Backseat bus kids, represent. :) 

When I was little, about 6 or 7 (it was the 1st or 2nd grade, at New Augusta, which then was still K-12 i think) we were living out in the woods beyond 8 Mile Road* somewhere, out toward Avera? We were the last stop on the route, first stop in the morning, a fact for which any other kids might have been very sorry indeed, but we were grateful. I still remember those bus rides fondly and often. When I'm in the car on even a short trip, I love to look out the windows, and it almost always reminds me of other window-gazings from the all the road trips of my life.**
The morning ones were the best. Not only because we were leaving the house, headed to food, warmth, order, kindness, knowledge, art supplies, possibility, but because it was so early that I got to watch the day come to the beautiful Mississippi back woods.
I can still see spider webs cradling dew, and mist over frosted grass, the feeling of the cool glass against my cheek or forehead. My dad said from the day I was born, I would sleep in a car, so at night if I was restless, he would hold me and drive those same back roads. I still love river roads best, to this day. Dad said if the moon was out at all, I would find it and then follow it with my eyes until i went to sleep. He said he was afraid that I would be "moon-struck". Sorry Dad.
The motion of the bus over those roads, some really smooth (mostly thanks to thePark Services and National Guard, I think. thanks y'all!), some dirt and gravel, I didn't care.
And I loved the bus drivers who made everyone be quiet.
There was a boy who got on not long after us, so he was on most of the trip every day, start to finish. He sat on the opposite side of the bus, toward the middle. He was quiet too, I think he was truly shy, and several years older than me. He was cute, in a midwestern-looking way, tall and blonde, not usual for our area, but that's not why I had a crush on him. He was also polite and seemed smart, quietly and practically maybe, but obviously so. But it wasn't that either. The boy was tall for his age and  handsome, I thought, and his father was a dwarf or a midget, and though I can't really remember, it seems that his mother might have been too. I don't remember.I don't know if he was their natural son, the details weren't even clear to me then, though I'm sure I asked around. (nosy). Every day his father waited with him in the morning when the bus came, even though he must have been a young teenager or preteen by then, even in bad weather and he was waiting for him every day when he got home. If he wasn't it was noticeable and caused concern. He always looked as if he'd stopped work to come down the dirt lane from their house out to the road. The boy was never embarassed, and even though he didn't show much outward emotion about anything at all beyond shy smiles and looking tired or concerned at times, like anyone, i could tell that he looked forward to it too.
School itself was a mixed bag of pleasant and un. My clumsy and annoying attempts at sharpening my wits and honing my gregariousness were not popular with some of my classmates and  teachers. I was already learning that I wasn't a fan of dumb and/or mean people, crowds, being forced to do things I didn't want to do or being picked on,so that caused conflicts of interest, but teachers and students have been dealing with those issues since the dawn of public school, so it was manageable. I think it's an important function of schooling, testing how well you can mesh with others and finding out who you really are in regards to that in the process.
I didn't really have any friends then. There was one girl who was very nice to me and I could tell that she wanted to be friends, but she was even more shy than me, she reminded me of a deer, and by the time we finally got up the nerve to attempt a friendship, my parents split up again and we moved to another town, another school.
I remember standing on the basketball court one day during recess, on a day like today. It probably wasn't as cold as it is here, but it sure seemed like it. The weather was the same, bright sunny sky, cold, sharp wind. I was wearing a hand-me-down coat from my cousin that I dearly loved. It was fake suede and had fake fur cuffs and collar. Long and warm and Leo stylish, it was a treasured posession. The other memorable thing is that I had chocolate milk.
Mississippi was on top of the welfare situation in those days. As angry as it makes so many of my friends from home, it lets me know (and I'm grateful for it) that their family never had to have it. We always were. I get compliments on my smile a lot, and I always thank the Mississippi Head Start Program. There were many times when there would have been no food at all if it had not been for those generic canned goods (tinned rabbit even. it was my favorite.) and blocks of cheese. Gardens and hunting (legal and un) helped too, but sometimes circumstances just didn't allow. The public school also took an interest in childrens' health and nutrition, and so we were able to have good breakfast, lunch and milk each week day, no matter what. I craved milk most of all. I remember how old I was when I first came to live in a place where I could have as much milk as I wanted, as often as I wanted. I was 12, and I have no idea how many gallons I must have gone through a week, at first.  I also loved and craved sweets of course, and chocolate was, is, will always be The One, so chocolate milk was heaven. I always requested a chocolate milk for my recess treat, and like magic, it would come. The happy crate full of cold, sweet goodness. Of course there was a stigma attached. Everyone in a classroom (school, town, county, even) knows everyone else's situation. If a childs' family paid for their lunches/milk/school pictures, etc. was open knowledge. And children are far more honestly cruel about such things than adults usually are. That's one of the reasons I was standing alone on the basketball court on such a cold day, my back to the wind, the sun on my face, my hands freezing on the milk carton, but it felt so good. The sun, the milk, my warm coat, even the cold and being alone were all just felt and tasted so good that for at least a little while, none of the bad stuff mattered. So good that I still remember it like it was yesterday, I remember it often and smile.

Love, peace and cold, sweet, free (from cost AND judgment :) chocolate milk to all of you.
-s



*Marshall Mathers ain't the only one with an 8-mile. ours was Highway 15, going from Beaumont to Richton, if i remember correctly.  Teenagers and older (and sometimes younger, like me) - people who looked VERY like rejects from Dazed and Confused - went out to 8 Mile on weekend nights (and probably week nights too) and drank beer, smoked pot and drag-raced some really beautiful cars. Even the old beaters were pretty to me. I could see their potential. That's where I first heard Led Zeppelin, Queen, Journey, Boston et al, while sitting in the car* waiting for various relatives to get their whatever on. Not bad memories. :)
[folks from our clan drove Thunderbirds and Monte Carlos for the most part, though my uncle had a cherry bumblebee GTO and of course Hitlers' Revenge, my mom's orange beetle.]

**Jones County Junior College bused students to school from all over this same area. Beaumont, New Augusta, McLain, even distant lands like Waynesville, Quincy and Piave. I was a McLain girl (my hometown, i think - either there or Beaumont) at the time and so it was a pretty long bus ride every day too. Loved it. Riding with friends and neighbors, time to sleep, read, think, LOVED our bus driver, he was one of my brothers' best high school friends. I remember seeing snow dusting Jones county fields, making the hay bales look like Frosted Mini Wheats, knowing I was going to be spending the day with my best friends... those were good times too.