When I was a kid the bus to Bethlehem broke down. My parents were taking me to my grandparents' place for the remainder of the summer, and somewhere between noplace and a cornfield the bus coughed and died. The cell phone was decades away, and there wasn't a phone booth for miles. The driver radio'd dispatch and was told it would be an hour until another bus could reach us. So we sat there and sweated. Some stretched and sighed, then walked outside into the slim shade to smoke. I remember staring out at all that corn and nothingness and feeling bored, frustrated, and utterly helpless. I thought about all the things I would do if we ever reached our destination. The fishing. The swimming. The long evening walks to skip stones across the green still water of the old flooded quarry. In about an hour, as promised, the rescue bus arrived. The tired people dropped their smokes, grabbed their bags, and climbed aboard. My dad wiped the sweat from his face. My mom combed her hair. How I hated that place as we drove away--and strange how often my mind drifts back there now. The quiet shushing of the corn. The buzz of the occasional fly. The faces of the people like creased cardboard. The smell of Kents and Tareytons. The whole drowsy world laid out like a meal on a lazy breeze before us. The future a place we could only imagine.