Back in the late sixties, yes, the nineteen sixties, bus fare or often called car fare for an adult was thirty-five cents and for anyone twelve and under it was ten cents.
This was a time when parents felt it was safe for children, say around the ages of ten and up to travel by transit unaccompanied by an adult and I would travel from Verdun to downtown Montreal which was about a twenty-five-minute ride by car so a little longer by public transit.
This one day I (age 12) was returning home and waiting at the bus stop digging in my pocket to make sure I had my dime to put in the farebox.
Remembering back, I was talking to this older woman who was quite nice when my bus pulled up and we said good-bye to each other as she was taking a different bus.
I stepped up and deposited my dime when the bus driver said to me, you’re a quarter short young lady, to which I replied, I’m only twelve and he wouldn’t believe me making me get off the bus returning my dime to me.
Standing watching the bus drive away I explained to the nice lady I was talking to earlier what had just happened, and she reached into her purse and gave me a thirty-five cent bus ticket so that I could go home.
© Susan Zutautas 2019
This short story was written for Six Sentence Story over at GirlieOnTheEdge. This weeks challenge is to use the word FARE.
This was written for a flash fiction challenge over at Carrot Ranch. In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about the work of many hands. Is it a cooperative effort or something else? Go where the prompt leads!
Did you know that when I was a boy, my dad, your grandfather had a hand in the landscaping of Botanical Gardens? He loved working with his hands not only in construction but gardening too.
In the East end of Montreal, there was a plot of land just sitting there empty that belonged to the city. My dad got permission to start a community garden to grow vegetables.
Every weekend that is where I’d find him and many of our neighbors working together growing all kinds of vegetables.
We didn’t have much money and that garden helped feed us.
©Susan Zutautas 2019
My inspiration to write this poem came to me one day while I was on Facebook. A dear friend and poet whom I’d met on HubPages, Vincent Moore, had mentioned that he was having a bit of a dry spell as far as writing. Both of us are from Montreal, and anyways the one thing I always think about when I remember back to my childhood is Montreal Smoked Meat Sandwiches. Sure you can get these delicious sandwiches other places but for some reason they just don’t taste as good as they do at Schwartz’s or Reubens’s.
This poem is dedicated to one of my favorite poets Vincent.
On The Streets of Montreal
On the streets of Montreal
Smoked meat sandwiches
Dills on the side
Of course served on the best rye
Don’t make me beg, don’t make me cry
Mustard slathered with affection
Heated to perfection
A little fat deep inside
Makes my mouth water
Pile it high pile it high
How far do I have to drive
To satisfy my cravings
For such a delicious creation
I can almost taste it
I am aroused
Your aroma drives me wild
I need you now
Smoked meat how I desire you
© Copyright 2011 Susan Zutautas