BARNEY
Regrets? I’ve had a few.
How many times have we heard that?
There is an old tear-jerking movie
that tells us that love is never having to say you’re sorry. Life quickly
teaches us that whether we are in love or not, there are plenty of times
that we need to say we are sorry. If we do not say we are sorry, we have
regrets that continue to grow in size.
I went to a very rural school while I
was growing up. The bus routes tended to be on the long side. I got up
early in the morning, helped with the chores—that included milking cows—then
got cleaned up, ate my breakfast and then trudged down to the end of the
driveway to await the school bus to arrive. It was not a life without
stress even for a young boy on a farm. We had a shower in the basement that
had only two temperatures—frigid and arctic. I would run through the shower
(it had no stall to it—just a showerhead hanging down from a pipe) and then
soap up before running through it again to rinse off. The cold water woke
me up. This came in handy on those mornings when my presence had been
required in the dairy barn at 2:30 in the morning to help my father with the
difficult delivery of a calf. I guess I helped the cow, too. I had to eat a
hearty breakfast. Mom was a stickler for eating a proper breakfast. I
would put on sunglasses before eating the grapefruit we had each morning. I
needed to keep that acidy juice out of my eyes.
After breakfast, I would walk down to
the end of our long driveway. Most farm kids will claim that there is no
colder spot on earth than the end of a rural driveway. I believe they are
right. One of the neighbors put an old outhouse at the end of his driveway
for the kids to stay warm in. They would not set foot in it. They would
have died of embarrassment had anyone seen them in that backyard biffy. I
had to be right at the end of the drive waiting or my bus driver would not
stop for me. I could be running down the road and he would drive right by.
I guess I was not always the best-behaved child. I may be wrong, but I
firmly believe that our bus driver hated children and that was the only
reason he became a bus driver. Of course, maybe he only liked children that
behaved themselves?
Once on the bus, I would ride for a
little over an hour before getting to school. Most of the other kids on the
bus followed the same morning pattern that I did. Then there were the
Hockneys. The Hockneys were brothers, Marvin and Melvin. They were a year
apart in age and the oldest was in my grade. The Hockneys were hard working
youth. They worked too hard. They typically did not have the time
necessary to get cleaned up before getting on the bus. The driver would not
wait for them either, even though they were well behaved. They usually
boarded the bus accompanied by the odors of the barn. Because of this
habit, kids began calling the Hockneys “Barney.” It was not a term of
endearment. The nickname was applied because of the way they smelled. They
smelled like a barn. Barn and Barney. It wasn’t really all that clever.
Why was it done? Kids can be cruel, we are told. I did not call either
Marvin or Melvin “Barney.” I didn’t utter the cruel name, but I saw the
look of pain in the eyes of both of the Hockneys. They couldn’t help it. It
wasn’t their fault. They did nothing that they deserved to be punished for.
I didn’t call them any names because
I could see myself in the same condition they were in.
Regrets? I’ve had a few.
I regret not standing up and telling
the other kids to stop calling the Hockney boys hurtful names. I regret
not sitting with the Hockney boys during our long bus rides. I regret not
talking more to Marvin and Melvin. I could have done so many little
things—so many good things. The Hockney boys moved away after a few years of
daily rides on our bus. I have not seen either of them since. If I did, I
would tell them that I was sorry.
I still am.
©Al Batt 2002
71622 325 St.
Hartland, MN
56042
SnoEowl@aol.com
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