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I had completed the chore I'd volunteered to do for my sister Carol. I'd driven her car up from Houston, Texas to her in Nashville, Tennessee where she'd been asked to report as soon as possible to accept a new job and promotion in her company. The promotion had been so important to her career she'd flown up immediately to accept it. I'd driven her car up at a more relaxed pace.

I had stayed the week and helped her get set up in her new apartment and settled into her job. I'd had nothing much better to do, and Carol had always been very supportive of me, sending me care packages in whatever God forsaken hell I was stationed in and letting me know I still had a family who loved me to come back to. I'm retired and on disability from the military now.

On a nostalgic whim I'd decided to take a bus ride on my way back to Texas. I had capable friends who owed me taking care of my house, stables, and livestock, so I could take as long as I wanted. I figured I'd do the trip in short hops, stopping anywhere the mood struck me to see the sights. I could always rent a car or take a plane if the trip became tedious or there was a problem at home. It had been my days in the military since I'd ridden a bus, and I could recall being fascinated in studying the variety of people who rode them.

I'll make an explanation here. Once, early in my military career we'd had a mandatory formation in dress uniform to honor a dignitary. I'd ...

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