The Wheels of the Bus

On the surface, it was a simple exercise in logistics. Get the country kids to school in town, Monday through Friday. Then get ‘em home again.

I entered kindergarten in the fall of 1962 and rode the country school bus for four years before the old man sold the farm and we moved to Wichita. In Plainville, Kansas in the early ’60s, there were two rural school bus routes. One went north and west, ours, south and east. Kindergarten through 12^th grade. Each bus held about 50 young rural souls.

The countryside was lousy with kids. Trailing end baby boom in full bloom across the land. Three generations ago.

Bacon and eggs for breakfast with leftover bacon grease actually collected in a canister designed for that specific purpose. Dad would depart to work the farm, leaving Mom at home with my younger brother, still a toddler. Monday was laundry day, ironing on Tuesday, you get the picture.

My sister (two years older) and I would cross a grass pasture to catch the school bus with our Aunt Linda, Mom’s younger sister, in high school and still at home with our grandparents.

One soggy day, my shoelace broke just as the bus was pulling up. I hopped from the house on one good shoe, dodging mud puddles with Aunt Linda holding my hand. The kids on the bus found this amusing. I did not.   

Once on the bus, Aunt Linda repaired my shoelace and my reputation. As a popular high school ingenue, in the politics of the rural Plainville school bus, Linda Ordway had the juice.

Some of us farm kids were deposited at the Plainville Grade/High School, while others were dropped off at Sacred Heart. I remember asking a Catholic kid my age why they had their own school. What gives? How come there’s no Lutheran or Baptist school?

“On account of there’s so many of us.”

Made sense to me. Maybe the Diocese and the school board cut a deal. You haul our kids into town and we promise not to proselytize the protestant kids along the way.

Rural religious rapprochement.

Ray Welch, the town florist, was our bus driver. On occasion, Ray would pull over at the Apco filling station on U.S. 183 and all the kids on the bus would get a treat. I always chose Bit-O-Honey because it lasted longer than a Milky Way. My sister invariably opted for a bottle of Grape Nehi, proud of the resulting purple tongue and eager to show it off.

I wonder now if Ray sprung for the goodies.

Ray would alternate his direction. One day he’d head south. We were the first kids dropped off this way. The next day, he’d head east and we’d be the last ones off. More often than not, when we’d go the “long way,” I would be asleep by the time we got home. Aunt Linda would roust me and steer me off the bus. Or carry me piggyback, bus disembarkation method no doubt mood-dependent. Hers and mine.   

Rural Kansas culture. Benevolent bus driver plays fair by alternating his routes. Every now and then, candy for the kids. Just because they’re kids and he’s a nice guy. The older kids look out for the younger ones. Parents don’t worry.

These underlying values drove the logistics of getting farm kids into town where we would learn cursive writing and a patriotic view of American history. Graham crackers and milk with naps on rugs for us kindergartners. Chalk-dusted classrooms nurtured resilience, virtue, and the enduring promise of upward opportunity.

I’m glad to have experienced it.

Mike Matson’s column appears every other weekend in The Mercury, and he hosts ‘Within Reason,’ Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at 9 a.m. on NewsRadio KMAN.