He stored hs collection of marbles in a shoebox under his bed. Often he could be found sprawled across his bed, head, shoulders and arms dangling over the side. Inevitably, he would pull out the shoebox and finger each glass ball contained within - the peewees, the shooters, the steelies, the cat eyes. With authority, he could tell you how he acquired each one.
There was a worn spot out in the yard, a ring he ritualistically swept bare to the hard earth and raked clean of pine straw. All specks of loose dirt were carefully brushed away. With a stick, he scratched a circle in the ground, a slightly irregular groove etched into black soil.
And there they gathered, the neighborhood boys, each armed with his own shoebox collection. First, there was a lot of handshaking, comparing of marbles and a few snickers. "No fudging!" they admonished one another. Then all was quiet as they knelt around the ring and set up the course. Only the chirping of a few sparrows and the chattering of squirrels, who voiced displeasure about the activity beneath the trees on which they claimed squatters' rights, pierced the stillness.
Then the game. Intense. Void of the usual boisterousness of boys at play. Afterwards, the counting up and more handshakes.
Many was the time, he challenged Granddad, sharing his marbles with the man who recalled a skill from years ago. They would play a game or two, then stretch the moments long as they sat across the ring from one another to exchange tales of championship games yesterday and...yesteryear.
Dad and Older Brother joined him, too. Each had his own war stories to tell and each shared the secret of a special shot, a sure-fire strategy. And on rare moments, he would, in turn, pass on the age old rites to a younger cousin who doggedly tried to stride in his footsteps.
Today, the collection marbles fills a discarded gold fish bowl shoved aside on a top shelf. Sunlight races through the window and dances on the crystalline colors, casting disco lights on the ceiling, trapping dust particles in the eerie glow. Outside fallen leaves and grass runners violate the faded circle. The worn spot, like the marbles, lies forgotten, an ancient ruin only a few months old.
Where, oh where did the boys go?
1979
Yorumlar