At Play in the Fields of the Lord
The big first baseman watched the curve ball break across the plate and knew he was out. He even started to leave the plate, and news reports recorded that he smiled when the umpire gave him a reprieve.

The big first baseman watched the curve ball break across the plate and knew he was out. He even started to leave the plate, and news reports recorded that he smiled when the umpire gave him a reprieve.
Bill Peyton's antiques, ranging from the most elaborate Louis XIV or
Napoleonic pieces to funky wine presses, Coca-Cola mirrors, church
pulpits, and pump organs, come from all over Europe in 40-foot
containers, or from estates in Texas, Oklahoma, and Louisiana. For 15
years he has been selling them in Houston, first from his retail store,
Peyton Place Antiques (819 Lovett Blvd.), and then at auction from the
gallery he built behind the store. He has become one of the major
Southern California mystery writer Ross
McDonald in his best book, The Goodby Look, has his world-weary private
eye hero Lew Archer lament, "I have a secret passion for mercy . . . but
justice is what keeps happening to people."
The old friend who'd arrived out of the blue an hour before was
standing now on the small landing outside my front door. He was
confused. His head bowed with uncertainty while his neck tensed with
determination. After 20 years of trying, he'd just left his old home
state. "I hate Texas," he said. "I never want to hear about Texas again.
Texas has ruined my life." It was a chorus he'd repeated several times
during his visit, but he'd stopped just out the door to say it again as
Being a biochemist and interested in what goes on in cells, I approach the whole subject of mental disease very differently from non-biologically oriented psychiatrists. I feel as sure as here I sit, that there is always something wrong with the brain cells and their metabolic processes in a mentally ill person.
At that hoped for time in the future when the institutions have been
properly chastised and the small investors come gamboling back into the
stock market, they will pause to listen to fading hoof beats and ask:
"Who was that Masked Man?"
A hearty "HI HO, White House" will echo as someone answers: "Why,
that's Lloyd Bentsen!"
New York, N.Y.—every day except Sunday, A Gray Line sightseeing bus leaves Rockefeller Center on the hour and waddles south through traffic in search of Manhattan’s principal points of interest. After lingering briefly at Times Square, the Empire State Building and Greenwich Village, the bus arrives at the farthest and most congested outpost of its journey: Wall Street. Perhaps significantly, no one is allowed to leave the bus at this stop.
In the scramble for the attention of Houston's ever-increasing number of our appetites by its ever-increasing number of restaurants, there is a genre of restaurant that seems to be steadily, if unobtrusively, gaining a foothold. It serves lunch only.
What is childbirth compared to the demise of Luca Brasi?
It wasn’t orthodox labor room procedure, but the thought was comforting as I watched my husband become absorbed in our readings aloud from Mario Puzo’s The Godfather. Anticipating lengthy labor prior to the birth of our first child, I had tossed the bestseller into my overnight bag as we left for the hospital.