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At last he shook my shoulder and told me to look at him. His eyes, too big for his face, swam before me. "In the future, when you are lost or confused just remember, return to your heart...return to your heart." "I must go" he said. His face was an indistinct mass of dots as my eyes adjusted to the natural light. I felt a touch of panic. I didn't want him to leave. "I will return but you would be wise not to wait for me." He walked over to the edge of the field, then turned and faced me. "It will be a long time before you see me again but I will always be your friend. I will always love you."

He winked, waved, and stepped onto the blacktop between me and the setting sun. Old Sol zapped me again and by the time my eyes could focus, he was gone. It would have been better if I had taken his advice and not waited. But after all, a "long time" is relative to the one who waits. Two hours seems like a "long time" to an eight year old. Hundreds of times over the next few weeks I squinted through my fist telescope at the rising waves of heat. At first I was disappointed that he did not immediately return when I called. Then I decided that there must be some variation in the process that I was forgetting. With true scientific detachment, I tried one method after another, with the fist telescope and without; with the same clothes I had worn that afternoon; sitting in first one position and then another under the old chinaberry. Nothing worked.

I racked my brain trying to think what I could be doing wrong. It never occured to me that I had not been the sole author of the boy's visit. When you're eight, the universe revolves around you. I didn't think about the possibility that my careful squinting had nothing to do with the events of that day. On the other hand, I refused to consider that I had imagined the whole thing. I knew it had happened. I knew I had caused it and the boy would return if I just brought together the right ingredients.

I couldn't give up because I wanted to be a "Sentinel". I didn't actually know what it was but it sounded exciting and important. There wasn't a lot of magic kicking around in the dust of the Texas panhandle in 1958. I was a bit of a daydreamer, not particularly well suited to the practical calling of the farmer. It seemed that right when I would get going on a really exciting fantasy, my father would call me to check the chickens for eggs, or take some table scraps to the hogs or some other loathsome task. And if I took the least bit too long to complete the job, he would be all over me about "goofing off" and "living in a dream world".