The Lookout

A pair of eyes peered out anxiously into the darkness. It was still early and the world was clothed in shadow, just a glimmer of light appeared on the distant horizon. Snow covered the ground as a comforter with big lumps where bodies laid underneath. She shifted her weight, her feet growing tired from the waiting and pressed her nose harder against the glass, her breath fogging the window. Surely, somewhere, she would catch that familiar glimpse of yellow. . . if it wasn’t already too late.

She fidgeted more now, growing antsy with anticipation as each minute limped slowly by dragging on forever as one would drag a lame foot. Her anticipation rose, “there, is that . . .” and an audible sigh escaped as she realized it was a false sign. Would she recognize it when she saw it? She was sure she would. She stretched to her tip toes peering harder into the dimness and then she saw it. Yellow, glinting through the trees. Her heart beat faster as the intensity gripped her body. Frantic she whirled around to face the others and a yell ripped from her lips.

“Bus! The bus is here!”

Five bodies hurled themselves out the door and onto the front porch, stampeding down the long lane through the drifted snow desperate to reach the bus stop in time. Little legs getting lost in the drifts as a big brother reached down to deftly pluck them from the grasp of cold snow. The first one arrived at the stop at the same time as the bus. Bus number 5 and the driver’s name was Bob, he counted their heads as they shuffled aboard, “Cold day today, isn’t it?” Then he shifted into gear and carried them off safely to school.

(Some days it was just too cold in Pennsylvania to stand out at the bus stop, so we would set up a look out at the window for the bus. We could usually catch a glimpse of it through the trees just as it was rounding a bend not long before our house. The weekly anamnesis made me think of this story too, and I just had too much fun writing it.)



Filed under Farm Stories, Personal History, Writing

6 responses to “The Lookout

  1. Memories….

    Thanks for sharing, you reminded me of some similar times of my own. And also the times when the location of our house and the trees did not allow such a warm lookout.

  2. ok… i seriously thought someone was going to have to give you the rules about yellow snow. i am relieved it turned out to be a bus everyone was looking for…

  3. As usual your writing is as vibrant as (I expect) you are in person, although I keep forgetting that I don’t really know you. This was a pleasure to read, Julia.

  4. I always wished that we could have seen the bus stop from our house. But dang it all, we lived at the end of a long gravel driveway, and even then our bus stop wasn’t at the end. We had to walk even farther to get it. If we waited at the end of the gravel road we would get scolded by the bus driver.
    At first I thought you were talking about your daughters. Then once I thought about the large amounts of snow and 5 bodies, it occurred to me you were talking about your own childhood. (sorry I’m not always quick on the uptake)

  5. pm- we shivered a numberof times ourselves, glad to bring back memories, well hopefully good memories that is:)

    FF-yellow snow eh? According to Monsters Inc. it’s lemon! 🙂 Hee Hee

    Karen, thank you very much. I tend to forget that I don’t really know my blogging friends either.

    ABQ- I wondered if it would confuse people at first. and I say “Boo” to your me bus driver. Ours was always really nice and if one of us didn’t got on he’d make sure that we weren’t coming before he drove off. (I obviously like dhim if I still remember his name, heh)

  6. Janelle

    Was it a sexy bus? 😉

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s