An Old Story

It was Christmas-decorating day for the family, which meant I spent a chunk of time handing things out the window to my dad so he could hang lights on the upper level. (The second part of that role is a readiness to yell for help should he lose his footing and land in the garden below.)

As I was standing there, enjoying the crisp November air (no, really, it was nice), I could hear the windcharms from the house across the sleep. Without warning, I was sent down Memory Lane and I almost immediately started giggling.

That house was where we gathered to get on the bus in the morning. You see, we live in a moderately rural neighborhood (well, it was twelve years ago when I rode the bus) and it was easier on the bus driver if the five to eight of us that needed a ride met up in one spot.

Our custom was to toss our book bags in a line when we appeared (it was worthwhile to be early, as we were one of the last stops on a very full bus and no one wanted to have to sit next to Smelly Kid or Annoying Kid) and then goof off -- outside with a basketball or soccer ball if it was nice, inside if it was cold.

One morning, as we were waiting (nowhere near the bags), the mom from that house left for work. I'm reasonably certain she was in a hurry -- she waved distractedly at us, no doubt doing a quick headcount, and backed out.

Right over the line of bookbags.

Miraculously, there was limited damage. No calculators destroyed, no books bent in half, nothing of that sort. However, Mia Sorella's trombone suffered.

Mightily.

It was hilarious.

Clearly not everyone thought so. Mia Sorella was a bit upset (not overly, because it's not her style, although she was probably wondering what she was going to tell the band director) and the mom was devastated. My own mother was a bit chagrined herself.

The trombone now sits in the basement, begging to be recycled into a planter. Or photographed for a blog.