“The Yellow School Bus”

by

Gerry Niskern

They’re big and cumbersome. Annoying, actually. They block our view and slow us down when we are trying to get across town in a hurry.  Every neighborhood is invaded by them around the middle of August.  Yellow school buses.

You can be sure that sitting on one of those buses that you are trapped behind, is a wide-eyed child just starting school. He is finally going to read!  His world is expanding and he is rushing to meet it through education.  Many children start dreaming of riding the school bus right after they receive their first Fischer Price school bus toy when they are toddlers. They placed their little pretend person in the front seat, because, of course, that is where they will ride to school when they are old enough.

I know.  I had those some illusions myself about riding in the front of the bus. Each school morning when I boarded the bus bound for our little country school I was sure that would be the day I  would finally get to ride in the front seat,  across from the driver.  Every time I climbed up those  steep steps,  I looked up to see our bus driver’s own  two little girls sitting smugly in the coveted seat. Just like Charlie Brown kicking a football, I didn’t stand a chance.

When I got to the school that first day, there wasn’t room for all the beginners.  Around forty children were crowded into twenty little desks.   Every year the farmers’ wives sent all their little ones, even three and four year olds, hoping for a miracle and the school would let them start first grade. The poor teacher had to weed out the ones that were too young and send them home.

Then, there was Charlie. I don’t remember his last name, but I will never forget his ingenuity at avoiding the whole issue of starting to first grade. He came on the bus with his older siblings as he was supposed to do. However, at recess time, he made a break for it. He slipped out of the schoolyard and walked home.  His father brought him back. He placed Charlie firmly in his seat and turned to put his lunch pail on the shelf. By the time he turned around Charlie was already out the door ahead of him. We kids watched in fascination as the crying little boy and his frustrated daddy went through the same routine time after time. I don’t remember who won, but something tells me it wasn’t Charlie.

I followed a bus out of our neighborhood the other morning. Seeing some of the excited Hispanic children boarding reminded me of the story my mother always told about her first day of school. The bus ride was fun and her sister directed her to the first grade room.  When class started, she concentrated as hard as she could, but she understood very little that the teacher was instructing them to do.  She remembers gulping back tears as she smoothed her freshly ironed dress with sweating palms. She tried to copy the alphabet as the teacher was indicating. Most of the other little German, Polish and Hungarian children were having just as hard a time struggling to understand. These offspring of immigrant parents played at home, just as my Austrian mother did, and didn’t learn English until they started to school. They all eventually learned English,  and were reading by the end of the year, but it was very hard.

I’m sure we all agree that whatever grade the kids on that slow yellow bus are in they deserve a safe ride to school. Please remember, when a bus is stopped, stop sign out or not, do not pass.

By the way, when I played school bus with my little great-grandson, he always  took the red-haired boy and I got to be the yellow headed girl. And I confess, I  always grabbed that front seat!