In the third mile-maybe it was the exertion, could have been the rhythm of my footfalls-the field became just a field, the track just a ribbon of red clay, and the bleachers began to empty of ghosts.

And, I'll bet, as his hoe rang on the landlord's clay, his Dad imagined a day when he'd hear his boy take step after crunching step toward anyplace but this field.

After the a few weeks of making clay models, students made initial contact with the animal caring association and they met up with some pioneers in the field.