I can't put my finger on it

Oh I love fall! I love that back-to-school feeling, and the smell of new clothes and oh school supplies and clean paper and new pencils!
Except I'm not in school, I have no plans to be back in school, and I haven't used a pencil in years (the G2 in black is all I will use, except my Mac keyboard, thanks). Today as I was walking around my neighborhood, rocking out to Ween and admiring all the sunflowers and those just-beginning-to-turn maple leaves, I felt a sense of nostalgia for this time of year.
Rooting through my childhood, which was an endless stream of thwarted intention, I couldn't find the reason behind the fondness. Though I did recall riding the bus to school, which was all sorts of fucked up, and happened every day of the school year until I was 17 years old.
My elementary school bus driver was Mrs. Pearson. She was probably in her forties, and had the Midwestern Small Town Woman stereotype down pat. She had short brown hair which was permed. She wore those glasses that turn into sunglasses when you go outside--back then they turned into GREEN sunglasses. She wore t-shirts or flannel, and a navy windbreaker every day. And she was pissed. (A reasonable way to be when driving a whole busload of redneck spawn on roads that are ice most of the year, if you ask me.) Just before turning into our school parking lot, she would stop the bus at some railroad tracks. We were supposed to shut the hell up when she stopped at railroad crossings, and she'd scream at us to do just that.
Some of the big kids in the back of the bus started making the peace sign with their hands and shouting, "PEACE! The WAR is over! PEACE!" Mrs. Pearson really hated that, so it happened every day. She'd start in on us to knock it off, and in the background the bus radio would be playing 'Her Kiss is on My List" and I would look at my moon boots and my Holly Hobby lunch box and dream of some future day without big red marks on my math homework.