Long before the first bell rings at Forreston schools, a different kind of classroom begins its day. It starts along gravel roads and quiet streets, where yellow buses roll through the countryside picking up students one by one. For some kids, the ride is transportation.

For others, it’s the first safe moment of the day.

Laura and Jim Hillman understand that better than most. Between them, they spent decades behind the wheel of Forreston school buses—greeting students each morning, watching them grow up seat by seat. When asked what it means to be the first adult a child sees, Laura doesn’t hesitate.

“That’s why you drive them to school.”

“You see the way they walk or their facial expressions or how they sit in the seat,” she says. And sometimes those quiet signals tell an important story. “That kid comes up the step of that bus, you’ve transported him a year or so,” Jim adds, “you know everything is not normal.” If the concern felt serious enough, they’d pass it along to the school. Because sometimes the bus driver is the first adult to see a child that day.

“Sometimes the troublemakers are the ones who need you the most,” Laura says.

She remembers one boy in particular who tested her patience as a three-year-old rider. Years later, that same child had matured into a thoughtful teenager. She overheard him telling friends on the bus that he’d been bad when he was little. But what she noticed most was how he treated others. If a younger student seemed upset, he’d walk up and do a Kermit the Frog imitation to make them laugh.

“That is what’s really nice to see,” Laura says. “He was one that needed something other than what was at home.”

The Hillmans’ connection to Forreston runs far deeper than the bus routes. All three of their children attended school in the district. Their daughter, a quadriplegic who is largely non-verbal, joined Forreston once the building became wheelchair accessible, graduated, and went on to attend Highland Community College. Laura remains her full-time caregiver.

Jim grew up in Minnesota, where his father owned a cheese factory. He carried that tradition south, operating the German Valley Cheese Company—cheddar, colby, and muenster from local dairy milk. He later ran an industrial painting business with Laura handling the accounting, often tackling high-rise work. Between ventures, he developed two subdivisions in German Valley.

Formal education ended for Jim after the eighth grade. “If you’re not an educated person,” he says, “your back is all you’ve got.” And when asked about cheese-making: “If you want a job that requires a strong back and a weak mind, owning a cheese factory is right up your alley.”

After retiring—for about the third time—Jim lasted ten days before finding something new. His daughter’s bus driver mentioned that the district offered insurance for drivers. For a self-employed family, that was a meaningful draw. Twenty-five years of driving followed, including more than seven years as transportation director.

Laura’s path wound through the paint business, part-time college alongside her daughter, and cooking at German Valley Grade School before Jim convinced her to become a bus driver. When he stepped down from the director role, Laura took the reins herself.

Running a rural transportation operation is more complex than most people realize. Laura’s first year as director brought temperatures near forty below, diesel gelling in the buses. “It’s hard to run the organization,” she says. “It’s hard on the vehicles. It’s hard on the district.” In a close-knit community, drivers know the parents, the grandparents, the extended families. Jim learned early that mentioning a grandparent’s name could restore order faster than any discipline. “Oh, it’s much more threatening than mentioning mom or dad,” Laura says. “They’re mad at mom and dad all the time. But grandpa and grandma spoil them.”

“It’s a small community,” Laura says, “but it doesn’t hold people just to here.” People leave. People come back. And through snowstorms and sunshine, early mornings and long afternoons, the Hillmans were there to greet them—sometimes with discipline, often with encouragement, always with watchful eyes.