My earliest memories, are rolling down the road,

Sitting on my grandpa’s lap, behind that great window,

An arm round either side of me, to steer that great big bus,

Proud as a peacock, and filled with wanderlust.

Frenchtown was my home back then, along the Delaware,

Living in the country, without a load of care,

Waking to the morning doves, just a cooing in the tree’s,

Picking Queen Anne’s lacy flowers, an watching Bumble Bee’s.

Working in grandpa’s bus garage, tiny hammer in my hand,

Chipping out that Jersey clay, from wheel wells where I’d stand,

Chewing on some Juicy Fruit, an making quite a mess,

An feeling for a boy of three, that life was surely blessed.

Again on grandpa’s lap I’d ride, this time to mow the grass,

Help steer that tractor down its course, till finishing our task,

Then help grandma picking berries, for an elderberry pie,

And finally to my swing set, just a swingin, getting high.

I felt quite the big shot then, everywhere in town we went,

For everyone knew Baggy, a name respectfully meant,

Not just for Baggstrom’s Bus Service, perched high up on Rt. 12,

But through a myriad of other jobs, in hard times that he held.

As Chief Constable he’d have to go to represent a bank,

To evict a family from their home, but instead he’d come back thanked,

For helping this man find a way, to make his payment owed,

If even lending it himself, to keep this family’s home.

Then the “Trial of the Century”, most notably of all,

The kidnap Lindbergh-Hauptmann case, where as Constable was called,

To take charge of the jury, to and from the court each day,

Throughout that lengthy trial, watched by the world at bay.

Yes, I loved my Pop pop Baggy, and miss him to this day,

And that homestead and bus business, where I lived and briefly stayed,

Fifty years and more have passed, lest I forget just one thing more,

My favorite of those busses, old flat nosed Number Four.