My first day at kindergarten; I do not remember getting on the big, yellow, school bus to go home. I only remember being put on a bus. Someone put a tag on my chest that let everyone know which bus I was to take home. They put me on the wrong bus. I was only five—what did I know? I only remembered my address: “10964 McKean Road.” Everyone had been delivered safely home. I was the only one left on the bus. The bus driver asked me where did I live? I answered “10964 McKean Road.” “Show me your address!” She checked my tag and said. “You are on the wrong bus!” Makes no difference, I knew my address “10964 McKean Road.” The bus driver headed for McKean Road, I recognized my house and got off. My mother was frantic. I was over an hour late getting home. “What happened? Why are you so late?” I had no idea. I sprawled out on the dining room floor and “read” the comic section of the newspaper. My mother brought me a bowl of chicken soup. I ate it on the floor. I was oblivious to my mother’s questions. I just enjoyed my soup.

Chicken soup was a staple at our home when I was growing up. At weddings a fancy version was served which was very clear and contained very fine Polish kluski, or noodles. I have since learned that the Poles do not call what we know as noodles, kluski, but reserve the word for dumplings. But in our house, all noodles were kluski. My version is the one my mother made, with lots of vegetables that grew on the farm.