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“Here we are，” he said. “Welcome to the Mid- west.” After twenty hours and thousands of miles， I was dropped off by my escort at my new address. He placed my suitcases by my side and gave a little wave goodbye. “But wait，” I thought. I had so many questions to ask. “How will I find the school， tomorrow？” I cried out.
“It’s very easy，” he replied. “Just down the road you’ll see the bus stop.” I nodded and away he drove. Alone now， I found myself startled by the quiet， the darkness， and the uncertainty. I turned to face what would be my new home. My thumping heart sent ripples into the still night. I had reached my destination， but I was lost.
The next day I woke to see Bloomington， Indiana， in full daylight. And down the road I went， looking for that bus stop. I walked up and down， and up and down. “Where is the waiting crowd of people，” I wondered anxiously. “Could my escort have been mistaken？” At last， a big bus came along and I rushed over to where it had come to a halt in front of a small sign on a pole. I climbed aboard and handed a note that I’d prepared for the driver—I wasn’t ready yet to try out my English. “Goodbody Hall，” the note read. I remember thinking what a funny name that was. The bus driver， an old gentleman， neatly dressed， accepted the note with a smile. He seemed to understand my situation and uttered something to me. I could not make out what he said， but he talked in a friendly manner so I smiled back and took the seat nearest to him. It would not be until after his death that I would interpret those first words he spoke to me.
The bus set off and I sat on edge as we made stop after stop. At one point， the driver exited the bus and gestured to me to join him. With the bus engine running and passengers waiting in their seats， he walked and I followed. We reached the campus and as we approached the entryway of an old building， he exclaimed， “This is Goodbody Hall.” I was astonished that a bus driver would be so helpful， and it gave me a warm feeling. Certainly no bus driver in Beijing would ever perform such a kind act.
By the next time I rode the old gentleman’s bus， my English had improved enough so that we were able to chat a bit. When he learned that I was studying oracle bone inscriptions， the ancient Chinese writing system， he said to me： “I have a book on Chinese characters. You are the better person to have it. I’ll bring it to you next time.” Days later I’d found a new apartment within walking distance to the campus. It wasn’t until a year later that I would board his bus again. When I did climb up his steps again， he took out a bag from under his seat and handed it to me. “I’ve been carrying this with me. I haven’t seen you for a long time.” It was the book on Chinese characters that he’d wanted me to have. Again， I was astonished—that book had ridden hundreds of routes with him， waiting for me. But then it was his appearance that caused me alarm. I almost didn’t recognize him. He was in bad health. I sat near him and we chatted for the length of my ride. And by the time I’d reached my stop， he had introduced himself as Phil， adopted me as his host daughter， and invited me to join him and his wife on Thanksgiving Day for a traditional meal that his wife would prepare. Thanksgiving reminded me of Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival. It was a time when I missed my own family—a time I felt lost in America. The warmth and kindness of this lovely bus driver helped me through those times. He made Bloomington feel more like home.
Two years later， I was due to move halfway across the country to attend school in Cambridge. Phil and his wife treated me to a farewell dinner at Indiana University’s Faculty Club， a fancy restaurant on campus. He presented me with a folder full of information on hikes and trails in the new region I’d soon be living. He said he would come to hike the trails—something he had always wanted to do—once his health allowed. And he expressed his wish to visit me， too.
I had been out of Bloomington for a year before returning for a visit. I hadn’t heard from Phil and was hoping I’d have a chance to see him， so I called a number he’d given me and spoke to his wife. He had passed away from cancer， his wife told me， and had been buried just two weeks before.
His wife accompanied me to the cemetery where I would place flowers at the foot of his gravestone. She said he was laid to rest amongst the generations of his proud Indiana family. And that he had only started driving the bus in his retirement years—just to keep busy. As we approached and I saw the name inscribed on the stone， “Mr. Philip Goodbody， 1942-2006，” the bus driver once again took my breath away.
Four years earlier， I came from Beijing， China， to a small town in Indiana， with a note in my hand meant just for him. When I think back to that morning when I first climbed aboard his bus， and I repeat the sound of the words he spoke after reading my note， I have no doubt now that he had kindly said， “I’m a Goodbody. I’ll take care of you.” The warm feeling came over me again as I placed the flowers before his grave. And it returns each time I think of Bloomington， Indiana， U.S.A.， and the gentleman bus driver.
“It’s very easy，” he replied. “Just down the road you’ll see the bus stop.” I nodded and away he drove. Alone now， I found myself startled by the quiet， the darkness， and the uncertainty. I turned to face what would be my new home. My thumping heart sent ripples into the still night. I had reached my destination， but I was lost.
The next day I woke to see Bloomington， Indiana， in full daylight. And down the road I went， looking for that bus stop. I walked up and down， and up and down. “Where is the waiting crowd of people，” I wondered anxiously. “Could my escort have been mistaken？” At last， a big bus came along and I rushed over to where it had come to a halt in front of a small sign on a pole. I climbed aboard and handed a note that I’d prepared for the driver—I wasn’t ready yet to try out my English. “Goodbody Hall，” the note read. I remember thinking what a funny name that was. The bus driver， an old gentleman， neatly dressed， accepted the note with a smile. He seemed to understand my situation and uttered something to me. I could not make out what he said， but he talked in a friendly manner so I smiled back and took the seat nearest to him. It would not be until after his death that I would interpret those first words he spoke to me.
The bus set off and I sat on edge as we made stop after stop. At one point， the driver exited the bus and gestured to me to join him. With the bus engine running and passengers waiting in their seats， he walked and I followed. We reached the campus and as we approached the entryway of an old building， he exclaimed， “This is Goodbody Hall.” I was astonished that a bus driver would be so helpful， and it gave me a warm feeling. Certainly no bus driver in Beijing would ever perform such a kind act.
By the next time I rode the old gentleman’s bus， my English had improved enough so that we were able to chat a bit. When he learned that I was studying oracle bone inscriptions， the ancient Chinese writing system， he said to me： “I have a book on Chinese characters. You are the better person to have it. I’ll bring it to you next time.” Days later I’d found a new apartment within walking distance to the campus. It wasn’t until a year later that I would board his bus again. When I did climb up his steps again， he took out a bag from under his seat and handed it to me. “I’ve been carrying this with me. I haven’t seen you for a long time.” It was the book on Chinese characters that he’d wanted me to have. Again， I was astonished—that book had ridden hundreds of routes with him， waiting for me. But then it was his appearance that caused me alarm. I almost didn’t recognize him. He was in bad health. I sat near him and we chatted for the length of my ride. And by the time I’d reached my stop， he had introduced himself as Phil， adopted me as his host daughter， and invited me to join him and his wife on Thanksgiving Day for a traditional meal that his wife would prepare. Thanksgiving reminded me of Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival. It was a time when I missed my own family—a time I felt lost in America. The warmth and kindness of this lovely bus driver helped me through those times. He made Bloomington feel more like home.
Two years later， I was due to move halfway across the country to attend school in Cambridge. Phil and his wife treated me to a farewell dinner at Indiana University’s Faculty Club， a fancy restaurant on campus. He presented me with a folder full of information on hikes and trails in the new region I’d soon be living. He said he would come to hike the trails—something he had always wanted to do—once his health allowed. And he expressed his wish to visit me， too.
I had been out of Bloomington for a year before returning for a visit. I hadn’t heard from Phil and was hoping I’d have a chance to see him， so I called a number he’d given me and spoke to his wife. He had passed away from cancer， his wife told me， and had been buried just two weeks before.
His wife accompanied me to the cemetery where I would place flowers at the foot of his gravestone. She said he was laid to rest amongst the generations of his proud Indiana family. And that he had only started driving the bus in his retirement years—just to keep busy. As we approached and I saw the name inscribed on the stone， “Mr. Philip Goodbody， 1942-2006，” the bus driver once again took my breath away.
Four years earlier， I came from Beijing， China， to a small town in Indiana， with a note in my hand meant just for him. When I think back to that morning when I first climbed aboard his bus， and I repeat the sound of the words he spoke after reading my note， I have no doubt now that he had kindly said， “I’m a Goodbody. I’ll take care of you.” The warm feeling came over me again as I placed the flowers before his grave. And it returns each time I think of Bloomington， Indiana， U.S.A.， and the gentleman bus driver.