An elderly woman makes her way through the wooded jungle on the perifery of her Oregon home. It’s a rainy and cold afternoon afternoon in November. She knows she’s been through here hundreds of times before. Her husband used to take walks when he was in his crazy moods in their twilight years together.
[flashback] “Come on, honey,” He said gently to her. “Just a little further.”
She could still feel the warmth of his old, but agile, hands that now felt more like leather than the comparably smooth and muscular hands of a Springfield Hishschool wrestler she fell in love with as a junior. Ken was so strong and confident….cocky too.
“Swept me off my feet as I recall.” She thought as she continued on through the mucky, cold woods.
“Mom?” Her daughter in her late fifties said to her. “Where are you going?”
“It’s just over beyond that rock cropping, dear.” She replied.
“What is?” She said in an annoying tone.
“Why the bus of cour….” She then caught herself. “Oh, I forgot, dear. You were just a toddler back then. But, your brother, Zane can almost remember.”
“Remember what, Mom?”
“There it is.” She exclaimed.
Out of the misty muck loomed the stuff of legends. An old school bus, shaken down, stripped out of it’s seats that ferried hundreds of children to school each day in the late forties. The old, now dilapidated International Harvester school bus. There in its eternal rotting condition, a slave to entropy lay forever melting into the earth from whence she sprang. A bus named “Furthur”