Don Pedrito must have walked a million miles in his lifetime. I know this because I saw him do it. Almost every day of my young life he walked along the dirt road in front of my house. I don't know how old he was, but he was always old. As I aged he did not change one bit. He was a small figure who almost always wore khaki pants, a button up long sleeve shirt, and a straw or felt cowboy hat that always seemed larger than him. He had salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache, and the oldest pair of eyes I ever saw.  And he always had a pack of Buglers in his left shirt pocket...always. During the summers of my youth I would watch him walk in front of my house twice a day. First when he was going to where ever he was going and then when he came back from wherever he went. Sometimes he had bag or was carrying something on the way back, but not often. He lived just half a mile from my house. His house sat slanted up right next to a small canal that was nearly always as dry as the dirt road it went under.

Those summer days carried a thick, wet heat in the air that kept every one inside, except young boys like me, and, well, Don Pedrito. I don't remember a day I didn't see him. Sometimes he walked fast, rarely looking up and paying no attention to anyone or anything, always walking with a purpose, and always walking in the middle of the road. He would move off to the side only when he heard a car coming behind him, and then disappearing in the cloud of dust the car had brought with it, only to reappear moments later, not missing a step or even seemingly bothered by the dust. When he would pass in front of my house he would wave. Sometimes, depending on how fast he was walking, he would ask about my father, "Como esta mi Chuyito?". "Bien", I would say. "Gracias a Dios. Gracias a Dios", were his words as he continued to walk, not slowing down. I liked that he asked for my dad. He asked for him like a man would ask for his son. No one else did that.

I can still taste those days. Sitting on our small cement front porch. Leaning up against one of the two hollow metal posts that held up it's roof. The heat just floating through the air like waves rushing to drown you. It was so hot and muggy you could drink the moisture out of the air if you had to. That kind of heat would kill me now.   

Across the dirt road in front of our house was Weber's field. It stretched the length of 5 lots down the road and at least a quarter of a mile deep, and ended at Mr. Weber's house. I saw them plow the field once or twice but if anything ever grew there I sure don't remember. To me it was just a field. No trees, just rows of plowed dirt. Some years grass or weeds would cover some of it. We almost never played on it. Someone, I don't remember who, told us that Mr. Weber was good with a rifle and that he loved to shoot at kids who got in his field. A kid in our neighborhood had an ear that was partly missing. He said he was born that way but we all knew better. Weber had shot his ear off. That kid never went near the field. I wonder now if that was true. I don't know. I realize now that none of us ever saw Mr. Weber. 

What was true about the field, however, was even scarier. Remolinos. They were like dust devils, but these were more. Weber's field was full of them. You could see them dancing in the field every day. Especially in the summer. They would pick up dirt and spin it around across the field. Sometimes they would dance to the edge of road right across my house and just wait there, never leaving the field. I sometimes thought they were waiting for me, even calling me over.  Someone, I don't remember who, told me they came from hell. They were sent up by the devil, looking for lost souls. If they caught you they would take you down with them and no one would ever hear from you again. Most days I would just watch them from my porch. Other days I would go hide in the house.

One very hot day, I think I was about 7, I heard them call me. I walked outside and looked out in the field. There were 3 remolinos dancing in the field. All at once they came all together and made one larger one. It then moved from the middle of the field and slithered to the edge of the road and just waited there. I don't know why but I went out into the road. I couldn't help it. I walked right up to the edge of the field and stood there. I wasn't wearing shoes or a shirt and I could feel the hot air spinning around me, and it felt good. I looked at the remolino and it looked like a living thing. It danced, and I wanted to dance too. I took a step forward into the field and I was suddenly stopped by a hand on the back of my neck. I looked up and saw Don Pedrito. "Vente", he said, and led me back across the road. He sat me down on a large cement pipe by the mail box in front of our house. He sat down next to me, took his hat off, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He pulled out the pack of Buglers from his shirt pocket. He slid out one rolling paper from the side of the pack and poured some tobacco in it. He put the pack away and was about to roll up the cigarette when a gust of wind blew right at us and the tobacco went flying off on to the road. We both looked at the remolino which was still across us at the edge of the road. It did a slithery dance. "No te rias cabron", Don Pedrito told it. He pulled out another rolling paper. This time he poured the tobacco in it and in one quick move licked the edge of the paper and rolled it with one hand. The tips of his thumb and forefinger were stained black on that hand. A match strike later he was smoking away. We both sat there and stared at the remolino. I think it was staring back.

Don Pedrito said I should know better than to play in that field. He said he lost a friend in a field just like that one many years ago in Mexico when he was just a little boy. There aren't many fields like that anymore, he said. But there are a few and I need to be careful. I told him I would. He said there were many fields like this one when he was little. Little boys would go out and play one day and never come back. He said he was walking home with a friend of his when they both saw several remolinos in field. He was older and had been told the story of the "el aliento del diablo", the devils breath. He knew to stay away. His friend didn't and ran right into the field and jumped into them. He ran home and told his family and everyone went out and searched for his friend but he was never found. Don Pedritos old eyes watered as he told me the story. He finished the last tiny bit of the Bugler and lit up another one. He hung his head down for a bit and I didn't bother him. I looked across the field and the devil's breath was still there, waiting.

Don Pedrito suddenly jumped up and I got startled. He told me to go inside and tell my dad what happened. He dusted off his pants with his hat. He then reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of Chiclets and gave them to me. We both looked across the road and the remolino was still there, doing it's dance. Don Pedrito then spun around twice and looked at it and said "Mira, yo tambien puedo bailar". He then flicked his Bugler cigarette at it and it popped into hundreds of tiny fireflies. They flew up for a moment and then got sucked down into the dirt. Just like that the remolino was gone. Don Pedrito put on his hat. He said, "Saludale a mi Chuyito" as he walked off. I watched him as he shrunk away from me on Trosper Road, and then as he turned right on the 5 mile line and disappeared. 

With the remolino gone I got a renewed sense of courage. I picked up a rock and threw it as hard as I could into Weber's field and stuck out my little chest at it. The wind picked up a little bit. I ran into the house to hide my pack of Chiclets.

That was one of the few times I talked to Don Pedrito in any real way. Yes, he walked back and forth in front of my house a million more times, but he almost never had time to stop. He was going somewhere, after all, though I never knew where. He would just wave and keep walking. One time he did stop and talked to my dad who was outside watering the grass. I ran and hid in case he told dad about the field and the remolino. I had been to scared to tell Dad the story like he told me to. Dad never mentioned it after he talked to him so I guess Don Pedrito kept our secret. 

I saw the remolinos less and less as I grew older. A few years later several family members and neighbors were at my house kicking around a soccer ball. One of the kicks sent the ball into Weber's field. All of a sudden one of the kids that had come with one of the neighbors ran into the field to get the ball. Several of the kids yelled at him not to. As he was walking back I half expected a big remolino to come out nowhere and take him away. It didn't happen. But we were all thinking it. 

Several years after I left home I heard that Don Pedrito had died. The story was that he shot himself in his home. I don't know about that. That never made sense to me. I was told that he was found with an old revolver in his hand and a bullet wound to the head. An old neighbor of his told me that sometimes the devil gets a hold of you and doesn't let you go. It happens sometimes. No, not Don Pedrito. I had seen him walk a million miles. I had seen him dance with the devil and walk away from it. I didn't believe that one bit. On that day, before I drove away from the house, I checked the field and didn't see a single remolino. I sat there in my car for a long time and waited. Nothing. I realized I had not seen one in years. I drove off.  And as I made the turn from Trosper Road onto the 5 mile line I checked my rear view mirror for one last look. Out on the edge of the road, across my old house, I could see the beginning of a familiar dance. I kept going.