Bus 72

It wasn’t the first thing to engender my mistrust of other people.  But, it was one of those pivotal moments that would establish patterns of behavior that would color my decisions throughout the rest of my life.  A bright yellow public school bus numbered 72.
Bus number 72 was the one that I had always ridden to and from elementary school.  At that time, it seemed like a very simple, straightforward thing.  But for some reason, lost to me now, I had found myself, on that fateful day in second grade, staring up at bus number 27.  The year would have been 1976, and the time of year would have been late summer.
“Get on the bus, sweetie…hurry.” Mrs.  Carswell urged while lightly patting my buttocks with the palm of her hard.  Mrs. Carswell was the wife of the school’s principal-Mr. Carswell.  Everyone knew what Mr. Carswell, the principal, did.  He punished rule breakers with a big paddle.  In fact, he often lovingly revered to the process as “the board of education meeting the seat of correction”.  However, Mrs. Carswell’s job was a bit more ambiguous.  No one was really sure that she did anything-except wear a lot of heavy make-up and leopard print pantsuits.
I looked up at the bus driver seated behind the steering wheel.  He was a young man with jet black hair, a pale face, and large blue eyes.  His face was kind in appearance.  He looked down at me and smiled. 
His comely features did little to calm my apprehensions.  I knew that he was not my regular driver.  An older man named Haskell drove my school bus.  Haskell didn’t smile warmly at anyone, and he certainly couldn’t be described as comely.  However, I knew Haskell and Haskell knew where I lived.  Right at that moment, that was all that mattered to me.
Mrs. Carswell was growing impatient.  An arabesque of sugared-up, excited school children were streaming from the school’s exits.  Cars and buses were beginning to bottle-neck on all sides.  Finally, Mrs. Carswell scooped me up and sat me onto the bus.  Then she half dragged me to the front seat where she deposited me like a piece of heavy cargo.
She let out an exasperated sigh, and then offered a half-hearted, pretentious smile.
“There you go, now” she said, turning to leave.
She stopped only briefly to coif her hair and reapply her bright red lipstick, by utilizing the buses rearview mirror, and then she sashayed off to negligently misplace other hapless children like myself.
Alone on the strange, new bus I was left to contemplate my fate.  I would be driven to some strange nether world by this strange bus driver with abnormally dark hair.  Never again would I see my parents or sisters.  And that’s when it happened-at that moment, I decided that I was better off taking care of myself and making my own decisions.
I knew that my home was only a few blocks away from the school, roughly half of a mile.  I also knew that there were three routes that would take me there.  The simplest and fastest led me down the main four-lane highway where I turned off onto the side street that led straight to my front door. 
The second route took me down a side road across from the school, across some ladies’ yard, and through the woods that led into my back yard.  This route would be the fastest and least conspicuous.  No one would probably even see me.  But, the woods were dark and scary.  I often imagined these woods to be haunted by the ghosts of farm animals that had been slaughtered and dumped there nearly a century before, when it was Pritchett Farm. 
I quickly decided against this route.  There was no way I was venturing alone into The Dead Woods, as they were known.
My last option was the Old Jonesley Highway-a two-lane road that that was mostly relegated to local traffic.  It involved a longer walk with more turns, but it was much safer than the bypass where large trucks whizzed by at breakneck speeds that could blow me right off into a ditch.
Having decided upon the last of the three choices, I made up my mind to strike out upon my own.  The young bus driver never made a move to stop me as I ran down the aisle and bolted out of the open door.  He probably knew that I wasn’t one of his true fares, and was probably glad to be relieved of the responsibility of me.
As I made my way through the chaotic tangle of hooping children, frazzled teachers, and immobilized buses and automobiles, I found myself quite surprised at the ease of my escape.  In fact, before I knew it, I was at the edge of the school yard looking to my left up the road that connected perpendicularly to the old highway.  I looked down at my feet, realizing that one more step would lead me into uncharted territory.
Here, there be tigers!
I looked both ways to make sure that no cars were coming, and then darted across the road as fast as my little feet would take me.  I don’t remember many details about the long walk home.  What I do remember is an exhilarating feeling of freedom coupled with a great satisfaction in knowing that I had made a prudent decision all by myself.  Of course, now-as an adult, I realize that it was an awful decision.  Any number of tragic occurrences could have befallen me on that misguided excursion into the unknown.  But, at the time, I felt contented in the thoughts of being reunited with my home and family. 
There would be no strange bus drivers conveying me to far-off, unfamiliar places.  No, because I was proactive in my own care and well-being.  From this day forward, I would trust no more adults to keep me safe.
As I topped the hill and turned right at the honeysuckle patch, I saw my house just a few yards down the street.  I was overjoyed to have survived my experience.  But then, I saw a familiar figure standing in the front yard on the cracked sidewalk.  It was a tall, slender, elderly woman smoking a cigarette.  Grandma Hensley, my paternal grandmother, was staring at me with her free hand held to her brow to shade her eyes.  Honestly, she looked as about as foolish as I did, with her mouth ajar in puzzled astonishment. 
I played it as cool as I could, as I approached her on the unlevel sidewalk.  I was feigning my most innocent smile, because I knew there would be questions-lots of questions.
“Where in tarnation is your school bus?”  She asked, as if the school bus were an object that I should have had strapped to my back.
“Well…um…Mrs. Carswell put me-“
“You didn’t walk here did ye’?” She shouted, seeming to ignore my first answer.
“Yeah, but, I was real-“
“You’re daddy’s gonna tan your hide!”  She was almost jumping straight up and down at this point.
I could tell my grandmother was worried, not as much for me, as for herself.  In my father’s twisted logic he would probably find some reason to blame her for it all, giving her the brunt of his anger.  It seemed my father held much resentment against his mother over matters going back to his impoverished childhood.  So, he never missed a chance to rail out against her.
For myself, I was more worried about my mother’s reaction-it was she who usually dispensed judgment in matters such as these.  My father felt that public education issues were “woman’s work”.
“Oh, law!” grandma stated in exasperation, pulling at her silver hair, “well, go on in the house.  Lunch is ‘bout ready”

That evening, my mother listened patiently to my explanation.  Much to my relief, she let me off easy with a mild warning.  She knew that I probably did the right thing, after all.  But, considering the circumstances, she could not tell me so. 
My father took only a mild interest in the matter.  He merely shook his head, and then went back to the work of shinning his black, lace-up work shoes.
Later that night, mother called Mrs. Carswell at home.  She then proceeded to give her verbal lashing that was fit to knock the spots clean off of her leopard-print pantsuit.
I was proud of myself for the courage and independence that I had shown that day.  And I had learned a valuable lesson.  I discovered that I could take care of myself.