Remember your first bus ride? Actually, I only remember my second bus ride. I was five years old, taking the bus home from morning kindergarten. Going to school, I rode the bus with my older sister, so it was no big deal, but returning home by myself was a big deal. The bus driver missed my stop, so he let me off on the block behind my house. (Geez, thanks, jack ass.)
I could see my house from where he let me off, but between me and home was a big German Shepherd. I must have looked like fresh meat to that shepherd; he started barking and drooling the minute I stepped off the bus. No way to get home, but on the path that led to the man-eating dog. I began to cry … no, yell for my Mom, better yet, scream as loud as I could.
Mom to the rescue. She was expecting me, and saw that the bus didn’t stop where it was supposed to, so she heard my desperate cries for help. I don’t remember the bus rides as much as I remember the destinations: fifth grade after-school bus rides to the downtown YMCA swim lessons and after-dark rides home, a high school basketball game in North Omaha, the Army induction center, somewhere in blacked-out Bien Hoa, etc. All of them … I was holding on tight.
Thought for the Day: Courage is doing what you’re afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you’re scared. Eddie Rickenbacker