We live in a small, tightly-knit school system. Calvin met his best friend, a backyard neighbor, during the summer. When school started in the fall we were thrilled that the bus stop was just outside of our house. Did it make sense? No! We lived on a cul-de-sac of five houses, four of which were owned by elderly couples, and the fifth, ours, was owned by a family of homeschoolers. An apt place to land the bus stop, right? But every morning Calvin rose early, eager to meet his new friend at the bus stop the hang out before she boarded and went off to school and he ran on home. I didn't think twice about the situation until his friend's father, our neighbor and friend in his own right, mentioned in passing that he'd had to help the bus driver understand that Calvin was not supposed to get on the bus with all the other kids. Oops.
Fast forward a few years to when Calvin, who had become a regular visitor to the stop, finally stepped foot on board and to come home in the afternoons. That was two years ago, and the bus driver, the same dedicated, devoted, loving man who had known him as a visitor for all those five years, was certainly surprised. That is the joy and connectedness of our small community.
When the state went on lock-down, the bus drivers stopped seeing all their kids the same as all the teachers, and the sadness in the district has been palpable. Mostly palpable on facebook. Then yesterday we got a message from our bus driver that he had to drive the bus for maintenance purposes, so he intended to drive his usual route twice and that he hoped his usual riders would come out to say hi. I can tell you, when we stepped out the corner we could see families up and down the street waiting for him in their yards. It was a ringing endorsement, and a demonstration of the level of community that brought, and keeps, us here.
