“That’s not a kind word. Don’t say it again.”

“I said you was a damn—”

Jimmy rammed the guitar neck at the man’s chest, stepped back, then swung his only guitar crashing down over the cowpoke’s head, sending him to the floor. A week after that Jim re-enlisted.

It was a hot bright day in August when Leo James Suther came into this world. The women in my family have always had small hips and Mama fretted about the delivery, but my Leo cooperated by weighing in at a very agreeable six pounds, five ounces. I squeezed him out like a pumpkin seed. Jimmy got a marriage subsidy from Uncle Sam so we were able to stay living off base. In late September we took what we had in savings and bought Jim a new guitar, a better one than he’d ever had. A Mexican man off Guadalupe ran a pawn shop and in the back of the store he kept a few high-quality items. He had a fox hair coat, a fine crystal decanter set, even a Civil War cannon without its wheels. The guitar hung by its strap on the wall. The man said it was handmade in Spain out of rosewood. We paid a month’s rent for it, and the Mexican was so pleased, he threw in that Dobro steel slide guitar for three extra dollars.

It was a wonderful first year. Jim’s army duty felt like a regular day job. He’d leave the house at 6:30 and be back by 5:00. I’d have cold beer in the fridge and a hot meal on the table. We rarely touched the beer till late, though. Jimmy has always preferred playing his music as clearheaded as possible, which I understood and understand. After supper, he’d hold baby Leo until it was time for me to put him to bed. Then Jim would break out his new guitars and work on his songs. I’d brew us a small pot of coffee-which Jim has always wanted iced-and while he picked and hummed, I’d take out my writing and go to work at the kitchen table. I wrote a lot of wife and mother poems then, some of my best, I think. Jimmy thought so too. Most every night he’d ask to read or hear something.

Weekends I let Mama and Gram babysit, and Jimmy and I would go dancing with Ryder and his girl-of-the-moment. I liked Ryder from the get-go. Skinny men can’t help being adorable, and when you throw in Ryder’s talent with the harmonica, his big straight teeth, his way of laughing at most everything everybody else forgets to, well then I couldn’t help but look at him as the bony brother I never had. One night, after two-stepping ourselves silly at the Wrangler, a roadhouse across the San Antonio line right at the edge of the plains, we three gathered in front of Ryder’s car and made a vow to each other. Ryder still had the giggles from losing his date, a breasty blonde girl who it turned out was only fifteen, a point of information delivered to our table by her angry large brother. Ryder stood, bowed like a gentleman, then gave up his intended roll-in-the-hay with a straight face. We danced some more, then went outside to cool our sweat. From the Wrangler’s parking lot the sky looked magnificent. Jimmy said he was going to stand on the roof of Ryder’s Ford and pick me a whole galaxy. We all laughed.