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In which I declare a sixty-year-old event, diagnose it thirty years later, and foretell its future thirty years later still. When my youngest son Christopher entered kindergarten, a small yellow bus picked him up in front of our home every morning. As he climbed the black steps, I searched in the dark for his driver but saw instead the by-now ghost of another. Sixty years ago, I rode a giant yellow school bus from the … Continue reading Orson Ball’s a Friend of Mine