A Shortcut to School

Things aren’t like they were when I grew up, I mused as I kept vigil for Ian’s bus. Instead of being picked up by a bus at my driveway, I walked to and from school. At first, it was luxurious, intoxicating freedom and a chance to prove my independence. After a few years, though, it became a chore and finally sheer drudgery. I eagerly sought and accepted rides, although these came fewer and farther between as I got older. Since rides were hard to find, my friends and I actively looked for shortcuts.

Instead of walking on the quiet side streets and safely crossing the bridge over Turkey Creek, we found another way. This route led us through some private yards, down the bluffs west of Turkey Creek, across the bottom land and finally to Turkey Creek itself. The creek was a formidable barrier, but a gravel bar and the washed out trunk of a large tree spanned the current. Using this shortcut, we entered downtown Merriam almost directly opposite the school. This saved about 10 minutes of time and about 200 yards of trudging, a reward more than enough to justify any slight risk

I knew this was wrong. My parents trusted me to travel safely to and from school, but the capacity of boys for mischief is limitless. I soothed any guilt by convincing myself that this alternate route was just as safe. We used this shortcut for about a week without incident and smugly congratulated ourselves on our cleverness.

An overnight rainstorm proved our folly. We followed our shortcut, got down on the gravel bar and stopped short. The normally placid waters foamed and roared over the tree trunk, blocking us a scant 10 feet short of the far bank. I gave my books to my best friend, Dave, and went to study the situation. I turned and watched Dave hand my books to our friend Kirby, but it went horribly wrong. Kirby wasn’t even looking and Dave dumped my math book, my notebook and all of my completed homework into Turkey Creek. I stood frozen in shock as the current quickly swept my books out of sight.

Even though it wasn’t my fault, neither the teacher nor my parents were sympathetic. I was held to account and my freedom disappeared until the adults decided that I had learned my lesson.

As I watched Ian’s bus disappear around the corner with Ian buckled safely inside, I began to chuckle. Things just aren’t the same, I thought, and boy, am I glad.

Bill Bartlett and his wife, Sandi, live in Belton with their two sons.