Did you know it only takes six weeks to form a habit? That is not by my calculation. That conclusion comes from smarter people than I. The people who study people like you and me have determined that if we want to form a habit–just about any habit–then we need to do it every day for six weeks. Presto. Now it is part of our lives, here to stay. It should be stated that the rule applies both to good habits and to bad habits. Six weeks.
My brother has one particularly good habit, just one among many, I assure you. I suppose it began with the six week rule, but it has become a habit so strong that he has continued to do it for at least forty years. Maybe more. The habit began this way. He and his wife have three sons. When their boys were small–still small enough to think candy and a coke were a big treat–my brother would take his three boys to a nearby filling station every Sunday morning so they could buy a candy bar and a soft drink.
It was something we had done as kids and–like most parents–he took some of the best memories of his childhood and he brought them into his own child-rearing practices. After six weeks spent putting his boys in a vehicle and taking them to get some candy, it was a habit. I doubt he was bothered by the science behind it.
As the weeks became months and the months became years and the years became–well–more years, this habit was practiced with the same religious fervor as attending the Sunday service that preceded the trip to Mick’s filling station. There were–in effect–two Sunday services for him and his small boys–one at church and another one at Mick’s.
As I said, the years passed, as they tend to do, but the habit never weakened under the weight of the years, even when Mick closed his doors. Now a quick trip down the road morphed into a trip further down the road–about seven miles to be exact–to the Allsup’s store so that the boys and their dad still could buy a candy bar on Sunday morning. It was a leisurely trip, never rushed, although always with the same routine–attending Sunday church service followed by the drive to Allsup’s for a coke and some candy or chips. Each boy had his favorite treat.
I guess you could say it served another purpose, such as providing some quality father-and- son time. And that it did. Sometimes, the Sunday road trip would include some extra miles as daddy and sons drove down familiar farm roads to look at crops or cattle or big cracks in washed-out roads. There was no allotted time for the adventure, but they wanted to be back home in time for lunch.
The amazing thing–and the thing about habits as a rule–is that the routine continued as the boys became teenagers and young adults. It required a little more foot space in the cab of the pick-up truck, and a second seat, and maybe a few more snacks at Allsup’s to satisfy hungry stomachs, but the Sunday excursion remained unchanged.
You might think after so many years, my brother might get tired of the trip or the boys might think they were too big for the things of their childhood, but that just didn’t happen. They continued the trips to Allsup’s, although on some Sundays one or the other son might be away for the weekend. If they were all in town, all went together to Allsup’s. It was their thing to do on Sunday.
Then an amazing thing happened. It was called grandchildren. The boys married, as boys do, and they began to have their own children. Realistically, this might have been a good time to end the practice of going to Allsup’s, but that isn’t the way it went. My brother adapted and included the grandchildren in the trip. So, now the third generation began to experience the same Sunday ritual.
As the number of grandchildren increased, the need for additional car space expanded. The two-seated vehicle wasn’t big enough, regardless of how bodies were squeezed and who squatted where. My brother–informed by his youngest son–learned that there was an auction of old school buses to be held. The purchase of one of these vehicles seemed to be the answer to the pressing need for more car space.
He went and he bought an old bus for $1600. He said he could have gotten it cheaper, but another guy kept running up the price for reasons unknown. Regardless, my brother walked away with the keys and drove away with the bus. Now he had plenty of seat space for all the grandchildren.
It was at the same time of the school bus purchase that the Sunday ritual was opened to other children in the community. It made sense since sufficient seats were there to accommodate them. The logistics were worked out and my brother–now with his license to drive a school bus–began circling our small community and stopping at various homes where there were small children to load them onto the bus for the Sunday drive to Allsup’s.
I don’t know what it is about a school bus, but the kids found the idea of riding a bus to Allsup’s a big deal and a great adventure. Always have. Maybe always will. So, with my brother behind the wheel and with the kids in the seats, the little bus has continued to make the weekly trip to Allsup’s. Once there, the kids jump out and race into the store and grab snacks and candy bars and cokes like it’s Halloween again. Some bring money with them from their parents. Some don’t. It’s not an issue. My brother simply picks up the tab. The kids know they don’t have to have money to go on this bus ride.
Which brings us to the present day. The Sunday routine still follows the same schedule with rare exceptions. There was one Sunday when one of my sisters–also licensed to drive a school bus–substituted for my brother because he was out of town. She admits she’s not up to do the task again. But otherwise it is my brother behind the wheel.
Most Sundays, after the stop at Allsup’s, he drives to a local park where he parks the bus and lets the kids play on the playground equipment. He tells me that he doesn’t time the stay at the park, not with a clock anyway. When one or the other of the kids starts to fight or fuss, then he loads them up for the return trip.
Once back here, he drives from house to house, depositing the children where they belong, and then he pulls the bus under a shed, where it stays until the next Sunday morning. I assume he cleans it once in a while–given the spills and splatters associated with children and food–but that is an assumption on my part.
He laughs when he tells the story of the Sunday morning when he was met on the road into town by the manager of Allsup’s on her way back home. She had spend the early part of the morning showing a new employee her duties for the day. However, she forgot to tell the new hire about the Sunday school bus routine. Imagine the look on the new employee’s face when a bus load of children jumped off a school bus and hit the aisles of Allsup’s and piled up on the counter candy bars and coke cans. Panicked may have described the look as she wondered how she was going to work the cash register on that line of kids.
The manager, a smart woman for sure, saw the bus going into town, realized her mistake, and turned around her car so that she could get to the store before the kids checked out. She arrived in time to save the day and to save her new employee from walking off the job on her first day. If nothing else, the new employee had a first-run experience unlike any other. She knew the ropes after spending that morning behind the cash register.
These days, when a weekend brings other great-grandchildren back here to visit, the bus has more little bodies on the seats, laughing and chomping at the bit to get to Allsup’s. For some, it is their first time to ride a bus, which makes it special for sure. For all, it is something they look forward to with anticipation and with big grins, second or third only to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Parents and other adults are welcome to ride the bus as well. Most decline. They prize their sanity and the silence.
I’m not sure how my brother continues to do it, but he does it. I guess it’s a habit. But still it takes a special person, gifted with great patience and with gentle protectiveness, to give his Sunday mornings to the children who jump aboard the bus for the trip to Allsup’s and to the park. For him, I believe, it has become much more than a habit. It is a part of his life, these Sunday trips. I don’t think he gives them much thought. It is just something he does.
All of this may bring to mind another story about children. This story is about the day when little children were brought to the good man from Galilee so that he might bless them. We’re told the grown-ups around the man tried to shoo away the children, thinking he was too busy or the children weren’t big enough. Whatever the reason, the good man didn’t like what he saw in the actions of his disciples. So he told the grown-ups, “Let the children come to me. Do not hinder them. For the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.” (Matthew 19.13)
As I watch my brother load up the children in his school bus for the Sunday drive to Allsup’s, I like to think he has another passenger on board, this one not so easy to see with ordinary eyesight, but still on one of the seats, a smile on his face, laughing with the kids, and bouncing off the bus along with them, and sharing this special time with them. After all, did he not say, “Let the children come to me”?
Also, I’d like to think the Galilean sees in them again what he always sees in children–and that is what is best in us. And I also believe that he recognizes that, in the end, we are all just children on a school bus making our way to Allsup’s.
— Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 