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May 21, 2007
In second grade, I had a terrible teacher, one who couldn’t cope with someone like me who had learned to read before kindergarten. Every morning, I would watch for the schoolbus to come over the hill, then leave the house, run down the driveway and make it to the bus stop. Except as the fall wore on, a new pattern developed: as the bus came over the top of the hill, I became very queasy, and sometimes tossed up my breakfast. The same pattern has reappeared recently, as I try to get out of the house and drive to work.