A Quck Walk

I was raised in a small farming community.  Because we lived in a time when violence wasn’t so prevalent and parents weren’t so quick to sue my school experience allowed me to do things my own children would never be allowed to do.  When I was in middle school our bus route went across a road that it would again cross a mile further east.  Picture a large rectangle with a mile between the long sides. (can you tell I don’t teach math?)

 With verbal permission, "my mom said it was OK" from our parents another teen girl and I would jump off the bus as it crossed East Paris Avenue.  We would then quickly walk the mile to where our bus would again cross the street as it drove back toward town.  Our houses were in the next mile.  If we walked quickly enough we would again hop on the bus and ride to our farm homes.  If we were a little too slow, we’d just walk the ¾ of a mile and arrive a home a little later than if we’d re-boarded the bus. 

I still recall the excitement and push we felt to make the bus.  Cold spring days were particularly exciting as the wind blew and the mile we’d need to walk would surely be muddy and slippery.  Of course the walk wasn’t dangerous.  We knew everyone who lived along that mile stretch of road and any car that happened to pass was a neighbor. 

Reflecting on those days, I don’t recall ever missing the connection to reboard the bus.  But we sure felt like we were adventurous.