Ride and Read

Photo by Chris Hall

Spend a morning with rural Kentucky bus driver Tim Southern and witness a classroom on wheels. (Just look out for motion sickness.)

By John O'Neil

Climbing a steep hill, then whipping down an impossibly narrow path, Tim Southern guides his bus through the hollers of northeastern Kentucky. Dawn is just breaking, but Southern's 78-passenger Amtran bus is beginning to hum with activity.

"Stephanie, you need help with science?" he asks as a batch of students board the bus, rubbing sleep from their eyes. "Why don't you sit with Michelle and talk it over."

"We've got CATS testing coming up," Southern reminds his charges as they open their books. "If you need extra help, drop a piece of paper in the cup up here."

"How are you doing on your multiplication tables, Jack?" he asks one boy. "I finished them," is the reply. "Well, be sure to thank Whitney for helping you," Southern cajoles.

For Southern and his Lawrence County colleagues, delivering on public education's promise means literally plucking students from the deep reaches of the hollers and delivering them to safe, clean schools. Southern hops aboard the bus at 5:20 a.m., putting in 87 highway miles before heading up into more mountainous terrain. He makes his first pickup at 6:30 a.m. and doesn't drop the last group of students at school until 7:45.

That's a long ride, and Southern makes sure not a minute is wasted. He's got his kids reading, tutoring one another, and reciting classics like the Constitution's preamble by heart.

"When I first started the route, we had some discipline problems," Southern explains. "I thought--we're wasting too much time here." His twin daughters were then taking part in the district's Accelerated Reading program, which rewards students for reading approved books and answering comprehension questions. Southern figured kids on the route could earn points in the program by reading books during the long stretches to and from school. "Before long, we had a classroom on wheels."

The obstacles facing students on Southern's route are apparent from the winding asphalt and gravel roads through Tadpole and Peach Orchard hollers. ("They call it Peach Orchard, but there's not a peach to be found there," Southern notes.) The route is dotted with ramshackle dwellings and rusted trailers. Lawrence County, with a population of about 15,000, "is the fourth largest county and one of the poorest in the commonwealth," Southern says. At some stops on the route, parents have to drive their kids down to meet the bus because "you can't begin to get a bus up to them."

Once inside the bus, though, students can't escape Southern's playful, nudging guidance, as he quizzes them on their sports teams or their homework. As they climb aboard, several students drop a slip of paper requesting special help in Southern's coffee mug. He'll then ask a teacher if a pupil can do an extra credit assignment to raise a grade, or he may pair up a kid who's weak in a subject with a seatmate who excels in that class.

Transporting students of all ages, Southern finds ways to keep them focused on learning. Friday is current events day, with older pupils reading to the youngest. There are weekly practice spelling quizzes. Reading is the most popular pastime. Southern established a small library of books on tapes (Harry Potter novels are the biggest draw) to pique the students' interest.

The effort's paying off. In the district's Accelerated Reading program, kids on Southern's route last year held down three of the top ten spots in elementary school, three in middle school, and two in secondary school.

He's also proud of kids like Josh, who has spent three years in the eighth grade. Southern paired Josh with Nichole, who helped him with his science--and kept him on task. "Last week, Josh announced to the whole bus that he'd passed his science test," Southern says. "The self-respect was written all over his face."

Southern, who doubles as a paraeducator working with special needs students between his morning and afternoon bus runs, previously served nine years as Lawrence County's police chief. He likes his current job just fine.

"I like to think it's easier to reward than to punish," he explains." I used to go home each night mentally drained. Now, something happens every day on the bus or in a classroom that lets me know I've made a difference. With a little encouragement, some of the poorest students have become stars."