In order to introduce a sentimental, nostalgic  poem, I asked my literature class the question, “What do you remember of childhood?”  Of the 17 students, only one could give a happy memory of childhood.  These students are only about 16 years old.  They said they couldn’t remember being young.  I said “How about 5 years old?”   This is when they started school.  Two boys said they hadn’t wanted to go to school, and one cried about going to school,  This was his memory of young childhood. The other said that his English grade was low and that this was bad for him, at age 5!   One girl said something about dancing when she was very young, and one boy said, “Playing in the dirt with my friends.”  So much for getting into the mood of the poem.

I have so many memories I can barely keep track of them.  Perhaps my students aren’t able to comprehend the question in English, or to answer it in English.  But for the most articulate in the class to give only these stories of sorrow made me sad.

One of my very best memories came to mind several days ago, as we were riding the bus, and Dear Husband said, “I’m trying to fix the route in my mind with landmarks.”  “Just like my brother, ” I said.  On a day near Christmas, maybe the year 1953 or ’54, we lived in Houston, Texas. We attended a Lutheran school and we rode the city bus to go to school.  The route involved a transfer—a little pink piece of paper that said we could get on the next bus without paying again.  What my brother and I liked to do while waiting for that transfer bus was to go inside Foley’s department store and ride the escalator up to about the fourth floor to the toy department and Santa Claus. We stood and watched as little kids went and sat on Santa’s lap.  We looked and looked at the amazing toys and talked about what we’d like to have for Christmas.  Then we went back down and got on our bus and went home.  On one such day, we missed our bus, but waited for the next one.  When we got on and gave our little pink slips, the driver said, “Sorry, these are expired.  You’re too late.”  We didn’t have any extra coins for the fare, and he insisted we get off his bus.

My brother said, “We’ll have to walk home,” and off we went.  It took us hours, I’m sure.  I well remember sitting down on some sidewalk steps to rest.  My brother stood over me, waiting until I could go on.  It never occurred to me to be scared, or to cry, because my brother was so confident.  He knew the way home, all six miles,  because he had memorized the bus route as we rode every day.   We were in first and second grade, he about seven and I, about six years old.

Meanwhile our parents were frantic with worry, calling the school, other families, and the police.  When we arrived home, well after dark, everyone was so grateful to see us.  When my brother told the story, our parents called the bus authorities.  What did daddy say? you ask.  I don’t know.  I was so tired and happy to be home.  My brother was my hero that day, and to this day I look up to him.  Thanks, bro.