It seems rather strange to flush my brain into the vast world of computer space. The first time I ever just poured out into a notebook, I was ten years old and had just decided that I was going to write the great American novel. This revelation came one hot summer day when I had finished the last library book and it was still a week and a half before the bookmobile would come back to our community. The bookmobile was a wonderous thing. It was a huge van driven by Mrs. Hitchcock. Mrs. Hitch was one of those warm, loving people who just sort of embraced kids and helped instill in them a love of the printed word. The rule was that you could only check out two books. She always let me check out six. Those lasted three or four days--that is pre TV time.

Because I always ran out of books, I decided that I should write books. I gathered an old notebook and a couple of pencils and set off in search of the best place for the muse to speak to me. I tried my big yellow chair in my bedroom, the tree house at the big pine tree, the big ditch, the creek under a big oak tree--nothing. I finally gave up and headed for home. This great American novel stuff was a lot harder than I thought it would be.

As I headed home, I walked through the baseball field. I thought I would give it one last try, and sat down in the bleachers. There was a faint whisper from the muse. I began to walk around to get a better signal (can you hear me now?). Finally I could. I was on third base. I sat down on the base and poured out all the anguish that only a ten year old can feel.

As I look back, there must be comething about being on third base. It is kinda like you have succeeded but not exactly. You are not out, but you didn't score. Now at the advanced age of 61, I view third base a little differently. It is getting a little too close to home for comfort.