The Seventeenth Christmas by Pete Hamill
The Greyhound roared up the Jersey Turnpike in the rain, its fierce power leaving the cars behind, the thick wheels ripping through the gathering pools of water with the driving stateliness of a cruiser. The bus that was carrying us home for that 1952 Christmas smelled of stale smoke and damp wool; on that detail, memory does not fail. Sailors stood in the aisles, soldiers dozed in their seats, and all the racks were heavy with duffel bags and seabags.
Source: irishamerica.com
