Lessons Learned on the School Bus

Art Prints

I began my public schooling when I entered the first grade of elementary school in 1950. The school I went to was a small town school and with about 40 students in each class. We were all in the same room, no one complained about the large class size and we all learned what we needed to to advance  the following year.

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Probably the most important things taught were discipline and respect. 

I rode a tiny thirty-six passenger bus driven by a nice old man. He was a really nice guy, but because of his age, he had issues with maintaining control of the students under his supervision.

The bus ride was normally total mayhem, you could expect anything to happen and it normally did. I was an only child so I had no one to cover my back and an underclassman. Of course when you are in the first grade, everyone is an upperclassman.

I soon learned the art of diplomacy and maintaining a low profile. 

Fighting was common, but there were two boys who fought almost every day. They both were nice kids, they just didn’t like each other. 

The school and the parents both knew about this problem and did nothing. Finally one night the bus driver stopped the bus by a soybean field next to Finks Church, opened the door and made them get out and continue their aggressive behavior in the bean field.

After a few well-placed blows, they returned to the bus, bleeding and with torn shirts and we continued joyfully on our way.

Needless to say, parents were upset, and the school administration wasn’t very happy either.

But, the problem seemed to be solved, the fights ended and there was some sort of peace on the bus, at least for a while. 

Did the bus driver do the right thing? You can discuss that all day long, but he did finally take action when no one else would. sometimes you just gotta take matters into your own hands.

You gotta give him that. Hats off to you, Pete.

The author has been a writer/photographer for over thirty years. Specializing in nature and landscape photography, as well as studying native cultures.

His travels have taken him to most of the United States, as well as Australia, Belize, Egypt and the Canary Islands.

He has studied the Mayan culture of Central America as well as the aborigines of Australia. Photography has given him the opportunity to observe life in various parts of the world.

He has published several books about his adventures.

For more information, please consult his website,www.journeysthrulife.com.

Your comments are welcome

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Improve your health, Increase your wealth

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Remembering a simpler time, a time when neighbor knew neighbor and people helped each other.I grew up in the 50’s on a small dairy farm in southeastern Indiana.
Financially, times were hard , my dad and mom had purchased an extremely impoverished farm when I was three years old. Along with my brother , who came along later, we spent the next several years restoring it to a more productive state. The farm was so over grown with weeds that after living there for a while, dad had time to mow the weeds around the barn and lo and behold! He found a hog house no one knew was there.
The soil was totally depleted, the first year’s twelve acre corn crop yielded a whooping two hundred bushels of corn. Hard to live on that. Fortunately, about that same time, turkey raising came into fashion, the following year dad purchased and raised 1000 turkeys. The resulting turkey by-product increased the corn yield from 200 bushels to 1200 bushels on that very same field.
This was a time when neighbors were neighbors, we used each others farm equipment and tools like they were our own, if dad couldn’t find a tool or wrench, it was probably over at the neighbors. As a result, while picking up one our own tools he would return one of theirs.
Our doors were never locked, no one would break in and steal anything. In fact if one happened to be away it was desired(it almost became a state law) that the neighbors had to stop by and check the house to make sure everything was OK.
Every one had a gun, we had several neatly stacked in the corner of the kitchen, an ample supply of ammunition, and fireworks) could be found in the cabinet drawer.
I started hunting with a 22 rifle when I was about 9, a rifle given to me for Christmas by my parents. Did I or any kid I know pick up or use a fire arm without permission of their parents, are you kidding? We would have gotten skun alive. Back in those days parental authority and respect meant something, and the only rights a child had were the rights his parents gave him. So, what’s wrong with that?

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