The bus ride home
I
n grade school, when the last bell rang at the end of the day, all of us “country kids” rushed out to board the yellow buses that were parked on the north side of the building.
It’s a favorite memory. I loved school and all my friends, but I loved the feeling of a day done and the familiar ride back to the farm even more. The bus ride home meant the end of grade-school responsibility and the beginning of carefree hours with no mimeographed math problems.
The treads on the bus steps were always filled with gravel, though I suspect our driver swept them out every day. The soles of our sneakers were smooth back then, so I don’t know how we managed to bring so much dirt along with us. A side effect of recess, I suppose.
When the folding doors opened, we piled onto the bus and down the center aisle, racing to secure our favorite seats. Then we settled in for some rowdy adventure.
It was on the afternoon bus that I learned I could stuff more than 50 M&Ms in my mouth at one time. It was the start of Christmas break and our teachers had gifted us giant plastic candy canes filled with red and green M&Ms. I think the contest evolved because we needed an excuse for breaking into those chocolate-filled beauties. Bragging rights seemed sufficient.
I don’t remember now if I won the contest, but I gave it a worthy try. I do remember the singular focus required to swallow the whopping mouthful of chocolate left behind by 50 or more M&Ms. It’s true—the candy coating melts in your mouth, not in your hands—but trust me, the chocolate remains.
Our driver was a good-natured campaigner. He knew when to wade in on our various disputes and when to leave us alone to work things out on our own.
A good portion of any day’s ride home involved my girlfriends and I trying to buffalo him into letting us off at each others’ houses. We would insist that we had permission, that our parents were fine with it, that in fact, they had called the school secretary to tell us it was mandatory. Our driver never fell for it, but he never made us feel bad for hounding him either. He was a pro.
One year a group of prairie chickens nested in the trees along my neighbor’s lane. The bus driver pulled over every day to point out the chicks as they skittered along behind their mothers. I was mesmerized. Whatever they paid that man, it wasn’t enough.
There weren’t many fights on the bus, beyond the occasional shove or kick in the shins. I did launch a textbook at an older boy once, in retaliation for an Indian burn he gave him. He was a decent kid, but ornery. The book caught him right on the nose. He didn’t give me any more trouble after that, and we remained friends.
Our bus driver saw the whole thing, but he must have considered my actions an appropriate response to provocation. Anyway, I didn’t get in trouble. Did I mention he was a pro?
When he pulled into our yard, there was no need to use the stop sign handle. Oncoming traffic included a brown and white dog, a few itinerant tumbleweeds, and maybe a startled chicken or two. My mom was always waiting, with a mayonnaise and mustard sandwich on white bread. She put a round slice of bologna in there too, but that wasn’t important. For me, it was the mayonnaise and mustard that counted.
In adult life, it’s the last week of school. I hope the country kids enjoy their final bus ride home, along with some rowdy adventure. I’m going inside. I think I’ll make a mayonnaise and mustard sandwich.