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Chuck Brooks' column: What's the buss at Rosemount High School?

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Chuck Brooks' column: What's the buss at Rosemount High School?
Rosemount Minnesota P.O. Box 192 / 312 Oak St. 55024

Once upon a time, there was a fly on the wall.

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The wall happened to be inside a school. It was a comfortable life for the fly. He had free reign over a large area each and every day. If he didn’t stay in one place for any length of time, this would be home for some time to come.

One of the fly’s favorite parts of the day was the early morning hours when people were just beginning to arrive. Several people would arrive before the school began to fill up. The fly would flit from room to room to observe what these humans were doing up so early. A couple would be sitting in front of computers while a few more were sitting at a desk, rifling through papers. Then the fly would see, from time to time, a member of the younger generation in the room with the adult, seeking what seemed, to the fly, to be assistance.

The fly noticed, along with the early adults, there were the early kids. Some seemed to have a mission. Others parked in front of a classroom, earphones plugged in, doing work, while a person here or there would simply stretch out on the carpet near a door and wait for the room’s “owner” to show up while continuing his morning slumber.

Soon enough, the hustle and the bustle of the day would begin with masses of bodies pouring out of yellow vehicles, as the young people moved forward in an orderly but somewhat lethargic fashion. The fly figured he couldn’t judge such a lack of energy at this early hour each day.

The fly loved to move from hall to hall, from floor to floor at this point in the morning. He’d pick up the most interesting of conversations. He noticed some of the young folks intent on doing work in intense fashion as though they had forgotten to do something the night before. The fly thought that curious.

Then there was the sound that rang throughout the edifice. It did this twice. The first time everyone got up and moved to the various rooms around the building. The fly was impressed with such choreography. It all seemed rehearsed and near perfection. He noticed at times a few individuals struggling to find their destinations.

Then the fun would begin for the fly. He would zip down hall after hall. He’d stop and listen to many of the adults in the building as they would stand in front of these young ones, spewing words that made little sense to the fly but still sounded sweet to his ear. Then he’d move in another direction and listen to music coming from instruments or, in another part of the building, the kids themselves producing similar sounds with their mouths. Another place the fly enjoyed visiting was this big room with a high ceiling. The inhabitants were filled with energy. He loved the energy.

The fly thought it might be interesting from time to time to visit the rooms with the glass walls. One room had a female person behind a desk, administering all sorts of help to the customers who seemed to need this or that before returning to whence they had come. At another time, the fly might pick up a discussion between an older and a younger person and often, it was the older talking and the younger listening, looking none too happy. There was yet another big area where the smells were more than tempting. The fly thought hanging out here at some point in the day might be advantageous to him. He was often correct.

The fly noticed the noise level of the halls seemed to increase with the passing of the morning hours, but then that same noise level seemed to decrease after they all returned from that aromatic room just mentioned. And the fly even noticed the older residents of the building were looking a little more weary and exhausted as the afternoon progressed. The fly himself thought of taking a nap from time to time.

Finally, the last sound from the rafters rang one more time and all those people who had crawled out of the yellow tubes in the morning returned to those tubes and suddenly, the once-active building was no longer abuzz. And despite the remaining bodies, the fly returned to an inconspicuous spot to rest before beginning his day all over again.

And no. He did not live happily ever because his story isn’t over. He is, however, content.

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