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could wake one half-hour before I was needed at the bus stop and still have five minutes to spare before the bus was due.
It was those five minutes that could change the life of any impressionable young man.
It was at that bus stop— or in transit to and from the same — that all the rules could be broken.
I smoked my first cigarette walking home one afternoon.
I wrote some of my best term papers at the bus stop.
I nearly blew off my finger with an M80, which was not only illegal but awfully dangerous. I haven’t fooled with one since. I saw my first real life beaver in the stream that marked the halfway point of my walking journey.
I killed my first snake near that stream, never mind that the snake was barely six inches long and weak from dehydration; the kill still counts.
I got hit by a car during an afternoon snowball fight.
But if anything is remembered about the bus stop, it is my social development.
I fell in love with Jami, so much so that I was unable to muster the courage to talk to her. I got over that the next year, when the fourth grade started.
I first heard about the Beatles one Monday morning at the bus stop. I couldn’t stay up late enough on Sunday nights to watch their American debut on the the Ed
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