Last Updated on July 27, 2018 by Terry
The area I grew up in was a victim of bussing before we ever heard the word. I was bussed 22 miles one way to school in the 10th and 11th grade. We simply lived on the wrong side of the road so to speak. I did not like it and I was determined that for my senior year I would simply drive myself to a different and closer school in the 12th grade, so I did. A lot of my friends were at the closer school and I was unhappy at the farther one.
I was not supposed to be going to the new school and sure enough got caught at semester. An old busy body from our area heard about me going to the wrong school and took it upon her nosey self to contact the school district and report me. She literally heard it at her local beauty shop one Saturday morning in an attempt to make herself more presentable. “I’m going to get those Bryant boys in the right school” she was quoted later. Why can’t people mind their own business? And by the way, she was wasting her money at the beauty shop!
Yeah, I suppose I should get over this event that took place over 45 years ago, but it appears I have not.
So, the first week back from Christmas break the principal summoned me to his office. He asked me to show him on his zone map where we lived. I informed the principal I was not going back to the city school and pointed out to him that the small dirt road we lived on was not on his map but in between the two roads that determined where you went. Looking at the map, two roads made a “V” shape. If you lived on the road to the west, you went to the long way off school. If you lived on the road to the east, you went to the closer school. Our little dirt lane was right in the middle. I fudged a bit and placed my finger exactly in the middle of the two roads. Fortunately he did not ask me which road our lane was attached to and agreed that we could pick which school to attend, but all of the brothers had to go to the same one he informed me. So my younger brother had to switch schools the next week and come to where I was. He didn’t like it but, tough!
And apparently the old biddy didn’t give up. The next year two of my brothers were arrested by a truant officer for being in the wrong school! Nosey people, can’t say enough bad things about them.
I also had many friends at the other school. Please remember the timeline. Vietnam 
was going strong. Multiple body bags coming home every day! During my senior year I had turned 18 and registered for the draft like I was supposed to, but the draft was stopped. I was in the first group of 18-year-olds that did not get drafted. But, one of my friends from the other school was in the last group of 18-year-olds that did get drafted.
He was sent to a four-week boot camp and then flown to Vietnam and killed the first week he was there. Think about that, he arrived at his boot camp and less than five weeks later he was gone.
58,193 American casualties in the Vietnam conflict. They didn’t even call it a war. Politicians, got to hate ‘em. 3,103 of the casualties were 18 years old. The deadliest age was twenty, 14,095.
Anyway, my friend continues to be lost to this world. (Dead) I do remember him mentioning going to church and involved in his youth group at the church. Good, it gives me hope that he was not lost to his next existence. (Alive forever)
example of a draft card
And no, I better not tell you the wicked witch’s name. If I did, my friends would go there now and do some bad things to her house. Heck, she may not even still be with us.
Hmm, I wonder where nosey people go when they die?
I wonder if my wondering time would be better spent by wondering where mean guys who make fun of old past their prime women go?
Oh well, if I don’t get struck by lightning between now and then, I’ll have another adventure story for you next Friday.
