A series of essays….
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A LITTLE, RED-PLAID BOOK BAG VERY POPULAR IN THE 1950’S: MINE, I’M CERTAIN, HAD LITTLE BLACK BUCKLES! |
….as seen through my eyes!
By: Jacqueline E Hughes
The deep imprint of one of the tiny, black buckles from my red-plaid school bag burned the left side of my face. Oh, not like from a real fire, but from the constant pressure of it on my cheek while being used as a pillow for the past twenty minutes or so.
My story began when my older brother and I were awakened for school by our Mom two hours before. Ronnie and I shared bunk beds in the second bedroom of the little, white rental house on Milburn Boulevard in Mishawaka, Indiana. The thing is, both of us attended elementary school in South Bend, right about on the line between the two communities. it was the nearest Catholic school to our house. I was baptized at Saint Matthew’s and, as a family, we attended Mass there every Sunday morning.
Because Mom didn’t have her driver’s license and Dad was away on a business trip for the week, my brother and I would wake-up especially early to get ready for school and walk the forty-five minutes or more to Saint Matthew’s in time for the first bell. Ronnie, being three and a half years older than me, was my best friend, protector, and idol throughout our early years. Believe me, there was absolutely nothing he could do wrong.
That particular morning was different. Mom’s morning calls from the tiny kitchen failed to rouse my brother as he remained curled and twisted in his sheets on the bottom bunk. Climbing slowly down the ladder and opening our bedroom door, I ran to tell Mom that Ronnie didn’t look well. Something was wrong.
Turning the burner off from under our boiling Quaker Oats, she gently sat down beside him on the bed and softly kissed his forehead. She was surprised by his fever; her lips tingled from the heat that radiated from his small body. Instantly I knew that we would not be walking to school together that morning.
Placing the back of her hand on my forehead and finding it cool to the touch, she looked at me with sad eyes and proclaimed that I would be going anyway and pushed me into the bathroom in order to properly get ready. While brushing my teeth I could hear her in my dresser drawer and closet extracting clothes for the day, placing them in the bathroom for me to put on, and then dishing-up steaming oats into my bowl on the dining table.
While I ate breakfast, alone, at our red and white, enamel table with shiny chrome legs, Mom was in the living room talking on the telephone. Sitting down at the table after her conversations, she explained what was going to happen that morning in order to get me to school on time since walking with Ronnie was not an option. I wasn’t afraid. After all, I was a five-year-old turning six in early November who had skipped kindergarten and was placed in the first grade after being tested for academic acceptability and social maturity. I was going to miss my protector that morning, that’s for sure. I sat still for now and listened to my Mom’s plan.
She told me she was speaking with a person from the City of South Bend’s public bus system. Together they coordinated the bus schedule to see if I could be picked-up in front of our house and if the route could get me to Saint Matthew’s in time for school. With a tweak or two between them, I was to be standing out front near the curb by 7:30 a.m.
Her second call had been to my school and she spoke with Mother Superior to let her in on the plan and approximately when to expect me at school.
Soon afterwards, she was placing me on the bus with the strap of my little plaid book bag crossed snugly over my chest and speaking with the bus driver about making certain that I got off at Saint Matthew’s Elementary on Miami Street in South Bend. With everything working like a fine-tuned instrument, tenderly she kissed my cheek and gave me a reassuring hug that indicated all would be just fine. Thanking the driver, she stepped-down from the bus as the doors gently closed between us and waved from the yard while standing near the old maple tree that graced our front lawn.
The bus driver smiled and told me to take a seat anywhere I’d like. A third of the way down the narrow aisle, I chose my seat and slid across the padded, khaki green vinyl and settled in for the ride.
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On our journey down Milburn Boulevard, crossing over S. Ironwood Drive which turned Milburn into E. Calvert Street, I felt each stop as the bus would pick-up more people going to work or shopping on a busy weekday morning. Most of them sat up front in order to get off at their stop as swiftly as possible. The landmarks Ronnie and I would point out along our walk to and from school flashed by me making me dizzy, tired, or both.
Thirty-one city blocks later, I didn’t feel the bus turn right onto Miami Street and would have been, at that point, just four blocks away from my school. And, how could I? I was fast asleep and using my school bag as a pillow while the little, black buckle was making its imprint on my young life.
Something told me to wake-up and I did—rather quickly! I didn’t recognize one thing outside the murky window and bolted upright, much to the surprise of the poor bus driver, his balding head turning abruptly; salt and pepper mustache now facing me as he continued up Miami Street. The look on his face was one of shock and surprise as he slowly brought the huge bus to a complete stop along the curb.
Walking back to my seat, he tried to console a frightened little girl who had tears streaming down her face. He was a kind man. He was sorry for upsetting me, but when he no longer saw my blond curls bouncing just above the chrome handle of the seat in front of me, his stop at Saint Matthew’s was lost to him as he continued his route up the busy street.
Promising me a safe passage back down Miami, quite a few blocks from school by then, he resumed his position behind the big, round steering wheel, but with me close by his side. Mother Superior stood waiting as he came to a smooth stop in front of the church. Deviating from his assigned route, he delivered me to the welcoming arms of Sister Anne, quickly telling her what had happened with plenty of sincere apologies to go around.
She thanked the bus driver and told us both that everything would be just fine and that it promised to be a beautiful day. Knowing that my Dad, freshly home from his trip that afternoon, would be picking me up after school, all seemed right with the world.
This story is meant to be continued…
Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes
All rights reserved
