Kisser, and: Farm Notes

Kisser

No time for self-pityon a baseball diamondwith so many dustyground balls short-hoppingthe infield. Sometimesyou have little moreto respond to thana quick crack of thebat. If for evena second you takeyour eye off the ball,you're flattened, thehot shot smackingyou in the kisser,and then, there you arelying on your back,alone between secondand third, adrenalinepumping, the otherdugout cheering.You remember Tony Kubek,downed by a pebble,being carried from thefield in Pittsburgh,the fifth-grade boyscrying into their gloves,cussing Bill Mazeroskiwhen he kissedthe ball in the ninth.

Farm Notes

Afternoon brings early ice.Took the stock trailer to Gilpin'snew auctioneer. Old man

Gilpin's down with gout, donewith livestock. Cut out a few headto get through the winter.

Stopped for gas at Bo's. Shelbywalked in with Maria on his arm.She set our boy on the counter

while she fished through her bagfor cigarette money. The boy hasmom's eyes. I can see them

clear as the photographon Pop's nightstand. She asked meif I was a big-time country star, yet.

I asked her if she thought the boyknew me. She handed Bo a fiveand said probably not

I was just anotherstranger to him. No wordsfor that. She took her change

and left. The boy watched meall the way to the car. Shelbynodded, followed them out,

collar turned against the sleet.We leave for Terlingua next week.Maybe meet the guy from

Mesa Records. Snow and icecomes early. Won't last with the dirtstill holding October sun.