On my drive to work yesterday (at least it was a local school), the traffic lights were out at the main intersection of town. One takes one's life in one's hands trying to cross the main highway sans lights. I chose to just turn right, go north and then turn around in a parking lot and then make a quick right hand turn at the offending intersection. Of course life is never that simple, when I got back to the intersection, first I was facing into the bright morning sun (not a complaint, just pretty much an observation that you couldn't see). Then all the cars, huddled around the dead lights, were busy exhausting, and further choking up the visibility. Anyway, to make a short story longer, I did make it through safely, even with a bit of fear and trepidation.
January 8th, 1969. I was eight and we were living on the home farm. Dad woke us up early that morning and told us we better get dressed quickly and come downstairs. The old farmhouse was cold most mornings and especially so that morning -- the thermometer registered a healthy minus 50 degrees Fahrenheit (pre-Metric days).
So I kind of have to laugh at the kids now. The bus turns around in our yard. They have to suffer the elements for 30 seconds from the front door to the bus door. They don't know what it is like to trudge four miles, uphill, through three feet of snow every day of the year. Well actually I guess I don't really know that one either -- that was my Dad and that's a whole 'nuther story.