The School Bus

Darrel Newell
© 2006 All rights reserved

    In spite of the early hour it was already warm and sunny as I slowly walked up the dirt driveway to meet the school bus. The spring air was warming a little more every day now and patches of green grass were beginning to show on the south side of the ditches where the sun shone in the afternoon. The migrating birds were flying north and the year round birds joined them, providing a cloud of sound that filled the early morning spring air.
    It was May, the last month of school. The War had been over for almost two years now and a certain amount of normalacy had returned to the country. In Northern Minnesota the 'frost heaves' in the gravel roads were finally drying out into potholes, waiting the attention of the road grader.     In the distance an old yellow school bus was approaching, about a quarter mile away up the gravel road, trailing a big fan tail of dust. The bus had that tired, well used look, its paint dull and showing rust spots around the wheel wells. It was covered along its flanks with a thick coat of road dust.
    I normally met up with Sam as we waited for the bus. Sam lived across the road from our house on the old Mercil place. Neither of our families owned or worked the land, but simply rented the farm houses. The land on both farms was let out for cash rent. I lived with my mom and dad and two younger brothers while Sam lived alone with his mother. It was never talked about, but it was said his father had died in the war.
    I could see Sam walking slowly up the dirt road, looking at the ground, a solemn boy of ten, pencil thin, his pant legs bunched up around his ankles. There were holes in the knees of the pants and they were held up by a hand me down belt many sizes to large, the leftover belt end flopping off his thigh as he shuffled towards me. He wore the same blue and grey plaid shirt that he wore nearly every day. He carried his lunch in a old battered brown paper bagß.
    Sam and I were not really close friends even though we lived near each other and met every school day at the bus stop. His mother rarely allowed him to go with me and Billy Olsen and Albert Maas, our other two neighbors, on our various adventures or more importantly, our trips the the 'mouth of the creek'. This was the point where the small creek wound through the rich farm land and eventually into the muddy slow moving Red Lake River. This creek and the river held endless facination for us boys. We fished, built forts, played Indians and in general were free to do anything we could imagine. There was no road to the 'mouth of the creek'. The only way to find it was to follow the creek through the woods. It was like having your own private out door playground where adults rarely ever came.
    But instead Sam spent most days on his porch or in the small patch of woods behind his house, solitary, quiet, lost in his private thoughts. Even when he was with the rest of us he hung back a little, never quite joining in the free flowing childrens laughter that exploded when vanquishing our imaginary foes, the satisfaction of seeing a well built fort. We all felt his reticence but with the thoughtlessness of youth didn't dwell on it, just accepted it as Sam's way.
    "Hi Sam", I said as he stopped beside me on road side.
    He looked up with his sad eyes and nodded. The bus rolled to a stop in front of us, the trailing dust washing over our bodies. The door folded open and Sam and I climbed the steps and turned and sat in our usual seat, the second from the front.
    "Hi Uncle Buck", I said to the bus driver. He really was my uncle, my fathers younger brother. He was a gaunt young man of 25, with prominent cheek bones, straggely dark black hair long overdue for a haircut, and dark eyes that never seemed to smile. He looked taller than he really was because of his slim lean frame and the loose grey coveralls he normally wore.
    "Hey D.J.", he replied, using my family nickname.
    Buck didn't talk much. He often sat by himself, staring out over the flat prairie into the distance. Like many other young men who had spent several years in combat he came back from the War a much different person from the laughing happy go lucky teenager he was when he left. We kids only vaguely knew about the War. The men who fought almost never spoke of the it, only when asked directly, and even then saying very little. This was a part of their lives that was in the past and it was very ugly and very sad. So they simply never talked about it. The other men who had been in combat never asked because they knew what it was. And mostly the ones who hadn't been there didn't feel like they had the right to ask.
    As I sat down the bus jerked into motion. A dozen or so sleepy children swayed in their seats as they stared vacantly out the bus windows.
    With a few intermediate stops, about two miles down the road the bus picked up the two children of a prosperous farmer named Jan DeBoer. Jan had been just a little to old to be called into the war. During the war the country needed food production, so he stayed home on the family farm. He was a careful, thorough man and his farm was always neat, clean and well organized. He took care of his machinery and his buildings. During the war years the weather had been good and he had produced bumper crops. Great crops together with good prices for his product meant he had prospered to a significant degree. His children were a boy in the 5th grade with Sam and I and an older sister in the 6th grade. They always had clean, newer clothes and shiny new lunch boxes with colorful cartoon characters on them.
    My clothes were second or third hand and Sams were older yet.But we were both 'in fashion' because nearly all the kids wore older clothes. The postwar economy had not expanded completely to Northern Minnesota yet. And the mothers all knew recess was outdoors and as farm kids we were no strangers to dirt. Our mothers were nothing if not sensible.
    We finally arrived at school, turning into the dusty driveway leading to the square single story one room building that served all six grades. The building had been built in the 1920's and during the war years had not been touched by a paint brush. The exterior siding was splitting from the extreme winters and the white paint was peeling badly. But no money was spent on the facillities as it was planned that all children would soon be bussed into town 6 miles up the road, where each grade had it's own room and there was a gym and music room. These were unheard of luxuries for us country kids.
    There was a ragged rusty chain link fence around the school, marking off the 'playground' from the plowed fields surrounding the school and serving to contain most of the kickballs and other flying objects. There were several strategically placed holes in the fence so we didn't have to run all the way out and around to get the balls that flew over the fence.
    In the back corner of the lot, behind the school, was a large box elder tree and under it were three delapidated old picnic tables. The tree was maybe 30 feet tall and its well spread out branches provided the only shade in the schol yard. It was here that the fifth and sixth grade boys and girls sat or lay on the grass and ate our lunches.
    Most days Uncle Buck sat at one of the tables, eating a sandwich and gazing off accross the open fields at the horizon. Sometimes he would sit out there reading a book or the news paper until 2;30, when it was time for us to go home. Then he drove the big yelllow bus up in front of the schools main door and we would file in for the homeward journey.
    On the days Uncle Buck sat there I would usually stop by and say "Hi Uncle Buck" and he'd answer "Hey, DJ", barely glancing up from his sandwich.
    Boys being boys there was often some horseplay, some pushing and shoving, just the usual stuff. On these early spring days where the temperature was finally getting over 50 degrees and the sunlight had some heat in it seemed to encourage a greater level of boyish activity.
    Today was one of those days, and young Garret DeBoer was especially active. As I came over to sit down he grabbed at my old grey lunch box, trying to pull it out of my hand. We had a brief tug of war before I succeeded in pulling free of him. He then ran over to another youngster and tried to yank his lunch box out of his hand. He succeeded and whirled it around over his head several time before the other boy grabbed his arm and pulled it down so he could grab it back. Garrett DeBoer quickly gave up his hold on the lunch box and looked around for another victim. As luck would have it here came Sam trailing behind as usual, his head down, holding his paper sack in his left hand while looking for a place to sit near me. Young DeBoer let out a holler as he spun around. He took two quick steps towards Sam then grabbed the paper bag from Sams hand. Sam's eyes got wide open in fright at the noise coming from Garret DeBoer. His first instinct was to tighten his grip and pull back, and when he did the old well used bag tore right in half. Two half slices of bread and the contents of the sandwich flew lazily up then pulled apart at the apogee then fell as three seperate parts to the dirt at Sams feet. The two slices of bread landed almost on top of each other and the contents, one fried egg, landed about six inches away.
    Almost instantly everyone of the boys stopped making a sound. Young DeBoer kept hollering for about five seconds, then noticed that everyone was silent. He turned to where everyone was looking, near where Sam was standing, and looked at the torn bag in his hand. The girls on the other side of the tree noticed the unusual quiet and the fact the boys weren't moving. They quickly moved over and joined the small crowd.
    The two pieces of bread and the fried egg lay in the dirt, like a sculpture. Every kid knew what it meant. Sam slowly sunk to his knees, a large tear forming on each of his cheeks, and reached for the bread. He slowly brushed at the dirt on first one piece then the other. We all stood completely motionless as Sam kept brushing the dirt off the bread. The picture of Sam in those old patched jeans and ragged shirt, his cheeks now wet from tears and the broken sandwich in the dirt in front of him was burnt into every childs memory that day.
    Sam's hand shook as he reached for the egg. He lifted it up, and saw that it was heavily encrusted with dirt. He dropped the egg, then slowly bent over until his forehead touched the ground. His body seemed to lose all tension as he collapsed into the fetal position next to the sandwich.
    In thinking back over the years at this event, I can remember few times in life when everybody watching something was so completely in tune. We all felt as one, and reacted as one for those few seconds before Sam collapsed.
Uncle Buck suddenly appeared along side Sam. He reached down and delicately lifted him up and carried him to the picnic table and set him down beside him. He held him up with his arm around Sams shoulder. That broke the spell. A murmur of kids voices started up. Garret DeBoer's sister Anje took him roughly by the arm.
    "What have you done..." and recieved a blank stare in return.
The kids looked over at Sam next to Uncle Buck, now with his head down on the picnic table. First Anje DeBoer went to her lunch box and lifted the remaining half of her sandwich from its waxed paper and walked over and silently placed it in front of Sam. Soon several more kids, both boys and girls brought some part of what they had left in their lunches and silently set it in front of Sam. I think everyone that had anything left brought it over and set it in front of Sam.
çSam slowly straightened up as the small pile of food in front of him grew. He looked around at the now quiet children. Most looked at the ground as they slowly walked back to their tables. Garret DeBoer appeared alongside Sam. He had in his hand his full sandwich. He placed it in front of Sam.
    "I'm sorry Sam," he said, and slowly walked over to the other boys.
I sat down next to Sam. He looked truly bewildered at the food in front of him. Uncle Buck finally spoke.
    "Eat something Sam. You need it."
     "I'll wait for you to eat before we go play," I said quietly. Nearby game of kickball had begun, a little more subdued.
    "Come on Sam, eat. Then we'll go play kick ball."
Sam picked up one of the sandwiches and took a bite, then got a smile on his face. I don't know how long it had been since he had real jelly.

Postscript:   I just thought you'd like to know... that afternoon Uncle Buck walked Sam to his front door and explained to his mother what had happened at lunch that day. Some small spark must have passed between them. Uncle Buck smiled for the first time in a long while and Sam's mother stood up a little straighter and had a soft smile on her face as Uncle Buck left. Of course Sam and I didn't notice.
    Jan DeBoer senior and his wife paid a social call on Sam's mom the next day. They brought butter and bread and a ham. Sam's mother cried and thanked them.
    Six months later Uncle Buck and Sam's mom were married.