In retrospect, I can see why the story might skew more toward “shocking example of country living” and less toward “charming childhood anecdote.”

In my defense, I had no idea what the f-word meant when it came spewing out of my 5-year-old mouth. 

Here’s what I did know: My baby brother’s freshly sprouted tooth felt more like a machete piercing the fragile skin of my index finger, and the cool new word I’d just heard on the school bus seemed like the only response possible. 

When I shared this memory with a co-worker who grew up in the ‘burbs recently, I caught a glimpse of abject horror on their face before it flipped to confusion. 

“Wait,” came the question, “you learned the f-word from a high schooler on the bus, but you were 5?”

While most suburban and urban districts have a strict “keep them apart” policy around busing elementary and high school students, many Sullivan County residents grew up in situations like mine where a kindergartener would ride to school with kids more than a decade older. Like me, most can probably report a few hair-raising horror stories from bullying to an extra early education in foul language. 

There were years when I dreaded climbing on the bus to ride home. 

But there’s a connection that’s forged between the kids who share a portion of their day, day after day, year after year. You didn’t share a single moment together during the span of a school day, never shared a classroom or even a locker room. And yet, you all remember that time a pick-up truck ran into the back of the bus or that kid who used to take off his winter boot and put it in his mouth. 

Your histories are tied, and so are you. 

At a graduation party last year, I found myself standing in a corner of the party with three fellow riders of my own bus, our ages spanning a decade. Our paths have diverged wildly since our days together, and yet we were all drawn together to share stories of where we are now and swap memories of what happened back then. 

What I learned on that bus wasn’t just a few choice curse words but how to hold on ... to the seat, to your dignity, and eventually, to each other.