Autumn Run

I was raised on a small farm two and half miles South East of Boise, Idaho. It does not seem like a long way now but the distance seemed epic. We were bussed all he way into the city for school. You had better catch that bus or Mom would have to drive me in and that would not have been good idea. The bus ran a pretty tight schedule and there was dependable to be at the bus stop each day very close to the same time.

The bus stop it self almost was a half mile from the house—the quickest way was cutting through one of Gale John’s alfalfa fields. Again, we knew how long it took to get to the bus stop and when the bus might me coming. I generally ran across john’s fields to the bus-stop. I must have known how long this procedure took. I am sure I must have “clocked” myself when I got a new Timex watch somewhere along the line off my youth, but I have not a this late date I have not a clue. I can just barley recall early Autumn mornings, leaving the front door in jeans, flannel shirt and “DI” Converses. Books under my right arm with a paperback lunch dangling out of my hand. I would cross the dirt road which passed the North side of the house, bend down and pass under the fence and launch of across the field.

Late October the sun had yet to crest the East mountains of Boise Valley maybe in an another 10 to fifteen minutes. The evening had produced another “hard frost”. The white feathery ice covered everything. I am running now, the cold slap I felt when I left the house is a memory, my wind comes out in strong gusting jets as I push across the field. I am already hot but I can still feel the cold on my cheeks, my nose is cauterized and my nose hairs ling when I draw a lung full of raw cold morning air in through my nostrials and exhale through my mouth over and over again.

I vault over the first ditch barely breaking stride. I am startled when a pheasant bursts from cover as I hurl over the ditch. I am hot now, my breathing is regular and I can see some of the other kids who catch the bus at the same stop milling round but not in line, the bus is not in sight yet. I figure I am OK, time-wise, I come to the second ditch and fly over it and continue on. I finally reach the bus-top, out of breath but in time for the bus. I look down Boise Avenue and see our bus coming round the corner. The milling kids begin to form a line. The huge yellow Blue Bird bus lumbers to a stop in front of the line, the door open and we climb aboard. The driver has the heater revved up to “high” it’s a blast furnace but I m lucky enough to find a seat next to a window, a cold window, and lean my cheek next to the glass and close my eyes and doze my way to school. The sun was just cresting the mountains.