When Life Gives You The Worst Route

One of the first things I can tell you I hated most was the fact we did not live on a paved street. Even though we lived at the end of the road and avoided most “traffic” it always seemed as though no matter whether it was the mailman, the neighbor, the school bus, or just family coming to visit; if you were outside you were going to get covered in what seemed like a fine layer of dirt or dust.

This was exactly why my bus riding days lasted all of about two to three weeks. I would stand outside waiting at the end of the driveway only to have the cheese wagon come barreling down the road kicking up a dirt storm. I’ll be honest, my first experience riding a school bus was when we moved to Locust Fork. I was always dropped off by my mom in her Chevy Camaro or little family sedan at all the other schools I had attended up to that point. I really didn’t have an opinion on riding the bus one way or another in the beginning. However, it took all of about two days to realize that this was by far the worst mode of transportation I had ever experienced in my short ten years of life.

Dirt and grit in my eyes, and with the humidity my hair looking like a Aquanet nightmare, I boarded the bus.

Dirt and grit in my eyes, and with the humidity my hair looking like a Aquanet nightmare, I boarded the bus. By the time I got to school, l I felt like I needed another shower. Wearing white was just not even an option. It definitely looked beige by the time you got to where you needed to go.

This was nothing though compared to the stench of the chicken houses the bus passed not only going to but from the school every single day. I just couldn’t understand why anyone couldn’t find a better route or at least one that didn’t smell so bad.

I have this thing about certain smells. I always have. Maybe it’s because I don’t listen or “hear” as well as I should and my sense of smell is super ramped up. All I know is I had no clue what a chicken house smelled like until I had to ride the bus to school in the heat of an Alabama August. I was assured almost daily by the girl I sat with that the smell “got better” as it got colder.

“Does my hair smell like sausage?” is what I used to ask my sister all the time when my mom made breakfast before school. I wish that I had known more girls at school during this time because they would have absolutely been asked if my hair smelled like chicken poop as soon as I got off the bus.

I never made it through September to find out if the smell got any better. Thank you, Mom, for being so understanding about this.

The funny thing about this is that one year later we owned our own chicken house with a pet chicken named Tina Turner.

Lots of love! 


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