The building was dark, silent, empty. Paper cups and other debris littered the floor. It was as if the once busy transit hub had been forgotten, destined to spend the rest of its days as a relic of a gone era.
The old Greyhound bus station at 1212 W. Bannock Street in downtown Boise was replaced some time ago by a new one closer to the Interstate. It didn’t seem all that long ago, though, that it was crowded and bustling. I happened by there one morning in February and, memory-smitten, stopped to peer through the windows.
So many memories. Two stood out, though. The first had to do with a memorable incident from my teens.
I was a member of a rock group, and we were playing in a downtown ballroom one night when my then girlfriend asked if she could use my car.
“My little sister has to be home by 11,” she said. “Can I borrow your car to give her a ride?”
I gave her the keys and, without giving it another thought, went back to playing music. About half an hour later, a uniformed police officer approached the stage and beckoned to me. Not just any police officer, but Vern Bisterfeldt, a larger than life cop who patrolled our dances and went on to become a city councilman and county commissioner.
“Your girlfriend and her sister were in an accident in your car,” he said. “They’re at the bus station.”
“The bus station? What are they doing there?”
“That’s where the accident happened. Some guy broadsided them.”
“Are they okay?”
“I think so, but I’m not sure. You’ll have to go over there to find out.”
When we finished our last song, one of the band members gave me a ride to the station. My car, a Volkswagen Bug, was lying on the sidewalk in front of the station, upside down.
The officer on the scene said the car that hit it was being driven by a man who was going way too fast. A witness claimed that upon impact my car had flown over the telephone wires before landing on the sidewalk.
My girlfriend and her sister were thrown clear through the windshield, which had popped out. Miraculously, neither was seriously injured. The little sister needed a few stitches, but other than that they were both okay.
I’m a firm believer in wearing seatbelts, but if they’d been wearing theirs that night the crash would have been a whole lot worse. The steering wheel had broken in half and gone through the driver’s seat. If the girls hadn’t been thrown clear, the driver almost certainly would have been killed. And her little sister probably would have needed a lot more than a few stitches. They were incredibly lucky.
The car wasn’t. It was a total loss.
The other bus-station memory that stands out was of taking the bus to North Idaho to join friends who wanted to start a band while attending the University of Idaho. I’d just gotten out of the Navy and hadn’t bought a car yet so the bus was the only way to get there.
It left early in the morning so everything had to be ready to go the night before. My suitcase was packed and sitting beside my bed. My guitar was propped up against the suitcase.
For a reason that remains a mystery, I got up on the wrong side of the bed that morning.
Ever wonder where the expression “getting up on the wrong side of the bed” originated?
Ancient Rome, actually. A superstitious lot, Romans believed that getting up on the wrong, or left, side of the bed would bring bad luck. That morning may have been the only time in my life that I got up on the left side of the bed. And sure enough, bad luck followed.
It was still dark when I got up, walked smack into the guitar and fell down on top of it. In addition to some spirited cursing, the silence was broken by a sickening crack. The guitar was in a fabric gig bag rather than a hardshell case, and its neck snapped off.
It was a gloomy lad whose folks drove him to the bus station that morning, sans guitar, for the long trip to Moscow (six hours by car, longer by bus).
These and other memories crowded together as I peered through the windows of the old bus station, recalling what a vital place it used to be and thinking what a shame it was that it wasn’t being used.
Fast forward a few weeks. Driving by on a recent evening, I noticed people inside, stopped and went to investigate. Workers were busy sweeping and otherwise cleaning up. Seeing me outside, a young man opened the door and let me in.
He was Aidan Brezonick, founder of the Idaho Film Society. He said it had taken over the building and is using it as work spaces during the day and showing films in the evenings.
“There’s one playing right now that you’re welcome to watch if you’re interested,” he said, gesturing toward a curtain with a sign identifying it as the entrance to the society’s theater.
The film was “The Banshees of Inisherin,” which I’d already seen so I thanked him just the same and left, feeling chipper. It was great knowing that the old building had become an active part of the community again.
To learn more about the society and films showing at what is aptly named the Omnibus Theater, click on idahofilm.org.
***
My last column, about an online publication’s story on “the coolest buildings in every state,” asked readers for their thoughts on what the coolest buildings are in Idaho.
The online publication, The Discoverer, gave the Statehouse as Idaho’s. I begged to differ and named some I thought deserving of the title – the Hoff Building, Teater’s Knoll, some depots and churches, etc. To those, readers added the following:
Brian Bazenni suggested Boise’s Idanha Hotel and Nampa’s Smallwood House.
Jack Hourcade is partial to the administration building at the old Idaho Pententiary, “made with sandstone mined just a few hundred yards away.”
The most unusual building suggested: Miner’s Hat Realty, in Kellogg. The roof of the building actually looks like a miner’s hat, complete with a headlamp. Thanks to Glenn McGeoch for that one.
Ray Guindon likes the Sun Valley Lodge and the Coeur d’Alene Resort, Joanna Marshall the circular Boise Little Theater.
To all who sent suggestions, thanks.
Tim Woodward’s column appears every other Sunday in The Idaho Press and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@gmail.com.
Tim Woodward 