Mr. Holliman, our schoolbus driver was deaf as a post. He couldn’t have heard a cannon fired directly behind him which probably made driving a schoolbus much more pleasant. Unless he was hit in the head by a flying object, he never acknowledged the mayhem in progress behind him. When he could no longer ignore aggressive behavior, he looked in the rearview mirror, took off his dirty old cap, and swatted his knee. He’d mumble “rumble, grumble, mumble,” in the manner of old deaf men. A time or two he became overwrought enough to look in the mirror and shake his finger at anyone who was interested. Of course his own three boys were the worst of the lot, in close competition with his many nieces and nephews. It was up to older riders to ensure their younger siblings survived the ride.

My family was the first to board at six forty-five and last dropped off at four fifteen giving us plenty of time to critique Mr. Holliman’s techniques. We took a long rambling route through the woods and hills to the tiny rural school deep in the Appalachian hills.

Though Mr. Holliman was able to overlook agressive behavior among his riders, he did notice buxom young ladies, a habit which didn’t enhance his driving skills. One day, lovely Mabel Barton wore a highwater, button-popping dress which should have already been handed down to her Irish twin Bessie. She sat next to the aisle in the third seat on the left.

Like us, Mabel had a long ride. Exhausted, she leaned back and sprawled out. Her legs splayed and arms opened wide, her nubile charm was on display for all. She certainly caught Mr. Holliman’s attention. He ran the bus off on the muddy shoulder as we approached the narrow bridge crossing Revar Lake. The shrieks of terrified kids changed tenor and caught his attention just in time for him to jerk the wheel and right the bus.

“I just did that to scare ‘y’all and make you behave.” He grunted.

We all knew better.