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60 Marston’s Field Sunlight one Sunday afternoon, and dust on the bumpy road through Marstson’s field which lay on the banks of the river between the water and the hump of indian ridge. The three of us and Mr. Burrows, ex-gi, who bore a stitch of scars around his middle where bullets were machine-gunned in. But he survived to teach us how to drive in his converted jeep rollbarred for the worst, in case we caromed off through furrows bristling with desiccated corn or slammed into boles of oaks along the river. We cranked the clutch and yanked the shiftstick, then bucked ahead to swerve across a washboard of exposed roots until we found a little turnspot at the end, carved out of sumac, and careened around it, hooting, terrified but happy, while he bellowed shift it down,god damn it,shift it down! We shredded metal, jammed the brakes and hurtled forward, trying to coordinate our feet, a little dance of easy-does-it, a little waltz around a weed-choked road that led to keep-on-going, pour-it-on-and-don’t-look-back. ...

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