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She was a large woman, of some apparent Slavic extraction. She mounted the stairs with authority toting a large infant under one arm like a ten pound sack of potatoes and a bag of food in the other attempting to keep it upright not to loose control of its contents. She was apparently with a man, still at the foot of the steps, fumbling with folding a large stroller to comply with bus regulations. “He got the passes,” she grumbled pointing with a nod toward the fumbler who appeared clueless regarding the schematics of the modern stroller. She passed to her seat, leaving him to his quandary. “Mornin” he mumbled as he finally boarded dragging the stroller that was defying instruction and trying to reopen like some giant grasshopper before he could get seated. He fumbled for their two passes with one hand, a feat given the employment of the other hand, then awkwardly navigated to a seat beside her.

The baby boy, quietly mesmerized by the scene, eyes wide, was dutifully playing the role of a sack of spuds by not bending or squirming as his mom toted him unceremoniously through the busy bus. It was a treatment he had learned to expect in the rough and tumble life of accompanying her on her daily street adventures. His was not a silver spoon coddling. He rubbed elbows with some fearful characters as he peered from the husky grip of a mother who was putting the pieces together for daily assistance and a father most likely on disability (no I didn’t ask, but the signs were all there).