do when a kid wants to help.

But it stuck.

The Pattern

I've noticed this happens a lot. The things that shape you aren't always the big moments or the obvious lessons. They're the small routines that someone made space for you in. The mundane experiences that became foundational because someone treated you like you belonged there.

Grandma Eva didn't drive, so I learned how to navigate without driving.

She didn't make a big deal out of it, so I didn't either.

She let me put the coins in the fare box, and thirty-some years later, I still remember the sound they made.

I still know how to read a bus schedule.

I still feel competent doing something that a lot of people in my world consider inconvenient at best.

And I'm grateful for that.

Even if I still don't trust boats.

The best teachers often don't know they're teaching you anything. They're just living their lives and letting you come along for the ride. Sometimes literally.