Summer's Freedom

Summer's Freedom

The last day of school before summer vacation was something we looked forward to all year.  From the time school started in late August, we could scarcely wait for May to roll around.  Summer vacation was a time of freedom: freedom from homework, freedom from the oppression of teachers, freedom from classmates, both friend and foe.  In the past, summer's freedom had meant hours of riding off on the trusted Huffy, converted years before from a Hi-Riser sidewalk bike into a muddy, oft-repainted dirt bike.  Now, with the metamorphosis that took place upon turning the wizened old age of 16, it meant gassing up the trusty old hot rod and letting the miles pass under tire.  Summer's freedom really had meaning now.
         The seconds remaining until the final bell of the year would build into a crescendo, with every student pumped, near ready to burst.  If there had been any plans of accomplishing anything academically, those plans were doomed to failure from the first bell.  Scores of students from freshman to senior had wiled away the day with excited chatter of where, when, how and with whom they would be spending the summer vacation.  Some talked of going to Disney World or Six Flags, or even Dollywood, while others boasted of beach vacations, driving in the mountains, or maybe even to Mexico.  Occasionally, one would mention staying at home.  No one wanted that one, staying at home.  We weren’t wealthy, but staying home was a stigma that told the world that you were poor and couldn't visit any such exotic location, if you could consider Pigeon Forge or Daytona Beach an exotic place.  I guess, growing up in a small rural Tennessee town, you could.          
         Growing up in a small town where everyone knows everyone's parents can be treacherous.    Seems every time I tried some adventurous maneuver, I would be found out before I arrived at my destination.  The last week of May, I was on my way to school, and passed three cars, a school bus and another car on the mile long straightway about 3 miles from the school.  Apparently, an English teacher had been in the lead car, and shortly after his arrival at school, reported my “unsafe behavior”.  Before I had left Homeroom, I heard my name called over the intercom with the instruction to come to the principal's office.  Bummer.  To add injury to insult, they had called my parents as well.  Once I arrived home that afternoon, my dad took my keys, and I was relegated to riding the school bus for the final week of my junior year.
         To a teenage male with a license to drive, riding the bus doesn’t just feel like being in prison.  It really is a prison.  For those once free, caught in the act of being a stupid teenager, a male with an overabundance of testosterone or bravado, nothing could be worse.  No one rides the bus because they want to.  They are either too young to drive, don't have a car, or are grounded.
         The last day of school was also the last day of being grounded.  I was sadly spending that joyous day with those who, for whatever reason, failed to know and understand freedom.  Real freedom was gained by possessing those objects all teenaged boys desire, the Vehicle Operator's License and a running car.  Regaining the privilege to drive would mean being released from maximum-security prison.  Still, that was another day away, and here I was, the hot rodder, the self-proclaimed “cool” kid, sitting on a hot, sweaty bus with sixty other hot, sweaty losers.
         As the bus pulled away from the school for the last time that year, I longingly watched out the window of my cell as all my “cool” friends left the parking lots in their hot rods, tires spinning, drifting sideways, exhaust roaring, wishing I was one of them.  Never realizing that such tomfoolery had sentenced me to this bus, I just wanted to be part of it, wanted to be noticed, to be thought of as “cool”.  And there I sat, unnoticed, uncool, just another hot and sweaty loser on a bright yellow prison bus.  There would always be next year.