Who was Doug Root?
January 30, 2024
Dear friend,
Doug Root was a man of few words and on most days, even fewer.
On this day, Doug gave me three.
My brother, several grades ahead of me, had already jumped up the steep stairs. I clambered behind, joining him on Bus #65 in Schuylerville Central School’s orange fleet.
“Welcome aboard, Tiger,” said Doug, from the driver’s seat. And for a scaredy-cat on my first day of kindergarten, that was enough.
Having followed my brother on board, I wasn’t prepared for the two long rows of tall, empty Army-green seats. The door closed behind me, Doug sped forward, and the bus jostled me back and forth.
The first day, I collapsed next to my brother in the second row.
The second day, he told me not to do that again. I didn’t argue. I counted back seven seats, shoved myself up against the cold metal side wall, and began my new morning reverie. Every school day going forward, I’d watch the Hudson River scroll past my window—and Mount Equinox in the distance on a clear day.
A direct drive to Schuylerville took just six minutes. But the bus route forked just before our house and made an oval around Saratoga County that took 50 minutes. Ours was the first stop, making for an early morning for us and for Doug. The quiet seemed to suit both of us. The homebound run in the afternoon found Doug even quieter, as if the chatter of kids saved by the final bell was nothing more than a hurricane around his calm eye.
Kindergarteners weren’t expected to read the number on the side of the bus, so someone printed off a Disney character for each one, coloring them in with markers. Coming out of school in the afternoon, I’d look for the “Goofy” bus to find Doug at the helm.
As kids on buses go, I was a model citizen. I left the horseplay for the kids who sat back past the wheel well. No one had any need to address me, and I didn’t say hello to anyone unless they said hello to me first. On a field trip with a bus driver other than Doug, I was just another passenger.
But Doug would salt in a greeting of “Afternoon, Tiger” to me now and then. I was part of something bigger than me—a member of Doug’s transient flock.
Those few times I rode someone else’s bus, the noise of the passengers shocked me, as did the crankiness of the drivers. Doug’s bus was quiet, but not because he raised his voice.
One morning I was leaning forward for a conversation with Nicole, one seat up. The stops had grown in number and the din was rising. I raised my voice to be heard. “Tiger, pipe down,” I heard. I fell back as if my solar plexus had been struck. Had Doug yelled at me? Was he going to kick me off?
I looked up at the broad mirror he pointed back at us. There was Doug, motoring along in his Red Wings shirt and jeans, eyes on the road. Having reminded me of the norms of the place, he moved on. No group of humans is meant to be quiet all the time, and Doug didn’t bother with stern looks or punishment, only the expectation that I would meet respect with respect.
One Saturday, Doug came by our house. Again, I wasn’t prepared. I flew upstairs to grab the album I had just bought at Record Town, running back down to show off Billy Joel’s “Nylon Curtain.” I wanted him to know more about me.
Later my dad told me that Doug was recruiting for Boy Scouts. My parents didn’t enroll us, just as they hadn’t enrolled us when the Pecks dropped by to invite us to join the youth group at the church behind our house.
By junior high, I was riding in with my dad more often, and then staying after-hours for cross-country. I didn’t see Doug so much. One day, riding his bus home again, I was startled to hear him say, “Watch your step, Tiger.”
Who was he talking to? “That’s my name,” I fumed.
Then I noticed the kindergartener who had tripped coming down the aisle. I had seen this kid before. She seemed quiet. Maybe, like me, a little shy and overlooked. And, for the first time in my life, I understood what Doug Root had done for me.
How many scared tigers did Doug tame over his 34-year bus-driving career? A lot, I’m sure, when you also include his four years in the U.S. Coast Guard and 18 in the Army Reserve. Douglas O. Root, who lived from 1944 to 2007, was camp director at the Horace A. Moses Scout Reservation in Massachusetts, and a life member of the David Nevins Fire Department, the Fish Creek Rod and Gun Club, and the Old Saratoga Muzzle Loading Club.
A couple weeks ago, during an anti-discrimination training in the Vermont House, we were asked to identify a privilege that we had enjoyed in life. Obvious answers in the context of the training would have included my pale skin or my education, but I raised my hand to say, “Doug Root.”
What was I thinking? If you’d never met Doug, “Tiger” would be no easier to explain than “Groot,” the sole utterance of a Guardians of the Galaxy character.
I’m explaining it today because if something was a privilege for me but not for others, it’s my duty to share.
Rest in peace, Doug. And wherever you are, please keep the flame alive for any mentor who goes out of their way to notice the people around them. I’ve seen plenty of superintendents who tell the Dougs of the world to stick to their narrow job description. “Just drive the bus,” they say.
Doug never overstepped a boundary. He didn’t ask a second time about Boy Scouts. (Though I wouldn’t have minded—learning muzzle-loading would have been cool.) Doug was simply there, and he also let me know that he saw me there, too. As we sing at Passover—dayenu, that would have been enough.
Who’s your Doug Root? Email author Tristan Roberts at tristan@tristanroberts.org. Tristan writes from his farm in Halifax, and serves as Representative for Windham-6.