Cassa Grant


Cassa Grant

Was it written in the stars? My mother was definitely asking for trouble when she named me after that road in Wyoming…

If someone had told me five years ago that I would quit a nice job as a high school English teacher to become a bus driver, I would have laughed in their face. I would have rolled on the floor, snorting, tears streaming, making somewhat of a fool of myself. And if they'd gone on to include that I would never look at a bus again without sizing it up like a muscle car and speculating about its GVW or jake brakes, all bets would have been off about the hilarity that would have ensued.

But here I am, still Ms. Grant and moderately teacher-y, but hopefully making that work to your advantage on the trip. If you have the good fortune to ride with me through Montana or anywhere near it, I will regale you with old cowboy stories and talk about beef prices. (Chances are good I will do that anyway, regardless of how close we get to that region—you can take a girl out of the country but not the country out of the girl, or something like that.) You will hear me sing along to a ridiculous number of Bon Jovi songs. I will warn you not to die while crossing the street. I will also wax in a semi- cheesy/pathetic way about how much I love the Green Tortoise.

I can't wait to find out what other random shenanigans will take place during our time together. Tents in trees? Hot springs at midnight? Fanny pack fashion shows? Karaoke that will knock our socks (or Chacos) off? Dancing in the rain? Truck stop shopping sprees? Wardrobe malfunctions? German hip hop? Who knows?