Reflections From The Short Bus
When we left grammar school each afternoon, they sent a shorter bus down from some location, maybe Stratford Center, and it, too, seemed to end up at the swamp.
This one was livelier. Four girls would stand down in the steps by the front door and rehearse a song or two, then they would go up and serenade the bus driver. I’d usually be standing next to the driver chatting with him. The “Operator cannot move bus when anyone is ahead of the white line” sign was simply ignored.
Then there was the other, much newer, short bus which took us from central Bridgeport up to the high school a few miles away. Chestnut Hill Bus Company. One of the drivers was a real looker, according to the girls. Another was an old crippled guy who kept his cane next to the driver’s seat.
One day, waiting at a downhill stop sign, some woman ahead of us just sat there. He blew his horn, waited, then released the brakes a bit and tapped her bumper. She stuck out her hand, gave him the finger and shot off. Those were the days when you settled your own disagreements without calling a lawyer.