Home for the Holidays

Enjoy the latest story from the blog,
“Wrong Turns Write Life”

This is for anyone trying to make it home for the holidays.

It was just several weeks past basic training and my 18th birthday. I walked to the travel office at Fort Gordon, Georgia, to book a bus to Cleveland, Ohio, for Christmas. It would be my last chance to go home before shipping to Europe.

I congratulated myself for thinking months in advance to secure my passage home so that everything was set well ahead of time. No worries. But when the lady behind the window handed me my ticket, she had a peculiar smile. Something was off, but by the time I walked back to the barracks and stuffed my ticket away, I had other things on my mind.

One of my best friends from home joined the Army with me. We were stationed at the same place for basic training – Tank Hill, Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Now, we were both in advanced skills training to learn our Army jobs at Fort Gordon. Even though we were on the same base, we only saw each other twice in three months. Back then, to communicate, we had to mail letters to each other at the post office even though we were just a couple of miles apart. He had procrastinated getting his bus ticket, but sometime after Thanksgiving, he assured me it was in his hand.

When I showed up in a vast parking lot jammed with damn near the whole base, leaving, I scrambled to find my bus. I had an overstuffed duffle bag hoisted on one shoulder, weaving around buses with signs to Memphis, Denver, Boston, you name it. Then I saw Scott. He was hanging out the window of the bus marked for Cleveland.

I flashed a big smile of relief and pointed to him as if to say, “Save me a spot; I’ll be right there.”

Then, the unimaginable happened. The bus driver said the bus was full. I shoved my ticket into his chest with pleading eyes, unwilling to take no for an answer.

He looked at the ticket and said, “Nope! No good. We’re full.”

He boarded, the doors closed, and my buddy cruised by me, making hand motions and expressions, saying, “WHAT THE….”

One by one, buses kicked into drive and pulled out.

I desperately grabbed a sergeant and rattled off the horror of my predicament.

“Private, you’ll be the only person in a ghost town in about three minutes! I suggest you land yourself on any bus with room headed north.

I turned and saw “Pittsburgh” in the bus window right in front of me. I stepped on and saw plenty of vacant seats. As a Browns fan in the 1980s, the humor didn’t escape me. I told the driver my story as he glanced at my ticket and waved me on.

Somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia, we pulled off for a 15-minute break to get gas and food. I used this opportunity to make a collect-call home. Fortunately, my mom picked up the phone and accepted the charges.

“Mom, listen carefully. There was a mistake with my bus ticket, and now I’m headed for Pittsburgh. You will have to pick me up there,” I spoke clearly but concisely.

“What…” she responded and began to babble.

“Mom, I have to go now. I can’t explain. Just pick me up at the Pittsburgh bus station at about Midnight. I will not have another chance to talk. I’ll see you there.”

She had no choice but to say okay.

And just like that, I was off the phone and just made it back on the bus before it pulled out of the stop.

My parents got in the car and headed for Pittsburgh. There was no GPS or even an Internet to get directions. Time was of the essence, so they just got in the car and drove, looking at a roadmap stuffed in the glove compartment. As luck would have it, they saw a Greyhound bus on the road when they neared the city.

“Follow that bus!” Mom yelled at Dad.

And that’s what he did. They figured if a Greyhound was headed for the city, it must be headed for the station. Quickly, they realized that the bus station was in what seemed to be a rundown part of town.

When I got off the bus and waited at the Pittsburgh station, I wandered. I saw all walks of life up close. Most of the people wandering at this desolate hour were the kind that triggered a little voice in my head that said, “You need to get the hell out of here or at least keep moving.”

So much time passed that I wondered if my parents would make it. And if not, what would I do next?

“ROCKY!” cried out my mom.

I wrapped my arms around her and my dad. It had been months since I had seen anyone I loved. And in this lonely, dark, cold terminal, they were a sight for sore eyes.

There I was, a grown man (barely) enlisted in the Army, about to depart America for nearly three years before I’d see family again.  A huge smile spread across my face in my embrace at the thought of my mom and dad traveling through the night to rescue me. It made this the most memorable trip home for the holidays I had ever had. And although I would never have wanted this to happen the way it did, I wouldn’t change the fact it had. Still, I would never want it to happen again.

My dad picked up my duffle bag and said, as any 1980s Browns fan would, “Pittsburgh sucks. Let’s go home.”

By Frank Rocco Satullo, The OhioTraveler, Your Tour Guide to Fun! 

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“Wrong Turns Write Life”