All right. Let's give you something to tell your grandkids about. Or great-grandkids. Or great-great-grandkids." I snort with glee, delirious with excitement. Charlie winks and pours me another finger's worth of whiskey. Then, on second thought, he tips the bottle again. I reach out and grab its neck. "Better not," I say. "Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.

Hey! Shouts Camel. There ain't no woman in the world worth two bottles of whiskey!

They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?

Don't want to get tipsy and break a hip.

The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.