Mr. Brandon's School Bus - Tom Brandon

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      One morning, a second-grader with a rather distressed look on his face approached me. He said he needed to change seats.

      So I inquired, “Why?” He took a quick look around, leaned forward, and whispered, “The person next to me keeps hitting me in my, my”—he took another look around—“my kumbayahs.”

      On life’s list of important things to know, at least in the top five should be, “If your kumbayahs are ever in danger . . . move.”

      The second-grader leaned forward, pointed to the side of the road, and said, “Mr. Brandon, you see that spot right there? My mom got stopped by the police there.”

      I wasn’t sure if I should ask why, but my curiosity was relieved when he continued, “She was speeding. Well, she was really mad at the dog for fart’n in the car. You do not want to be around that dog after she’s been eat’n hot pickles.”

      He paused and I gave him a nod of understanding. He continued, “They do the same thing to me but I wait till I go outside. I can bring you some hot pickles if you want.”

      How could I refuse an offer like that? The next day, he was standing at the bus stop with a quart of homemade hot pickles in each hand. I’m afraid I may have violated Ethics Law by accepting them.

      Oh, he was right; they will work on you.

      Each of us has our daily routines. I try to leave the school each morning at the same time, each student expecting me at their familiar time.

      Most mornings I pass the same cars that are also keeping their appointed schedules. There is the red car that I always meet going south as I go north. She always passes with a friendly wave and a warm smile. There is always that car with a Tennessee tag that flies past as if they are trying to qualify for the Daytona 500.

      The routines continue with the children. There are three energetic boys that are always running around pushing and shoving each other as they wait for the bus. There are the procrastinators who always wait till the last minute to run to the bus from the house. Those putting on their shoes on the porch, so you will see them and not go off and leave them. The mother, in her well worn housecoat, who sticks her arm out the door and holds up one finger as if it were a flare to signal that her children will again take longer than anyone else on the route to get to the bus.

      Then there is the daily routine of Charlie. When I stop to pick up one second-grader, Charlie is there to greet his master as he runs from the house to the bus. In the afternoon Charlie, is there again to greet him as he gets off the bus. Rain or shine, Charlie is a constant.

      One morning as the second-grader emerged from the house, Charlie was excitedly wagging his little stubby tail so hard that it was shaking his entire body. You couldn’t help but smile and feel a little chuckle in your heart. I didn’t know goats could wag their tails like that.

      Sisters, ages four and five who look very, very much alike, got on the bus, looked at me, and said in almost perfect unison, “We are not twins today. We are not twins tomorrow. We have different coats. We have different book bags and different hair bows.”

      Defensively, I said, “I never said you were twins.”

      They growled back, “Other people have been calling us twins, and if it keeps up there’s going to be trouble. Somebody’s going to get whipped!” Then once more in perfect unison they said, “WE ARE NOT TWINS!”

      I feel sorry for anyone who uses the T-word in front of them.

      With Pop-Tarts in hand, the pre-K student struggled up the steps to the bus. He looked at the package of Pop-Tarts and then at me and asked, “Can I eat these? I didn’t have time this morning.”

      Well, the bus rules strictly forbid eating or drinking on the bus so I looked into his little innocent face and said, “Sure, but I better not find any crumbs on the floor of my bus.”

      With a grin on his face he started down the aisle to find a place to sit. Within a few minutes he was back at my elbow, “Mr. Brandon, I don’t think I can eat these without getting a few crumbs on the floor.”

      “I understand,” I told him. “But be careful and don’t get too many.” Later he was back with a Pop-Tart in hand and said, “Here you go, Mr. Brandon, you can have this one.”

      Not being a Pop-Tart fan I was not particularly interested, but I assumed it was an offering of gratitude for letting him eat the other one on the bus, knowing that most likely there was a small mountain of Pop-Tart crumbs on the floor.

      As he handed me the Pop-Tart he added, “It’s a super hero Pop-Tart.”

      I looked at it, and sure enough, there was Catwoman. I might have been able to turn down a Pop-Tart at any other time, but a Catwoman Pop-Tart, I don’t think so. I think you could market mud pies if they had a picture of Catwoman on them. You put Catwoman on a Pop-Tart and that thing comes out of the package hot, no toaster needed.

      As we pulled onto the school grounds he was once again at my side, waiting to get off the bus. Knowing that students are supposed to wait till the bus has come to a complete stop before they line up, several of the students told him he should sit down. His reply made clear that I had been a pawn in a web of graft and corruption.

      He said to them, “It’s okay, I gave him a Pop-Tart.” It turned out the Pop-Tart was a payoff, a bribe; my good reputation had been compromised for a place in the front of the line.

      Now the other students addressed me, “Mr. Brandon, he needs to sit down. We haven’t stopped yet.” I turned and looked at the driver’s side window where I had carefully stood a Pop-Tart.

      Looking back at me was Catwoman. Memories of Julie Newmar and Lee Meriwether flashed through my head, and I said, “It’s okay, he gave me a Pop-Tart.”

      As they say, every man has his price.

      There was a squeal from the brakes as the bus came to a stop in front of the house. As if in response, a shriek came from the house as a kindergartener burst out the door and ran to the bus waving her arms erratically in the air.

      Close behind was her second-grader brother swinging his book bag over his head with one arm and the other arm was just waving around wildly. Every other step was a jump in the air.

      Even though the door to the house had been closed, I know, I know I heard a voice say, “Tag, you’re it.”

      While taking children home after school, I noticed a car behind me that was very erratic in its movements. Concerned about such a vehicle following the bus too closely, I watched in the mirror to see if I could tell what the matter was.

      I recognized the driver as a mother I had talked to earlier in the day. Her son had been put off the bus for his refusal to stay seated. She had, quite adamantly, told me that I was wrong and had judged her child too harshly.

      The erratic movements of the car were from her trying to get hold of her child, who was in the back seat jumping from side to side like a rabbit.

      Mom, I think you’ll find he was just excited and misunderstood.

      We have all had a question asked of us to which we believe the answer should be very obvious, and in spite of our better judgement often answer in a very sarcastic way to show the foolishness of the question. I myself have been accused of engaging in such activity.

      I was driving down the road and a second-grader—you know him as “Hot Pickle Boy”— asked me, “So what are you doing?” In a tone fitting for such a question, I replied, “I’m waterskiing. What are you doing?” Without hesitation, and in

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