Time out Tuesday – My Take on Aesop

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I know, time out from what, right? I’d have to actually be writing to take a time out from it. But it’s Tuesday, and I love to stick with my routines…you know, when I feel like it. So instead of coming up with something new of my own, I’m going to be unbelievably arrogant and give my opinions about stories that have endured thousands of years. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

Aesop, born a slave, died being thrown off a cliff. Who wouldn’t want to be as storyteller?

Even better, everything we know about him is probably made up. I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to have people make up crazy dramatic things about my life someday. I’m totally going to stick with this blog. And also start reading more fables.

Aesop was a genius.

The Lion’s Share
The lion and the donkey go hunting together and the lion kills the donkey because he thinks he deserves more. The moral: Partnership with the mighty is never trustworthy.
It’s pretty obvious why this one is awesome. The cynicism. The violence. The gritty reality. And could there be a better moral? This one is high on my rewrite list.

The Bear and the Travelers
Two guys in the woods run into a bear. The one in front quickly grabs a branch and swings into a tree, leaving his friend alone. The friend plays dead and the bear sniffs at his ear before walking away. When the first guy gets down he asks what the bear said. “Never trust a friend who deserts you at a pinch,” says his friend.
1. Stories with bears are almost always awesome. 2. The moral is solid, but even better is the snarky way that it comes out from the abandoned friend. This isn’t as well known as some, but it should be.

The Boy Who Cried Wolf
I don’t think I really need to summarize this one, do I? You can read about it here if for some reason you’ve managed to never hear it. This one gets repeated and redone a hundred times, but it never gets old. I learned from it when I was a kid, and I only had kids for about two years before I already wanted to tell them the story because OH MY GOODNESS KIDS REALLY NEED TO LEARN TO NOT CRY WOLF. I can only imagine that every parent since ancient Greece felt the same. And stories that draw on how we all feel are what it’s all about.

The North Wind and the Sun
The two great forces of nature make a bet to see who’s stronger. The idea is to get the cloak off of a traveler. The North Wind blows with all his might, but instead of blowing the cloak off, it only makes the traveler wrap it around tighter. Then the sun beats down, and the traveler takes off the cloak of his own accord. The moral: Persuasion is better than force.
This one just intrigues me. I love that the characters are forces of nature. And it’s such an astute evaluation of human nature. Forces of nature commenting on human nature? Everything a fable should be.

Are you kidding me, Aesop?

The Ant and the Grasshopper
The ant works hard all summer and the grasshopper goofs off. Then in the winter, the grasshopper has no food to eat and is starving. The ant refuses to share with him. The moral: Idleness brings want.
This is a very good lesson to learn, no doubt about it. But ever since I was a kid I’ve had the same problem with it. The stupid, selfish, hard-working ant. Seriously, he can’t share a little food with a starving grasshopper? Is he trying to teach him a lesson? Because dead grasshoppers don’t learn lessons. I’m just saying. There really needs to be a fable that shows what happens to smug, greedy ants. I’m sorry, but this one just bugs me. Definitely no pun intended.

The Tortoise and the Hare
I don’t think I need a summary of this one either.  And I think I’ve already explained why it irks me.   I get that the hare was overconfident and/or lazy, depending on the version.  I get what’s wrong with him.  But that whole moral about how plodding wins the race just sits wrong with me.  I just…oh just go click that link and see what I already wrote.

The Milkmaid and her Pail
Basically, this is the source of the phrase “Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched.” She’s bringing her milk home and starts imagining what she’s going to do with the money it earns her. When she flounces around imagining herself in her new dress for the dance, she spills the milk.
There’s no arguing with the excellent moral of this one. I just feel so drawn to the poor milkmaid who is working hard to earn her money. I don’t begrudge her a moment of getting lost in a daydream. Yes, life is tough. Yes, her mistake cost her, and there’s no changing that. But it’s not like she sat around doing nothing but imagining a better life. She was hard at work and got a little carried away with her imagination. Could we not write a story about someone who never looked ahead, never planned for what was coming? Would that not also have a sad ending?

Obviously there are hundreds of fables attributed to Aesop, so I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. Besides, most of them are little innocuous things that don’t deserve much love or hate. I’ve not come close to reading them all. I’d love to hear which are your favorites and which drive you crazy. I’d love to hear you argue my opinions. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d love any kind of comments at all.

Buzzette

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I love knowing creative moms! Thanks, Kim, for giving me the idea for this one.

Buzzette was a very, very busy bee. She spent her days drinking juice from flowers and carrying the extra back to the hive to use for making honey. In the middle of summer the bees worked hard to make enough honey to last through the winter, and there were so many flowers to visit that Buzzette never stopped from morning to night. No bee worked harder than Buzzette.

Buzzette’s only problem was that she didn’t look where she was going. She would get so busy, thinking all the while about where she was going next, and she just wouldn’t notice what was right around her. She would bump off of trees and get lost in the grass. But somehow, in the end, she would always find her way back to the hive.

Until the fateful Sunday when she headed for the violet patch on the other side of the freeway.

She was flying along, thinking of how lovely violet juice is, when suddenly THWAP! She flew headlong into a sheet of glass. Without even noticing it she had gone right through an open car window and now she was trapped in the car. Panicking, she turned around and tried to fly back the way she came. She was half way to freedom when she heard a “Skeeeeeeeeee!” and a hand came up and knocked her down. For a few minutes everything was confusion and yelling and giant stamping feet. Then Buzzette managed to crawl away under the seat. One wing was a little bruised and she was scared out of her mind, but otherwise she was fine. The humans above her in the car seemed to have concluded that she was gone because they settled down again, and for a while everything was quiet.

After a while the car stopped, and there was much scrambling and talking and laughing and banging of doors. Then everything was quiet. Buzzette waited for a moment and then crawled out from her hiding place. The people were gone. For once in her life, Buzzette looked very carefully around her. She spotted the open window. Two minutes later, she was out in the open air and buzzing with relief. She looked around for the violet patch. It wasn’t there!

Buzzette was so confused that she didn’t know what to do. She flew this way and that, looking for the violets, then looking for the hive, then looking for anything at all that she recognized. There was nothing. No apple orchard, no happy little pansy bed, no nothing. Where had the whole world gone?

Now, you and I know that while Buzzette was in the car, the car had driven her miles and miles away from her hive and stopped in a part of the country she had never seen before. But bees do not understand things like cars and miles. All Buzzette knew was that the whole world was different. And also that she was very, very thirsty.

Fortunately for her, there were several dandelions in the grass nearby. Dandelion juice was not her favorite, but she was much too thirsty to be picky just then. She buzzed over and began to drink.

“Hey!” came a voice from behind her. Two big, fat bumblebees came into her view. The biggest one was flying dangerously close. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “These are our dandelions. You’re not from our hive. You’re not welcome!”

Buzzette stepped back in alarm. Of course, she wasn’t paying attention to where she was, so she stepped right off the edge of the dandelion and tumbled to the ground before she could get her wings to work. The new bees laughed as she quickly flew away.

For a while, Buzzette just flew around thinking about her problem and not paying attention to anything. Then she heard a familiar buzz and noticed a rose bush not far away. Bees were zipping in and out of the roses. It looked like a wonderful party, and Buzzette couldn’t resist going closer to see if anyone she knew was there. No sooner had she landed on a rose bud, however, when the noise around her stopped. She looked in every direction. All the bees were frozen in place, just staring at her. No one said anything. No one drank anything. No one moved. Buzzette instantly knew two things. First, none of these bees were from her hive, and second, she was not welcome on their rose bush. Somehow the silence was even worse than the laughter of the rude bumblebees. Buzzette buzzed off. She wanted nothing more than to get as far from that rose bush as possible.

But that was the problem. Buzzette knew where she didn’t want to be, but she didn’t have any idea where she did want be. The world was so strange that home seemed like something from a dream. Where was it? How could she get there?

The only thing in all that wide open space that she recognized at all was the terrible car that had changed everything. Tired, thirsty, and lonely, Buzzette flew back through the open window and crawled under the scratchy seat. Maybe if she went to sleep for a while, the car would change everything again. After a while, she heard the noises that she knew meant the car was full of people again. She tried not to move. It was a very, very long time before the people left again. Buzzette needed to stretch her wings, so she flew up to the window, wondering if the world was back to normal yet.

Her heart fell. She didn’t see anything that looked familiar. She did see something that looked quite wonderful, though. Stretched out before her were row upon row upon row of daffodils, cheerful and yellow and delicious. Daffodils were Buzzette’s favorite flower. She felt afraid of what she would find, but daffodils were too much to resist. Glancing carefully in every direction, Buzzette flew toward the field of daffodils. She buzzed down inside one delicate cup…and nearly landed right on top of another bee! Buzzette leapt back, careful this time not to fall.

“I’m so sorry!” she said. “I didn’t know this was your flower.”

“It’s all right,” said the strange bee with a smile. “There are so many flowers here that no one worries about whose is whose. Help yourself.”

Buzzette could hardly believe her ears. But the other bee stepped aside to make room, so Buzzette leaned forward and took a long, long drink. “Thank you!” she said.

“Of course!” said the other bee. “I’m Buzzella. What’s your name?”

“Buzzette.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ve lost my hive,” Buzzette said, suddenly wanting to cry again.

“That’s very sad,” said Buzzella. “I hope you find it again.” She started to buzz off, then stopped. She looked back at Buzzette’s sad little face. “In the mean time, you can come and stay in our hive. There’s plenty of room for more.”

Buzzette thought she had never been so happy in her life. And maybe she hadn’t. You have to be really really unhappy at least once before you can be as happy as it is possible to be.

And Buzzette stayed happy. And she stayed in the daffodil field. She never did find her way back to her old hive. But she did eventually find that she was home.

Enough

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Hey! So we’re finally home, and I’m writing again. And feeling overwhelmed by all the stuff we brought home with us, as you can see…

Mary Elizabeth Duff
Could never own enough
From morning to night,
She bought everything in sight
Then she said, “I should find some more stuff!”

A snuff box, a bed post, a kite
She bought sheets: orange, yellow, and white
And a bigger TV
Every Friday at three
‘Til her house was crammed tighter than tight

Things went from scary to scarier
The day Mary bought a small terrier
She had never known yet
All the fun of a pet
But she now had to find something hairier

At first it was just a Great Dane
Then a monkey, with top hat and cane
It was not long, of course
‘Til she purchased a horse
With eighteen kinds of combs for its mane

Still Mary knew she needed more
So she a bought huge live dinosaur
Hard to say if it’s real
But she got a great deal
From a place she knew in Singapore

Now dinosaurs eat quite a lot
This one ate all the food Mary bought
Then it started to snack
On some spare bric-a-brac
Then moved on to the couch, chairs, and cot

When Mary got home from the store
Her house was gone…all but the door
Mary wimpered and cried
But her stuff was inside
The big belly of that dinosaur

So if you think bigger is better
Or need more even though you’re a debtor
Think of Mary alone
With her pet but no home
And sell something before you forget her

The Other Side of the Corn

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“Corn fweaks me out. Evewy time I see the corn, it fweaks. me. out.” -Scott, age 3

On the other side of the corn field, life is different. It’s quieter for one. A lot quieter. And the air is warm, no matter what the time of year. The sun seems somehow closer, hotter, but not as bright. And no wind stirs the leaves of the silent trees.

I never meant to go there. I was just going to walk a short way through the corn. I just wanted to get out of Grandma’s stuffy house for a little while. I pushed my way past the first few stalks, tracing a path between the rows. At first, I enjoyed the way the stalks behind me blocked my view of the moldering old house. I relished the feeling of being alone in my own private place. I walked on. But before long, the solitude began to feel uneasy. The corn was higher than my head, so I could see nothing and feel no breeze, but the sun still beat down on my head. I was uncomfortably warm. I had never noticed before how sharp the edges of corn leaves could be. They left invisible cuts on my arms as I brushed past them. I turned to go home.

But I couldn’t. The way behind me impassible. It was as if the space between the rows had never existed. I pushed ahead anyway. The tiny cuts turned into bigger ones. I walked on and on, trying to form my own path, but I never seemed to come to the end. I wondered if I was walking in circles. All sense of ordered rows had disappeared. The heat had become unbearable, and now the secluding height of the corn stalks felt threatening. With every step I was more irrationally convinced that the corn was clutching at my arms, purposefully trying to hinder my progress. I struggled on.

And then the corn relented. It thinned out even. In a matter of moments, I was stepping free of the corn field. But my grandmother’s house was nowhere to be seen. Nor did I see the road that should have run past this field and led to her driveway. Instead, I saw a strange farm house with a barn and several outbuildings. There were trees and an old truck parked out under them. It wasn’t so hot here, but the air felt dead. The light was strange. As I have said, the sun seemed different.

Going back through the corn field was impossible. I shuddered just to think of it. I didn’t much like the look of the farm house either, but asking for directions seemed like the only option. I went up on the porch. The steps creaked just as farm house steps should. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I peeked in the window. The place had furniture, but I couldn’t see anyone around. It was unnaturally quiet. My footsteps on the hollow boards of the front porch echoed across the yard. I knocked again and waited for no answer. I turned to go.

It seemed I had no option but to follow the road, though I knew it wasn’t the one I wanted. Surely it would lead me back to something I would recognize. I began to walk.

I hadn’t gotten very far when I heard the dog behind me. In the general hush, the clicking of his toenails against the blacktop was very distinct. I stopped and turned. He stopped, too, and stood looking at me, white head cocked to one side of his black body. Where had he come from? I hadn’t noticed any dog around the farm house back there. I hadn’t noticed any animals at all. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even heard any birds in the trees or crickets chirping in the grass.

The dog seemed harmless enough. I kept walking. The click, click of his toenails continued. He was still following me. I stopped. He stopped. I walked on. He walked on, click-clicking steadily. The noise now sent a shiver up my spine. I stopped and turned again. “Shoe!” I said. “Shoe! Go home! Shoe!” The dog just looked at me, not even panting in the warm, dead air. He obviously had no intention of “shoeing.” I walked on, with the dog behind me. I walked a very long time.

The sun was going down now. Why wasn’t I getting anywhere? The road stretched on ahead of me, apparently endless, cornfields on either side, apparently unbroken by any lane or pathway. This wasn’t right. Why was it so quiet? Where did this dog come from? Soon it would be dark. I knew I couldn’t face walking down this road in the dark with that dog clicking away behind me. I looked at the corn. Apparently I had no choice.

At least the dog didn’t follow me into the corn. That’s the best thing I can say. What I endured, walking though those rows and rows of corn, stalks looming over me, leaves brushing my face with a biting caress, darkness getting ever deeper, I don’t care to tell. I became convinced that the corn was never going to let me go, that I was doomed to struggle forever.

Then I saw a light flash out over the stalks. Someone had thrown open a door and artificial light beckoned from somewhere not too far away. I pushed on. I pushed through. At last I was free. My grandmother’s house was in front of me. It’s rotting front porch had never looked so welcoming.

Inside the house, my grandmother was rocking and knitting. She didn’t even look up to where I stood, filthy and scratched, in the doorway.

“Been for a walk in the corn?” she asked.

Note: Obviously, I’m not telling this one to my kids. Not yet. Maybe when we don’t have to take any more drives through northern Indiana. Or maybe when they’re twenty. Or maybe if I really need to keep them up all night for some reason. Yeah, maybe never. It was fun to write, though.

If

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If clouds were cotton candy
And Skittles rained down from the sky
I’d lay on my back and open my mouth
And I’d not bother asking why

If trees bent down to lift me
And tossed me up in the air
I’d laugh as I flew and shut my eyes
And pretend that I had no cares

If flowers could whisper stories
Tales as colorful as themselves
I’d scoot in close and bend my ear
And dream with the fairies and elves

Time Out Tuesday: I’m 33 and Just Now Figuring It Out

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I’m on vacation. In another country, living with people all the time, seeing old friends, having fun, eating all that food I’ve missed, and shopping in all those stores I’ve missed. My kids are getting spoiled rotten with exciting things to do every day, getting presents, and eating way to much sugar. It’s all very wonderful and vacationish, but did I mention we’re here for five weeks? Some of that time is work, but we’re still far away from our routine for five weeks. It’s a long time.

You might have noticed that I haven’t been posting very much since I got here. (Do you like how I’m assuming that anyone reads this often enough to notice when I’m not posting? What can I say? I’ve got imagination.) I’m trying. I really am.

When we left for vacation I thought I was planning on trying to write a new story every day. “I’m going to be on vacation,” I thought. “I’ll have so much more time to write. And I won’t be so tired.”

Go ahead and take a minute to laugh at me. I am.

Of course, the opposite has been true. I’m so busy making the most of my limited time with family and friends that I’m not sitting down with my laptop every night like I do at home. And tired? Yeah, I’m tired. Relaxed, but tired. Still, there’s time enough and energy enough. Something else is really killing my writing.

I don’t have any routine. I don’t have any discipline in my life right now. I’m giving myself a break from all my usual rules. Well, not all of them, but you know…

How can this be the first time I’ve understood this? How can I not have noticed that creativity, for all its reputation for being a free-wheeling joy rider, needs structure and discipline to flourish?

I always knew that I needed to set up a schedule in order to find the time to write and think up new things. I just don’t think I really grasped how much I need the structures of my life to keep my mind clear and focused. So I can let it run free.

I think that’s why I’ve actually been writing more now that my life is full of job and three kids and endless things to manage. Because I’ve had to become so organized and scheduled and disciplined just to survive my life that it’s actually opening up the pathways in my brain. It’s making me be a better me. Because regular me hates schedules and structure and can’t really believe that I live with a little notebook full of checklists and meal plans and an outline for every day.

So I gave myself a break from it all. The only list in my little notebook these days is my shopping list. And I don’t mean groceries. And these days, I sit down to write and the words escape me…or worse, the ideas escape me. Words are tricky, but ideas have always been my friends. It’s beyond frustrating to feel so sluggish. Most of the time I toss it in and settle down with a good book instead. I’ve always been an escapist.

All those words just to say, it’s been fun, vacation. It’s going to keep being fun. But I’m ready to put some rules back in place. It chokes me to say it, but I need them.

Don’t tell anyone, but I’m even starting to like them a little.

Crossing the Road

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Once upon a time there was a chicken named Charlotte who, like most chickens, lived on a farm. Like most chickens she spent her days pecking up corn and laying eggs. Like most chickens she rolled her eyes when the rooster came strutting through the barnyard. But unlike most chickens, Charlotte dreamed of a different life.

Charlotte wanted to travel, to see the world, to have adventures. She didn’t talk much about her dreams because she had learned long ago that the other chickens would laugh. “Chickens don’t travel,” they would say. “It’s just not done.”

Though she never stopped dreaming, Charlotte did stay on the farm. It wasn’t because she thought the other chickens were right. She didn’t mind doing things that had never been done. No, she stayed because of the road.

The only way off the farm was to cross the high road. Charlotte was terrified of the high road. Shiny cars and enormous trucks zoomed by on hot black asphalt. The high road was a place of terror. .

Charlotte’s best friend on the farm was a possum who lived in the tree that shaded the hen house. His name was Owen, and he had lost his whole family on the high road when he was just a little kit. He would never go anywhere near the road. In fact, he didn’t often leave his tree at all. The story he had told Charlotte about the high road was enough to keep her away from there forever, or so she thought.

Things would have continued like this forever, Charlotte laying eggs and dreaming of far off beaches, if it hadn’t been for the visiting cousins.

The kids who lived on the farm were far too used to all the animals to have much interest in them, but when their cousins came for a visit one summer, they couldn’t stay away from the farm yard. They chased the chickens and threw rocks at the barn cats. They hunted for snails and tried to ride the goats. But the worst day of all was the day that they climbed the tree and found Owen.

Charlotte watched as they oohed and ahhhed over Owen. They had never seen a possum before. Charlotte started to get really worried when the biggest one went back to the house for a box. Sure enough, they put Owen in the box and carried him away. Charlotte could see them sneaking the box into the back of the car. Pretty soon the whole family loaded up and said goodbye. To Charlotte’s horror the car began to drive away with Owen still in his box in the back seat. She had never imagined that they would actually take him away from the farm. Suddenly, the car screeched to a halt. The back door flew open. Charlotte could hear yelling, and then Owen’s box was rudely thrown out while the car drove rapidly away.

Charlotte was frozen with terror. There was Owen’s head peeking out of the box.

And the box was sitting right in the middle of the high road!

A car rushed by, narrowly missing Owen’s box. That was when Charlotte completely lost her head. Ignoring the clucks of all the other chickens, she dashed out of the farm yard and up the bank to the road. At the edge of the road, she paused for a moment and looked. It was clear that Owen was completely unable to move. With a deep breath, Charlotte ran out onto the road. She could see a giant truck coming in the distance. Running as fast as her legs could carry her, she dashed to Owen’s box, gripped it tightly in her beak, and began to drag it across the road. The truck was getting closer and closer. Owen was so heavy. Charlotte didn’t think she was going to make it. Her heart was beating so hard that it hurt her chest. The truck was almost on top of them. Suddenly Charlotte fell backwards, dragging Owen and his box down with her. She had backed right off the edge of the road. Just as the truck rushed by, they fell to safety. Charlotte just lay there, thinking she would never be able to move again.

Owen was beginning to recover, though. He was looking around. “Charlotte,” he said. “Look where we are.”

Charlotte still didn’t move.

“Charlotte,” said Owen. “You did it. We’re on the other side of the road.”

Now Charlotte did sit up. She looked around. Suddenly, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. Owen was right. They were on the other side of the road. Charlotte was free! She jumped up and did a little dance just for the sheer joy of it.

Crossing the road had been just as horrible as she thought it would be, but now that it was over, Charlotte couldn’t believe that she had waited so long. She did just as she had always dreamed: she traveled the world. She lay on exotic beaches. She wandered the streets of foreign cities. She even visited a wonderful place called the Corn Palace. And everywhere she went, her friend Owen went with her. And they were very, very happy.

Moral: Crossing the road is the hardest part.

Five Color Kids and a Scary Monster

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Editor’s Note: We don’t get to actually see Papa Jones very often, but we are this week, so today’s story was invented by Papa and comes complete with pictures of the moment of telling. It was well worth watching, believe me. It’s going to be hard to say good-bye again tomorrow.

Additional Note: Easy-to-misinterpret title has been removed and replaced with wordy but less offensive title. You’re welcome.

Once upon a time there were five kids, and they were all named after colors. There was Red Girl, Blue Boy, Pink Girl, and Green Boy. And the littlest of all was named Brown Baby. The five kids got along very well, except for one thing. Little Brown Baby was a squealer. Just when they were all in the middle of playing, Brown Baby would squeak her loudest squeak or screech her loudest screech, and they would all cover their ears and complain. Those kids were really annoyed by Brown Baby and they tried to stay away from her when they could.

One day, all five kids went down walking by the river. They were just walking along when they saw something in the water.

“It’s a fish,” said Green Boy.

“No, it’s too long for a fish,” said Pink Girl. “It’s a snake!”

“No, it’s too big for a snake,” said Blue Boy. “It’s an alligator!”

Blue Boy had a point. That green thing in the water just kept getting bigger and bigger and rising out of the water. All five kids started to get very scared. Suddenly a big head attached to a long, long neck shot up out of the water. An even bigger body started to rise up, standing on four sturdy legs. It was a creature that looked just like a Brontosaurus. The kids were frozen with terror.

When it spotted the kids, the creature opened its giant cave of a mouth and started to reach its long neck toward them. They were all yelling. It came closer and closer with its mouth to eat them, but at the last second it suddenly shuddered and pulled back, shaking its head. The kids looked around but couldn’t see what had scared him off. Whatever it was, it didn’t last for long because here came the mouth again, gaping wide, coming straight for them! Again, just as he got close, the creature cringed away. This happened several times. The giant mouth reaching then jerking back.

Finally, the kids realized what was happening. Every time the creature reached out to eat them, Brown Baby would let out her loudest shriek. The noise was hurting the creatures ears and causing him to pull back. The older kids cheered. One last time, the gaping jaws stretched toward the five kids. Brown Baby let out the loudest, most piercing scream she had ever used. The creature rocked back, trembling, and finally plunged under the water again.

After that, the kids didn’t mind so much playing with Brown Baby, even when she was squealy. And they never took a walk by the river without bringing her along.

I Think I’m Sleepy

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If I were a bird I’d soar up high
Choose a perch in the sun and close my eyes

If I were an ant I’d dig down deep
Where it’s cool and dark and I could take a sleep

If I were a fish I’d wriggle in the coral
Find a nice safe spot and start to snore-l

If I were a baby, I’d clutch my blankie tight
Snuggle up in my crib and say night-night

Bus Rides

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When I was a little girl, I would ride to school on a yellow school bus with lots of other kids.  Some years my mother was even the bus driver!  We went to a Christian School about 10 miles from the center of the valley where we lived.

But, when I turned 13 and was going into high school, I went far, far away to school on a different kind of bus – a Greyhound Travel bus.  Grandpa and Grandma Norris, your great-grandparents, wanted their daughters to go to a Christian High School and they met some nice people who were part of a school in Alberta, Canada.  Grandpa and Grandma decided this would be a good place for me to go.  For me that was like leaving Indiana and going to Argentina – except I wasn’t going with my family – only with my oldest sister, Ruth.

For several weeks Ruth and I helped our mom make new clothes, pack our trunk and suitcases and prepare for the long bus ride to our new school.  At this school we would live in a dormitory – sort of like a big apartment building – with lots of other girls.

When the day came, after a tearful farewell, we climbed up on the big, big bus and got into our tall comfortable seats.  Soon the bus roared away and we were off on our adventure.  We rode all day and saw lots of different towns and countryside and then we rode all night and we tried to sleep…Then we rode all the next day through more towns and lots of wide open spaces…and then we rode all the next night.  We did stop at restaurants every once in awhile to get something to eat and have a chance to walk around…but mostly we just rode and rode and rode…50 hours later we arrived at our new school and while we were glad to be there…mostly we were just very happy that the long, long bus ride was ended!!