I live in a small town in Texas

I live in a small town in Texas. I know it because I’ve been welcomed home several times today. I was heading out to meet Bubba for some lunch, got detained and side tracked, and I next found myself cruising up S. Congress Avenue, and right as I passed the patio at Guero’s, a jovial fellow gives me a “hello.” And he’s sitting with one of our favorite Virgo’s, too. I sit a spell, shoot the breeze, and then as they leave, I see a shadow over my head, and it’s face I can barely recognize because of all the hair falling down around her face. “Remember me?” Ah yes, the Cancer who didn’t appear on schedule last Thursday… “The trooper looked exasperated. ‘White people’s music, I swear to God. Sinatra’s all right, but you can keep the rest of it.'” [Native Tongue by Carl Hiaason. NY: Ballantine, 1992. p. 298.] To make the whole day that much better, as I was strolling along, I found a single marble. I think I might be starting to collect some the marbles I’ve lost.